Chapter 11 #2
“I bet some guys would even like you,” she adds breezily, “if you weren’t so scary.”
And just like that—poof—there goes the warmth.
“Geez. Thanks.”
“Listen, Ally, I think it’s great you’ve got this whole ‘independent woman’ thing going on, but it’s time for a little tough love.
” She eyes me critically, gaze sweeping down my outfit—faded dark-wash Levi’s, scuffed combat boots, and one of Hayes’s old football jerseys that swallows me whole.
“I’ll try to put this delicately. You think being smart and moody makes you intriguing and cool, but to everyone else, you just come off as…
hard to love. If you ever want an actual boyfriend, you’re going to have to make some changes.
You can’t just keep being…” She wrinkles her nose. “You.”
I snort. “That was delicate?”
“You know what I mean.”
She claps her hands together and tilts her head, already scheming.
“I have a great idea!” she says. “I just bought this sexy red tube top. It would look so good on you. You should wear it today.”
“I like what I’m wearing,” I say, but the bite in my voice is softer than usual. Even though it’s infuriating to hear her suggest I change the very parts of myself I actually like—the ones that make me me and different from everyone else—I can tell she thinks she’s helping.
And so, for some inexplicable reason, I allow her to grab the top from her bedroom and wrestle it over my head.
She yanks it down into place, smoothing it just so.
The material is red and sparkly, all shiny sequins and bows.
Not something I’d ever buy in a million years, but I’ll admit it shows off my toned abs nicely.
“What you have to understand, Ally, is that life is like a rom-com,” she explains, turning me around so she can button up the back of the top. “Like that movie My Best Friend’s Wedding. Remember the part where Julia Roberts compares men’s taste in women to desserts—”
“You know I hate rom-coms—”
“Just hush and listen,” she orders, grabbing the only skirt I own from my closet—black vegan leather—and tossing it at me to put on.
“Say you’re Hayes. You’re in a fancy restaurant ordering dessert.
You want something special, so you order crème br?lée.
It’s beautiful. Sweet. Perfect. You don’t order boring, plain ol’ Jell-O. ”
“Let me guess. I’m the Jell-O in this metaphor?” I ask dryly, zipping up the skirt. “And you’re crème br?lée? The dessert everyone wants?”
“Exactly!” She nods along. “That’s why Dermot Mulroney passes on uptight Julia Roberts—the best friend who’s secretly in love with him—and marries blonde, bubbly Cameron Diaz. She’s the crème br?lée.” She smiles brightly. “Like me.”
I snort, rolling my eyes.
“First off, pretty sure I should be offended. But also? I like Jell-O. So whatever.” I tug the skirt down a notch so it’s not too short and check the laces on my boots. “But more importantly, I don’t care what dessert Hayes picks because, for the millionth time, I’m not into Hayes.”
Okay… maybe that’s a little white lie.
But it’s necessary.
Even if my feelings for Hayes blur the line between platonic and something else, I’m certainly not going to admit that to Amber. She’s the last person on Earth I’d tell.
Well—second to last. Hayes still takes the crown there.
“Good,” she says, flipping her hair. “Because Hayes is mine.”
I open my mouth to argue, because Hayes isn’t a purse or a pair of shoes she can slap a claim on. He’s a person. A complex, thinking, feeling human being.
But then I stop myself, because as much as I might want to say it, it’s not really my place.
Hayes may have been mine first. I was his friend when no one else wanted to be.
Even Amber used to make fun of him behind his back when we were little, just like everyone else.
She didn’t really notice him until his glow-up and the rest of the world suddenly decided he was worth paying attention to.
Still, that doesn’t entitle me to anything. I don’t own him. I don’t get to dictate who he dates. If Amber genuinely loves him—and he loves her back—then their relationship isn’t any of my business. Wanting him for myself probably crosses a line I have no business even toeing.
“Ambs?” I glance at her, my voice quieter now. “What do you actually like about Hayes?”
She blinks, taken aback.
“What kind of question is that?”
“You could have any guy you want—why him?”
She shrugs, not even taking a moment to think about it.
“He’s hot. I’m hot. We’re easily the best-looking couple in Laguna Hills. People stare when we walk into a room, like we’re famous or something. It’s a rush, being that girl everyone wants to be.” She smiles at me like it’s all so obvious. “Who wouldn’t want that?”
