Page 108 of Hate You, Maybe
“Not necessary.”
“It’s just that I don’t usually …” I can’t even finish the sentence. Nothing about my recent behavior has been normal for me.
He scratches his beard. “You don’t usually make a fool of yourself in public?”
“I was gonna say drink, but yeah. That too. I hope there weren’t any parents at the bar last night.”
“If so, they were probably knocking a few back, too. And either way, you don’t owe anybody else a certain kind of behavior when you’re outside of school.”
“I kind of feel like I should be setting an example for the students, though.”
He hitches his shoulders. “Stony Peak kids don’t belong at Tequila Mockingbird. And if they’ve got fake IDs, that’s on them. So no need to apologize. You’re a grown woman who usually doesn’t drink. And you had a really crappy day.”
“You’re not wrong about that.” I slip out from under the comforter and dangle my legs over the side of the bed. My sneakers are on the floor. My not-so-lucky cardigan is draped over the dresser. But I’m still wearing my yoga pants and Gray Squirrels T-shirt. At least I’m not waking up in Dexter’s pine-scented, spicy-cologned clothes. I should be grateful for that.
So how come a part of me is disappointed?
“I really am sorry.” Dexter winces. “About the grant. I’ve apologized multiple times, but I’m not sure you remember after all the Chardonnay. I can explain everything now, though. Well, what I understand of the situation myself.”
“I think I pretty much figured out the situation all on my own, Dex.”
He moves up to the edge of the armchair, his brow furrowed. “I swear I thought Wilford picked you.” His voice is urgent. “I never would have told you that, otherwise.”
I nod. “I believe you.”
“Wait.” He blinks. “You do?”
“Of course.”
“Whoa.” He expels a breath, and his shoulders sag. “I have to admit, I’m a little surprised. And very relieved.”
“Come on, Dex. Did you think I’d forget everything I’ve learned about you these past few weeks and jump to the wrong conclusion?” I smirk. “I may be a drama teacher, but I’m not into forcing some third-act breakup.”
“I just thought?—”
“And besides,” I interrupt, “we aren’t even a real couple, right?”
Dex’s eyes are lasers aimed at mine. “Then what are we?”
I swallow, wishing I had another water bottle. “We’re friends now,” I say. “Friends who have kissed.”
His lips tug up on one side, but the effect is still more like a grimace. “You know, I was pretty sure you were going to start hating me again.”
“I don’t hate you, Dex. But also.” I break for emphasis. “I am not giving up.”
“On us?”
“On the FRIG.” I reach down to slip my feet into my shoes. “Did you really mean what you said about wanting the money to go to performing arts?”
“I did,” he insists. “But you heard Wilford. It’s not our decision.”
“Then you just have to tell him you’re transferring to Harvest High next semester,” I say. “Once he realizes he’d have to handle a massive project like a gym renovation with a new athletic director, I’m sure he’ll change his mind.” I lift my knees one at a time to work the laces of my sneakers. “At least he’ll know what he’s getting into with me. Extra organization and clipboards. All my greatest hits.” I push out a laugh. “And he even said the choice was tough. But we have to catch him before he makes the announcement to the rest of the staff. I don’t want anyone to think I pressured you.”
Dex shifts his jaw, but he doesn’t say anything.
I tip my chin. “I’m not pressuring you, am I?”
“No.”
