Page 55 of Guy's Girl
“No.” Her eyelashes flutter as she blinks at the valley. “No, he doesn’t.”
“He does. He’s confused.”
“He wouldn’t have bought that ring if he was confused.”
“He wouldn’t have bought that ring if hewasn’tconfused.”
They both fall silent after that. Clay squeezes Ginny’s hand. Tears start to gather at the corner of her eyes. She fights them. The other boys could come back downstairs anytime; the last thing she needs is for Finch to find her glassy-eyed.
“What about Adrian?”
Ginny finally looks back at Clay. She blinks, and two tears run down her cheeks. She wipes them away with her sweatshirt sleeve. “What about him?”
“He cares about you.”
Her heart flexes when she pictures Adrian—the tender way he used to touch her, the soft sighs during their nights together. But then she thinks of the strange, almost disgusted look on his face when he first saw her today. She huffs out a laugh. “Right.”
“He does.” Light from the patio lamp cuts across their table and over Clay’s face, making a stripe across his freckles. “And he’s a good guy.”
“Unlike Finch?”
Clay holds up both hands. “I never speak ill of my friends.”
“Except Tristan.”
He grins. “Except Tristan.”
She sighs, rubbing her forehead. “How did we do it, do you think?”
“Do what?”
“Stay friends.” She lowers her hand and plops her chin into her palm. “And I meanjustfriends. No repressed sexual tension, no nothing.”
Clay shrugs. “You’re too important to me.”
“So are you. And Itriedto tell Finch freshman year. I tried to tell him this would happen. I was so afraid of losing you guys.” She bites her lip. “I still am.”
“You’re not losing anyone, Ginny.” When Clay smiles, little crow’s-feet wrinkle by his eyes. “You’re stuck with us, whether you like it or not.”
***
She waits until they’re all asleep. Until Clay goes upstairs, and the lights click off in Tristan’s room, and she hears snoring coming from Finch’s. When the house is still, she slips into the kitchen. On the counter is a bag of assorted candy from the airport. Tristan’s, no doubt—the man has an alarmingly aggressive sweet tooth.
She hesitates, staring at the bag. At its crinkly plastic wrapping, the sea of Reese’s and Snickers and Milky Ways and Twixes inside. She walks over. How long has it been since she ate a piece of candy? How many years? How much restriction, how many pastries chewed up and spit out?
And, you know what? Today has been shit. She deserves something sweet.
Before thinking too hard about it, she reaches into the bag, plucks out a single Snickers Mini, and carries it into her first-floor bedroom. Shutting the door behind her, she sits down on her bed, folds her legs, and unwraps the candy. The chocolate lump rolls out onto her palm. She flattens her hand. There it is: chocolate, caramel, peanuts, and nougat. Fifty calories of pure sugar. Delicious, addictive. Completely forbidden.
Ginny pops it into her mouth.
The sugar hits her all at once, spreads atop her tongue like a river. Pleasure centers light up her brain, heightening her senses, narrowing them, until every part of her being focuses only on her mouth. She swallows.
“Whoa,” she says aloud.
More.
On instinct, she shakes her head. One is already too many.
