Page 65 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
“The other day I saw you talking to Madison Pierce in the cafeteria,” he continues. “Do you two still hang out?”
The disgust is on my face before I can hide it.
Ryder flinches. “Sorry, I was just hoping you’d make a friend.”
Despite my better judgement, I look up at him. “How am I supposed to make friends when you’ve gone out of your way to isolate me?”
He frowns. “I didn’t do that.”
I’d spittake if my mouth wasn’t so dry.
“I asked you to stay away from me,” he doubles down. “I didn’t say you couldn’t make friends.”
“You called me a walking disaster and warned people to stay away from me.”
He groans, stepping back as he looks away from me. “I was frustrated, okay.”
“Whatever. I don’t want to make friends with any of these people, anyway.”
“But you can’t just keep hiding away.”
The irritation gets the better of me, and I raise my voice. “Why do you care?”
“Why don’t we just get out of here?” Ryder offers. “Wouldn’t that help?”
I wince, shaking my head. “What is this? Do you need me as an excuse to get out of here or something?”
“What? No.”
His tone went up an octave. Sounds guilty to me.
He huffs, lifting his guitar case and stepping out of the alcove. “Look, I’m heading out either way. You coming or not?”
He pauses before his last step enters the hallway.
Okay, what are my options? Go home and sit across from Miranda at dinner, biting my tongue every time I want to ask about Mom. Swallowing every question about what broke them apart.
Miranda doesn’t want to talk about my mother, and I’m supposed to accept it in silence. But Ryder has acknowledged my parents’ passing. He was there when I couldn’t breathe. I told him things I’ve never told anyone, and it hasn’t become hallway gossip.
Ryder might be inconsistently cruel and confusing, but he’s never asked me to pretend my parents didn’t matter. And right now, that’s enough.
I stand, shouldering my backpack. “Okay, Ryder. Show me around Main Street.”
Thirteen
Likethelasttimewe left school early, Ryder strides out with a casual coolness. Yet, when we leave the school building, Ryder doesn’t call the driver. Shouldering his backpack, he walks toward town with a distinctive clip-clop on the pavement, and his guitar case has a slight jiggle against the handle.
I focus on these noises and the cars whooshing past on the road instead of wondering if I’m making a huge mistake.
Boutiques and galleries line each side of Main Street. Each window displays evening gowns, cocktail dresses, artisanal jewelry, and abstract paintings. The smell of freshly roasted coffee pours out of cafés, and delicately decorated desserts sit on stands inside bakeries.
Everything looks perfect, like it’s one giant painting, not a real place.
“You hungry?” Ryder asks.
I swallow hard, shaking my head. “Nope.”
He mumbles something, but I have no energy to question it.
