Page 11 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

short to come back over to where I’m perched in the middle of either

a mental meltdown or a panic attack. Perhaps both.

It certainly does feel like both.

“You know what? I didn’t do shit to you in high school, and I don’t

cross your fucking path, Leah Reese. Why you have to come in here

with this sour fucking attitude is beyond me.”

I bury my face into my hands, wishing I had just played possum on

the damn sidewalk outside. “You stole my dad’s motorcycle senior

year and totaled it on the intersection light pole in town, Percy. Or

did you forget about that?”

His expression shifts, and he raises his arm to scratch the back of his

neck awkwardly. Only now do I see the faint lingering of a few black-

ink tattoos? He looks at the ground, staring at his Converse shoes

while he plays nervously with a guitar pic in his free hand.

“Oh, shit. I did forget about that.”

“He had to pay for the light pole and trash the motorcycle for parts.

That was going to be my gift for graduation, and you ruined it.”

“Yeah, but that was years ago, car chick. Can’t we call it even?”

“Call what even? I’ve never done a thing to you.”

“Not true,” he replies. “Your boyfriend beat me up on the soccer field

right before the junior year pep rally.”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore, and it’s not like I told him to kick

your ass, alright? I have no control over Ryan Jones.” Shaking my

head, I try to scrape all of those flooding memories from rushing

back into my hectic mind right now. “Can we just change topics,

please?”

“Oh, now you want to move past it.” He throws his hands up like a

tired toddler looking for a snack. “You’re just pissed off that high

school sweetie is going steady with Farrah Wellsburg.”

“I’m not pissed,” I grunt. “I’m irate.”

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