My eyes drop down to Hayes’s old jersey now lying crumpled on the floor where Amber discarded it. Soft from years of wear. Frayed at the collar. It’s been mine since ninth grade, when he handed it to me at football practice because he saw me shivering in the bleachers.
I never gave it back.
Not because it made me feel important to wear the star quarterback’s jersey, but because it made me feel seen. In the middle of a touchdown play, Hayes saw me, and somehow noticed I was freezing in the stands.
He always notices me.
Amber wants the spotlight. But me?
I want the person who sees me when no one else does. I just want him.
I want the awkward, lanky boy from junior high who got nosebleeds during dodgeball and stayed up all night helping me build a papier-maché volcano for the science fair.
I want the boy from before the model jawline, before the abs, before everyone else started noticing him, too.
And I’d still love him even if he were invisible, even if he wore a paper bag on his head and worked the drive-thru at Taco Bell.
“Anyway”—Amber adjusts the straps on her dress—“just stay in your lane, okay? I don’t need some ‘plot twist’ where you embarrass yourself trying to steal him from me. Got it, Jell-O?”
That does it.
“Oh my God. You’re such a narcissist,” I snap. “I’m honestly shocked you haven’t married your own reflection.”
“At least I’d be married.” Amber snatches a pillow off my bed and hurls it at my face. “No one’s ever gonna marry you.”
The pillow whizzes past me and lands with a muffled thwack against the bed. In retaliation, I snatch her hairbrush from the floor and fling it at her. She shrieks and ducks as it ricochets off the mirror and clatters to the ground—just as Mom bursts in.
“What on earth is going on in here?” she asks, eyes wide, arms folding across her gauzy white peasant blouse. She’s dressed for the game in full boho regalia—giant gold hoops, stacks of bangles, and a tie-dye scarf wrapped around her hair like Stevie Nicks’s long-lost twin.
“She started it,” Amber says, pointing one manicured finger at me.
“Alysander Sage Smith.” Mom whirls to face me, her voice like tempered steel. “You’re too old for this nonsense.”
“Of course you’d take her side.” I snatch my belt bag from the floor and fasten it around my waist, heat rising in my chest, fast and sharp.
It’s always like this. Amber gets away with murder, and I’m the one who gets scolded.
In moments like these, I can’t help but wonder what life might’ve been like if my father had stuck around. Now that I know we look alike, I can’t stop thinking about what else we might’ve shared. Would he have understood me? Backed me up?
It doesn’t seem fair that I’ll never know the truth. That all I have are my mother’s hazy stories and half-baked delusions.
But this definitely isn’t the time to bring any of that up.
“Can’t you two ever get along?” Mom sighs, exasperated. “Your auras are all clouded and red. This kind of deep-seated anger is toxic.”
“You’re absolutely right, Mom,” Amber says, syrupy sweet. “I will if you will, Ally?”
God, she’s such a fake.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Mom says. “I knew I could count on you.”
“Seriously? She doesn’t mean it.”
Mom turns to me, her face hardening. “I’m not dealing with this attitude all day, Alysander. Fix your mindset or you can stay home while your sister and I go to the game.”
“Stay home?” My voice spikes. “This is my Homecoming. You stay home.”
“I don’t like your tone, young lady.” Her lips flatten. “You’re lucky you have a mother and sister who want to go with you. I don’t see anyone else volunteering.”
Ouch.
That one lands harder than it should. Nothing like your own mother casually implying you’re a social pariah.
I try to let it roll off. I know she doesn’t mean it, not really. She just hates the constant bickering.
Still. It stings.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Amber says softly, taking our mother’s hand. “Ally’s just having a bad week. We should go easy on her.”
I pause, unsure whether she’s genuinely trying to defend me or just racking up more brownie points with Mom.
I’m leaning toward the latter, but before I can fully decide, a knock sounds at the door.
Amber’s on her feet instantly, practically sprinting toward it, leaving behind her usual cloud of overly sweet, floral perfume.
Mom lingers, turning to give me one last long, disappointed look.
“I just don’t know what to do with you sometimes, Alysander,” she says, and then turns on her heel, following after Amber.
I groan and flop back onto my bed for half a second before grabbing my phone and heading after them.
My mother can be so damn sensitive. I get that it’s part of what makes her such an intuitive empath—and so good at her job reading people—but she really can’t take even a flicker of heat without wilting.
And now that I know about the letters and her mental health spirals, I worry even more. One wrong move and she might shatter.