The Anti-Prom - By Abby McDonald Page 0,81

myself all year into thinking I’m better off without him — better without a friend who could just bail like that. But it’s a lie. He went because I pushed him. I pushed them all. Hell, I’ve been sabotaging any chance I have of being happy — too angry to see past my dad, and the sneers around town, and all the ways this world is stacked against people like me. But what can that anger change, in the end?

Not one damn thing, except to prove them right.

I sink back, miserable. It’s ironic, I know. Now, when I finally understand what he’s been trying to tell me all this time, I can’t do anything to change it.

“Are you trying to catch your death?”

His voice jolts me back with a lurch. Dante is standing a few paces away, hands in his pockets and hair in his eyes. He’s casual and irritated, sure, but he’s here.

I stop breathing.

“You sound like my mom,” I tell him, trying to stay cool.

“Your mom’s got the right idea.” He sighs, peeling off his jacket. “Here, you’re turning blue.”

“Better than the pink,” I quip softly.

Dante drapes it over my shoulders, still warm from his body. I snuggle down, breathing in leather and tobacco and the unmistakable scent of him. He hovers for a moment, tapping a cigarette against his thigh.

“You haven’t quit yet?”

He gives me a twisted smile and then sits. “Clearly, my willpower needs some work.”

“I should give it up too,” I say quietly. “All my bad habits.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dante laughs, dubious.

“Really.”

There’s silence. I try to find the words to say anything at all, but my tongue is thick with panic. I can’t even look at him.

“Those two have come around.” Dante relaxes back, stretching. “Bliss, and that Meg girl. You whipped them into shape, huh?”

I swallow. “More like the other way around, I think.”

“Oh?”

I run my fingers over the jagged edge of the zipper, more nervous than I think I’ve ever been in my life. Even opening those college letters, I had my defenses up — expecting the worst. Now it feels like my chest is cranked wide open, and my heart is beating and bloody for him to see.

“You were right.” My voice almost breaks with effort to get the words out, but then it’s done, and they’re sitting heavy in the air between us. “What you said back at the office. About me, about everything.” I inhale a shaky breath, and then give him the one thing I’ve got left. The only thing I can.

“I’m sorry.”

Pulling some last store of hope, I move my hand until it’s touching his. A breath, and then I curl my fingers around his palm.

He doesn’t respond for the longest time; I can’t even tell if he moves. But staring out into the dark, his hand warm beneath mine, I feel my nerves slips away. Instead, I feel a wash of calm. So he forgives me, or he doesn’t — that part is out of my control. But the rest of my life? That’s stretching ahead of me, warm with a new kind of possibility. College, some attempt at new friendships maybe, try to let that fury ebb away. The world won’t wipe my slate clean so easily, but I can do it, for myself.

I can do this.

And then Dante pulls away.

“No.” He gets to his feet, not looking at me. His shoulders are tense, his body tall and stiff. “It’s too late for this, Jolene. It’s all too late.”

I stop breathing.

“I’ll be in the car. Let me know when the others get back.” With an awkward shrug, he turns to go.

“Wait!” I call, but he keeps walking. “Dante!” I sprint after him, desperate. Suddenly, all that zen resignation falls to nothing. Screw waiting for him to forgive me, screw not forcing anything at all. I can’t let him walk away this time. “Dante, listen to me!”

I grab his arm, pulling him to a stop.

“What?” He snatches away from me. “Don’t you get it? There’s nothing you can say.”

“But . . .”

“I gave you chances. I’ve been waiting all year!” Dante exclaims. “But you didn’t apologize. You didn’t see you had anything to be sorry for!”

I stare at him, paralyzed.

“See?” Dante exhales, the fight suddenly going out of him. He gives me a smile, faint. Sad. “You know I’m right, Jolene. We could have been something, but . . . it’s time we just moved on.” He backs away and then leaves, a silhouette in the dark.

I watch