Play On - Michelle Smith Page 0,87
and now you love barbeque and fries. I just love you.”
Her lips quirk. “I’m a mess sometimes.”
Doesn’t matter. “You’re a beautiful mess.”
“I can be hard to handle.”
Doesn’t matter. “So can I.”
“I’m not perfect.”
Really doesn’t matter. “You’re perfect for me.”
And now she’s crying, full-blown teardrops trailing down her cheeks, but she’s also smiling, so I think it’s a good cry. She inhales deeply and loops her arms around my neck, pulling me down and kissing me like her life depends on it. And when she murmurs, “I love you, too,” against my lips, I’m falling. I’m drowning. I can’t breathe. This is why I came here: to tell this girl that she’s worth every tear, every meltdown, every smile, every laugh. That she’s worth everything. I back away just enough to look into those gorgeous eyes, and I’m an absolute goner.
“What kind of look is that?” she asks, searching my face.
My lips are chapped, my eyes hurt like the devil, and my muscles suddenly feel like Jell-O. “It’s a look that says you’re the first thing on my mind when I wake up and the last before I fall asleep. That every word out of your mouth is coated in gold, even if it’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard. Even if I’m kind of the master of cheese in this relationship.”
Tears spring to the corners of her eyes again. For a split second, I’m terrified. I’m scared as hell that I just crossed some invisible line into stalker territory, even if I am her boyfriend. But her lip stops trembling, and she smiles.
“How’d we get lucky enough to find each other?” she asks.
“Because the universe can be a jerk, but I think it knows when people need something amazing.”
Her smile widens. “Now I really want to kiss you again.”
“Then stop talking. Start doing.” And once she reaches for me, there’s no turning back. Not that I would want to.
She’s not perfect. I’m not perfect. But together, we’re imperfectly perfect for each other.
Talk about making an ol’ boy fall hard.
chapter twenty-eight
I’ve nearly chomped off my entire thumbnail while sitting at my table, watching Mr. Matthews grade my Chem exam. Every test for the past few weeks has ended the same way, with me staying behind while he grades my answers with that red marker. The difference between the beginning of the semester and now is that his marker doesn’t run out of ink by the time he’s finished. My eligibility isn’t even an issue anymore. My 3.0 is solid. I’ve got to hand it to the guy. He’s actually interested in getting me even higher than what’s required.
He’s also a huge USC fan. I think it’s safe to say that’s more incentive on his part. But I’ll take whatever the heck I can get.
He re-caps the Sharpie, flips the test over, and holds it out for me. I take a deep breath and make my way to the front of the room. This is the last exam before the final. I’ve always thought baseball season was do-or-die, but this class has made ball feel like child’s play.
Taking the paper from his hands is like being the lucky bastard who snatches the Holy Grail. This can’t be right. “A ninety-eight?” I ask.
He grins. “Just one wrong answer. You nailed that sucker.”
I gape at him. No way. No freakin’ way. “So what’s my average look like now?”
He turns to his computer and hits a few keys. “This brings you up to a B-plus, Mr. Braxton. Not half-bad at all.”
My lungs deflate like a hot air balloon as I stare at the paper in my hand. A ninety-eight. I don’t think I’ve gotten a ninety-eight on anything science-related in my life.
“I know I shouldn’t ask a magician the secret to his tricks,” Mr. Matthews says, “but how’d you manage?”
Backing away toward the door, I smack the paper against my hands. “I have a freakin’ genius of a girlfriend-slash-tutor, that’s how.”
He stands and stuffs his hands into his khakis. “Maybe there’s a little genius in you, too. Don’t let her take all the credit.” He glances at the clock. “You should get out to the field. Can’t have Senior Night without the star senior.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” I toss up a wave and stride through the hallway, unable to tear my eyes away from the test. It’s a miracle. A Christmas-in-April miracle.
I push through the double doors, the spring air washing over me as I head outside to the parking lot with a grin