Chapter 3
THREE
Sara
New rule. Romanticizing my life? Taking risks? Terrible idea. Horrible. Geez, who put me in charge of these decisions? (Okay, yes. I did. But still.) But if Patrick hadn’t baited me with that bet—
“You know,” Dad says, interrupting my thought spiral, “you’ve been washing that same dish for the last five minutes.”
Glancing down, I discover that I have, in fact, been scrubbing my breakfast plate with so much gusto you’d think it’d personally wronged me.
Lost in my own head once again. Typical.
But who can blame me? I’ve spent all morning playing back my enormous Kiss A Stranger fumble in agonizing detail, rewinding those excruciating moments like a slow-motion replay.
Allow me to set the scene. I approach cute Subwayboy, heart ablaze, ready for my love life to finally change.
His eyes open—moss-green eyes, I notice—and right after I ask if I can kiss him, he immediately jerks back like I am a five-foot tap-dancing cockroach come to lure him to my underground lair.
Irritation flits across his face. He yanks off his headphones, and the first words he says to me aren’t Wow, you’re so beautiful!
Yes, of course I’ll kiss you! but Excuse me? !
That’s right. Excuse me?!
Well, ladies and gentlemen, I guess that’s a no.
Then he has the audacity to glare, eyes darting around. “What the heck? Is this a prank—for the internet or something?” He crosses his arms. “Because hell no, I’m not kissing you. For all I know, you’re some weirdo.”
Think that’s bad? Trust me, it gets worse.
My mouth transforms into the Sahara Desert.
I have no idea what to say. Words? What are those?
All the while my mind is screaming Run! RUN!
And as I go to take a step back, my feet tangle with his.
Before I can grasp what’s happening, I trip, my palms catch the floor before my face smacks the ground, and a hot flush crashes over me like a tidal wave.
Of course this would happen to me.
A light thump sounds as my dad sets down his coffee, yanking me back to reality.
“And,” he continues, “it’s already seven fifteen. You’re going to be late for school.”
“What? Why didn’t you say?” I cease scrubbing and shut off the tap, drying my hands on a rag before rushing to the kitchen table to grab my shoulder bag.
“I did say,” he counters as I’m pulling on my shoes. “Have fun, make good choices, and, most importantly, make sure you tell your friends how cool your dad is.”
Making a conscious effort to not roll my eyes, I blow him a half-hearted kiss as I exit. I’ve barely pulled the door closed behind me when a presence sidles up beside me and says, “Good morning, Sara!”
My hand leaps to my chest, heart rate working overtime. But it’s only Patrick, which is weird, because Patrick doesn’t live in my apartment building.
He’s leaning against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, the poster child of casual. Except there’s a wicked smirk on his face, like he’s very much up to something.
“You scared me.” I adjust my shoulder strap. “What are you doing here?”
His blue eyes flash playfully. “I’m an early bird, what can I say?”
I stare at him, waiting for the real answer.
“Fine, I came to pick you up.”
My brows knit in confusion. “You never do that.”
Suddenly, the door across the hall opens and Mr. Yang steps out, briefcase in hand, wearing his usual work slacks and navy sweater.
“Oh—morning, Mr. Yang!” I say, a cheerful lilt in my voice.
Mr. Yang smiles, bowing his head sightly before walking to the stairs.
I’m familiar with almost all our neighbors since Dad and I have lived in this apartment building for a while.
Mr. Yang is quiet, kind, and somewhat elusive.
He doesn’t have kids and will sometimes talk to Dad about old-school rock music—or yacht rock, as I call it—though you’ll never catch me admitting it’s grown on me.
I often hum Queen under my breath while studying, and Patrick always tells me to knock it off.
Patrick snaps his fingers overdramatically. “Oh! You know what? Now that I’m here, you might as well pay me for last night’s bet!”
Panic zips up my spine. “Patrick. Don’t talk about that in front of people.” I nod toward Mr. Yang’s retreating figure, lowering my voice. “That’s the real reason you’re here, isn’t it? You punk.”
He cackles, eyes gleaming, and I take this as an opportunity to race toward the elevator like I’m fleeing a crime scene.
Patrick’s footsteps fall behind me. “Hey, wait up! What about the money?”
I increase my pace, slyly ignoring the last part. “What? I can’t hear you. Hurry up, we’re going to be late!”
Dad gave me fifty bucks for my birthday. It’s all I have, so the last thing I want is to give any of it to Patrick. That schemer. Maybe he’ll forget, take pity on my embarrassing moment, and realize I’ve already lost my dignity—I don’t need to lose my money too.