Page 40 of Miss Behaved
I swallow hard, and uncertainty flips my stomach. “There’s a lot of history.”
“I’m sure there is, dear,” Agnes says with a serious face. “And if that’s all it is, history, then consider this conversation closed. But if it’s not, and there’s even the smallest inkling of something more, I hope you don’t close it off before giving yourself a chance to explore it.” She pats her hand over mine and then turns to the conversation at the other end of the table.
I’m not sure what we would explore. Agnes may think she’s reading something, but she’s skipping half the pages. Carson and I are history. The past. Closed for business, end of story.
So why does the flutter in my chest feel so present? And why does my body hurt from craving him?
16
Monica
Eleven Years Earlier
Iamnotwaiting on edge the first day of summer.
I’mnotstaring at Carson’s bedroom window every night hoping for a light to flick on.
And I amabsolutelynotturning down any plans just to make sure I’m home when he finally pulls up.
Stop lying to yourself, girl.
It’s been exactly seven months and thirteen days since I’ve seen his face, and when his blue truck finally pulls up and he steps out, I feel like that eleven-year-old girl all over again, standing on the porch, heart doing backflips over Carson Calloway.
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder—and darn it, whoever they are, they were right. Because every text or late-night phone conversation could not prepare me for the traitorous little beast in my chest leaping out and running right over to him the second it caught sight of that smile. Lighting up the whole dreary city on a rainy day with one look.
I think maybe this is it. I’m officially ruined from anyone ever looking at me again.
“Miss me?” is all he says as he drops his bag at the bottom of the steps and leans against the railing.
Was it quickly or slowly that he crossed the distance between us? Because yards turned to feet, turned to his cologne breaking through this forest and into my nose.
Even if it’s childish—because it is—or if I’m a total idiot—because I know it seems like it—I jump down the steps and throw myself at Carson, pretending it’s a hug between friends, because I know that’s all he sees.
Carson wraps his growing biceps around me, and the strength in his arms lifts me up off my toes.
I wouldn’t have guessed it, but Carson leaving actually made us better friends. We texted, talked on the phone late at night, told each other about our days, our favorite classes. We even talked about who we were dating, my least favorite subject. But I was agood friend. I didn’t judge, just listened, knowing that jealousy would poison the soil and suck the life from whatever was blooming.
Like Mom would say: if you have a flower, you don’t hide it away in a dark corner and expect it to flourish. You plant it and let the air and the earth and the sun have a chance to make it what it’ll become. Wild, free, out in the open.
So that’s what I did. I made myself what he always swore I was to him—a friend. And it was easier with the distance. Not having to look in his beautiful freaking face made me forget for a minute that my body seemed to be obsessed with him. I was able to tell my silly little heart to hold her horses, and I was there for him on another level.
But in all our time talking, he never brought up the one thing I hoped he would: the truth about his father.
“I missed you too,” he says into my neck. The hard lines of his jaw draw the boyishness out of him and make my knees waver a little.
Is that stubble on his face? Scratching. Teasing. Oh boy, I’m so screwed.
“Carson.” My dad’s voice booms behind us, breaking the moment. Carson’s whole body stiffens in my grasp, and when his arms let go I almost lose my footing as he drops me.
“Sir,” Carson says, and at the same time I let out an annoyed, “Dad.”
Carson climbs the steps and shakes my dad’s hand with a nervous clench in his jaw.
In the last seven months and thirteen days, I’m not the only one he’s outgrown, because now he’s looking down to meet my father’s face. And darn it if that doesn’t make me want him even more.
“Good to see you home, son,” my dad says. “Come to dinner tonight.”
It’s more of a command than a request.
