Page 17 of Stalk Me (The Keatyn Chronicles 1)
“Well, if you’re ever looking for a hookup, call me. ”
“I, uh . . . ” I’m so eloquent this morning. I don’t know what to say—I don’t want hookups. I want to be in love. But I hang out with enough guys to know that’s usually all they want. And really, what’s wrong with it? We’re young. Mark’s kinda cute. If I weren’t crazy about Brooklyn, I could be sort of attracted to him.
“She’s not calling you, Mark,” Brooklyn says from behind us.
My heart races again, but I don’t know what it means. Is he looking out for me, or does he only want me to hook up with him?
Or, like, whatever it was.
Like, again.
Brooklyn shoves my board into the sand as Mark heads out in the water.
“I told you. Guys will be glad you're single. ”
He puts his hand out to help me up. I take it, and he pulls me straight into his arms.
“Keats . . . ”
He looks like he wants to say something more, but he kisses me instead. His hands glide down my entire backside.
I let out a little involuntary sigh. “No
one’s ever made me feel that way. It was my first time. ”
Brooklyn swallows hard and says, “I’m trying to go slow. ”
I wrap my arms tightly around his neck and kiss him deeply.
The significance of his kissing me in front of his friends and possessively squeezing my ass is not lost on me.
It makes me feel sexy. Bold. Desired.
“Slow is over rated,” I say.
Monday, May 16th
Too good to be true.
Lunch
I ignored Vanessa and RiAnne and all their missed calls, messages, and texts this weekend. So as soon as we got done surfing yesterday, and Brooklyn left to golf with his dad, I called them both and apologized. Lied and said that I was depressed about the breakup.
Vanessa immediately took that as a cry to shop.
She felt it imperative that we look good at school today.
Like, too good to be true.
Which is her favorite saying.
She thinks she’s too good to be true. Even though I know deep down she’s not really that confident, has serious daddy issues, and zero self-control, she projects an outward image of nothing but confidence. And everyone sees her lack of control at parties as more of her lure.
The rich party girl.
When I started dating Sander, she started partying. Once she realized Sander seemed to really like me, she decided not to compete in a game she couldn’t win. If I had the part of the sweet girlfriend, she was going to be the sexy hookup. RiAnne fell somewhere in between. She’s had both boyfriends and hookups, depending on her mood.
Vanessa acted like a general planning an attack. She wants to prove to everyone that even though I’m not with Sander anymore, we deserve to sit at our normal lunch table.
I didn’t bother to tell her that I’m pretty sure Sander is going to be the one sitting somewhere else.
Nor did I tell her that Sander may show up at school looking very different.
I also failed to mention my dinner with Cush and his dad, and my possible hookup thing with Brooklyn.
Brooklyn, who I haven’t talked to in over twenty-four hours.
Aren’t you supposed to call a girl—or at least text her—after you do stuff together?
I have a feeling the fact that he hasn’t means that it was just a hookup to him. That it didn’t mean anything.
But then, why did he say he was taking it slow? And why did he say it like going slow was difficult, but that he was doing it for me? And why did he call me his Keats? His Keats!!!
If a guy is taking it slow, in theory, it means he likes you. It should mean there is going to be a next time, right?
Right?!
And it’s been really hard to think about anything school-related today because thoughts of Brooklyn are raging through my brain.
And I’m wearing the shoes from hell.
Which means my brain has been alternately thinking about Brooklyn and how bad my feet hurt. It’s been hard for me to even keep up.
What if it was just a hookup?
Ohmigawd, poor little pinkie toe is being smooshed to hell.
When does a person going slow call you?
For sure there’s going to be a blister.
Should I text him? And what would I say?
Oh, walk a little slower. The ball of my foot feels like it might burst into flames.
You could just text him and be like, hey.
I feel another hotspot on the back of my right heel.
No, he should text you first.
Can we please just sit down?
I have no one to blame for my discomfort but myself. It’s not the shoes’ fault I bought them a half-size too small so I could wear them today instead of special-ordering the proper size.
I’m wearing one of the numerous outfits Vanessa helped me pick out yesterday.
A very fitted, graphic black, white, and orange Alexander Wang pullover.
A pair of black leather shorts. Same designer.
With it, I’m carrying an adorable tangerine Proenza Schouler leather pouch.
The outfit alone looks very sporty and cute. It’s the shoes that push it into the I’m fuckable category, according to Vanessa. These Chloé shoes look like a simple black platform Mary Jane, but instead of a single strap around my ankle, these have five more straps going all the way up almost to my knee. They are an open-front boot/shoe kind of thing.
But I knew Vanessa’s comment about me being fuckable was a warning.
A shot across the bow. Telling me I’d better do as she says.
And I complied.
And my poor feet and I still don’t know why.
Vanessa, RiAnne, and I got to school late, so no one saw us strutting through the halls in our Vanessa-approved outfits. The big breakup was the topic of the morning, and I heard numerous rumors as to why we broke up. They ranged from the truth—we decided to take a break—to the outrageous: that I hooked up with Cush. The Cush rumor was given additional fuel when he met me outside French and walked me to my morning classes.
Then he sat next to me at lunch.
Vanessa sat on the other side of me. She was whispering in my ear that I should hookup with Cush. How he’d be the perfect guy to lose my virginity to. How if I acted like I knew what I was doing, he wouldn’t know that I hadn’t.
And honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that Brooklyn seemed really excited to learn that I never had, that he told me he was going slow for me, I might have considered it. I’ve written a million scenes where I finally do it, but even though Cush is very cute, he hasn’t been cast in any of them.
The lunchroom is noisy and bustling, but when Sander makes his big entrance, you could have heard a pin drop. Instead of his normal, brightly-colored preppy clothes, he’s wearing a pair of dark skinny jeans, black motorcycle boots, and a plain black tee.
If I didn’t recognize the outfit, I might not have recognized him.
He’s even got a new walk. Instead of his typical shoulders-back strut, he’s slumped over like the world has beaten him down. He walks past our table, looks at me with pathetic puppy dog eyes, and then sits at the end of a mostly empty table. He puts earbuds in his ears and his nose in a book.
“Ohmigawd,” Vanessa says loudly. “What the fuck did you do to him?”
