Page 15 of Practically Witches

“I think she knew a lot of people.” Who? Who knew a lot of people and dated Zane? I need names.

“Yeah. Rowen’s been at school for five years. She pretty much knows everyone. And she dated Finnick right before Zane. Bunch of other guys after, too.” He makes Rowen sound like she gets around, or maybe he’stryingto make it sound that way.

The point is none of it is evidence. I’ve been at the Institute for five years, too. I know hardly anyone. She’s social. Probably dates a lot because aside from being social, she’s pretty and magical. Rowen belongs in this crowd. I don’t.

“RJ?” Zane’s voice breaks my focus and I turn to look at him.

“Sorry. I got…distracted.”

He nods and smiles. “You distract me.” I don’t really need the cheesy lines but I like how hard he’s trying. Andthe part of my brain that never shuts up wonders if he tried this hard with Rowen, if this is his MO, his game plan, the way he flirts with all the women he might be attracted to.

We’re close enough there isn’t much space between us, but we’re not touching. Dylan is still talking to Aimee, but I don’t have the kind of experience with men—boys, dudes, guys—to know how to get him to put his arm around me or touch my face. Instead, I sit and think about it.

“What’s wrong?” Now he sounds concerned and his face falls. He’s staring hard like I have mustard dripping down my chin.

There isn’t anything I can think of to save the moment. I can’t exactly tell him that I was waiting, hoping, trying to figure out how to get him to kiss me or touch me. Can’t tell him that I was wondering if he’s upset about Rowen because he dated her. I can’t tell him that I’m jealous of Rowen.

I’m just glad he isn’t of the mind-reading portion of the Institute’s student body, the freak-shows who can’t stop themselves from digging around in the thoughts of others.

“Nothing. Aimee’s just ready to go.” I’m not lying. There isn’t anywhere she wants to be less than here, although she’s stopped huffing and puffing like the little engine from the kid story, and she seems to be friendly enough with Dylan.

Her displeasure at being dragged along and being stuck here is all I can think of to explain why I’m awkward, though. If I’m honest, I’m too nervous and need to get myself under control. I need to go home, watch some movies, research how to interact with a man like Zane, figure out how to make what I want to happen actually happen.

I nudge my sister with a sharp elbow, and she jerks toattention, turns away from Dylan and jumps into my conversation. “Right. Um, Mom’s late shift is going to be over soon.”

“Late shift?” He chuckles and the sound is smooth and pleasing. My stomach-flutters continue. Not because six-thirty is early in terms of “late” shifts, but because his laugh is rich and deep and smooth, and it does things to a woman. It makes me rethink leaving.

Somehow, even in the face of all his deliciousness, I manage a nod. “She works late a lot, but she’s always home by dinnertime, and she worries because when I was fifteen, I stayed out until bedtime.” Oh God. Someone stop me before I tell him my life story in one long, run-on sentence. But I continue undaunted. “And if we aren’t home, she’ll…”

I’m about to saycome looking for us, but Aimee talks over me to finish my sentence with, “Be worried.”

And then I nod like I’m a bobblehead doll. “Yeah. She’ll be worried.” Inside, I’m seething because I want this. I wantthesefriends. I wantthatguy. In my mind, the anger is reasonable.

I’m not mad at Aimee. She came up with the right thing to say at just the moment I needed her to say it. I’m pissed off at our mom because I’mgrounded. At nineteen. Instead of making a scene, I stand and brush imaginary sand off my pants.

Zane stands, too, falls into step beside me as I walk to the edge where concrete meets sand. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, his gaze pointed directly into mine. He isn’t asking me to call me. He’s telling me, and I like a man who takes charge. The thought makes my stomach flutter again.

He’s not paying attention to anyone else, he’s looking at me, as if he’s legitimately sorry I’m leaving. I can’t help butread into it. It’s not like I get a lot of looks like this one and I want a minute to savor it, to etch it into my memory.

My heart thumps a little harder, and I’m trying to rein it all in so I don’t embarrass myself, but the grin is staying put. Nothing short of a paint scraper and some industrial grade solvent is going to get rid of this thing.

“I’ll be home.” Until he calls at least. I’m not going anywhere until that phone rings and he asks me on a date.

Plus, it’ll give me time to suck up to Mom, convince her that I’m either too old or too well-behaved to remain grounded.

Instead of walking beside me as we leave the beach on the concrete path that slices the beach into two halves, he goes back to the blanket, and this time takes a beer out of the cooler Finnick and Dylan brought nearer the fire at some point.

And one way or another, I’m going to find out if all that beautifully dark hair is as soft as it looks. It just won’t be tonight.

Chapter

Eight

As Aimee and I walk along the path that provides the border between the parking lot and the beach leading back to town, I can’t stop thinking about Zane and what would’ve happened if I’d been able to stay. He might’ve leaned in, kissed me.

I can’t even be pissed at Aimee. I was the one who panicked, who used her as an excuse.

The sidewalk leads us toward the park through the center of town. The park’s divided into sections. There’s a part geared toward little kids and has all the plastic playground equipment, shredded tires on the ground and lights overhead to ward off the vandals.

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