“You’re not going to be sick,” Matt says, and I didn’t know I was talking out loud, but I don’t care because my best friend is dating Toph. She’s dating
Toph. She’s dating Toph. She’s dating—Toph.
Toph’s here.
Right in front of me, in the parking lot. His slender body is relaxed, and he leans his blue plaid h*ps against his car. “What’s up, Annabel Lee?”
He was never interested in me. She said that.
Toph opens his arms for a hug, but I’m already bolting for Matt’s car. I hear his peeved, “What’s with her?” and Matt replying something in disgust, but I don’t know what, and I’m running and running and running, and I want to be as far away from them, as far away from this night, as possible. I wish I were in bed. I wish I were home.
I wish I were in Paris.
Chapter twenty-seven
Anna. Anna, slow down. Bridgette’s dating Toph?” St. Clair asks over the phone.
“Since Thanksgiving. She’s been ly-lying to me this whole time!”
The Atlanta skyline is a blur outside the car window.The towers are il uminated in blue and white lights. They’re more disjointed than the buildings in
Paris; they have no relationship. They’re just stupid rectangles designed to be tal er, better than the others.
“I need you to take a deep breath,” he says. “Al right? Take a deep breath and start from the beginning.”
Matt and Cherrie watch me in the rearview mirror as I relate the story again. The line grows quiet. “Are you there?” I ask. I’m startled when a pink tissue appears in my face. It’s attached to Cherrie’s hand. She looks guilty.
I accept the tissue.
“I’m here.” St. Clair is angry. “I’m just sorry I’m not there. With you. I wish there was something I could do.”
“Wanna come beat her up for me?”
“I’m packing my throwing stars right now.”
I sniffle and wipe my nose. “I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I thought he liked me. That’s the worst part, knowing he was never even interested.”
“Bol ocks. He was interested.”
“No, he wasn’t,” I say. “Bridge said so.”
“Because she’s jealous! Anna, I was there that first night he cal ed you. I’ve seen how he looked at you in pictures.” I protest, but he interrupts. “Any bloke with a working prick would be insane not to like you.”
There’s a shocked pause, on both ends of the line.
“Because, of course, of how intel igent you are. And funny. Not that you aren’t attractive. Because you are. Attractive. Oh, bugger ...”
I wait.
“Are you stil there, or did you hang up because I’m such a bleeding idiot?”
“I’m here.”
“God, you made me work for that.”
St. Clair said I’m attractive. That’s the second time.
“You’re so easy to talk to,” he continues, “that sometimes I forget you’re not one of the guys.”