Shuffle, Repeat (27 page)

A cluster of tiny roses appears between me and the phone screen, and I get a whiff of their delicate aroma. Cash is holding them with a bashful smile. “I got the wrist kind so you won't have to put a pin through Quinny's dress.”

Although nothing else has made me tear up, this does. “Don't!” says Mom. “Your mascara will run!”

“Thank you,” I tell Cash, and hug him. Then I touch my on-screen image, sending it speeding through the galaxy toward my father. It's accompanied by a message.

Don't just scratch the surface.

He won't get it. He won't understand that because of his choices, he has a daughter in name only, a series of images and messages translating to a relationship that doesn't really exist. He can't begin to comprehend it, and that's why I am able to forgive him. Because he really, truly doesn't understand.

I forgive him, but that doesn't mean I need to keep pretending he's going to show up. I've pretended for way too long.

Mom pulls me away from everyone else. “Hey, Marley said you might have some questions for me.”

“Just one,” I tell her. “Will you teach me how to drive?”

A big smile breaks over her face. “Of course, honey.”

My ride arrives later than I hoped, but I don't care. After all, it took quite a bit of convincing for us to reach an agreement at all.

“Are you sure about this?” my ride asks.

“Very sure,” I answer. “You and I have really, really good reasons to go to prom tonight.”

We pose for photos, I thank everyone who was involved in the Xtreme Cinderella-ing, and then we're off.

The car jams to the curb and I hop out before the valet can reach my door. I'm in the biggest hurry of my life and I don't care who knows it.

I'm alone when I run up the front stairs, and I'm alone when I cross the vast empty lobby of the hotel and step into the glittering ballroom. Hung with twinkling strands of light and dotted with white-draped tables, it is crowded with people I have known for years. My ears are flooded with indie punk music, and that's the moment I feel the most alone of all: when I enter my senior prom.

It's my own fault, of course. Sure, it was a boy who broke my heart, but I am the one to blame. I am the one who broke a promise.

Still, I hold my head high, because I have a reason to be here. I have a grand romantic gesture to make, an epic speech to give, a heart full of regret to bleed out over the scuffed vinyl.

My ride catches up to me as I'm scanning the dance floor. I know everyone here, or even if I don't
know
them, I know their face, or their name, or some small fact about them. Despite all my attempts to deny it and to pretend I am different, now that I'm here, I have to admit the truth: these are my people.

Maybe I'm not alone after all.

Maybe I never have been.

And then I see Itch. He's standing on the edge, swaying back and forth in that way guys do when they don't want (or know how) to dance. He isn't looking for me, but that makes sense, since he's here with Akemi. She's right beside him and their fingers are twined together.

Nothing about tonight is going to be easy.

I turn to say that I need to speak with someone, but my ride is frozen, staring into the distance. “Go,” I say, and then I also go. I make a beeline toward my ex-boyfriend.

Itch and Akemi stare at me when I barrel up to them. “I'm sorry,” I tell them. “But I need to talk to Itch.”

“No way,” Itch says.

“I get it. I'm not exactly the first person you want to hang out with tonight.”

“You're actually the last,” he says. “The dead last.”

“Be nice.” Akemi elbows him in the ribs. I shoot her a grateful look and she shrugs. “I'm secure,” she tells me. “Besides, I have to pee.” She rises on her tiptoes and gives Itch a peck on the lips. “Remember. Give to the world what you want it to give back to you.”

It's the kind of statement Itch and I would have mocked just a few months ago, but it no longer sounds mockable to me. In fact, it sounds sort of deep and real. Who
am
I?

As Akemi sails off, the current music fades and an old Elton John song swells up in its place. I grab Itch by the wrist. “This one time, you are going to dance with me like a cheesy high school joiner,” I tell him, and yank him onto the floor.

Shockingly, Itch allows it. I place his hands on my hips and set my hands on his familiar, narrow shoulders. We sway together, arm's length apart, his eyes hard and angry on my own. “What, June?”

“I'm going to say out loud why you're so mad. Okay?”

Itch doesn't answer, exactly, but he does tilt his chin down a tiny bit. An almost imperceptible acknowledgment.

I take a deep breath. “At first, you were probably mad because of a bunch of things, because that's how breakups work. People get mad when relationships end. But in most cases, people then get over it.” Itch's stony gaze doesn't falter. “But you
couldn't
get over it, because I never
let
you, because I made you feel like our breakup wasn't important. Like it didn't matter, like maybe our entire relationship didn't matter, because it wasn't even worthy of a
mention.
”

Itch's fingers tighten on my waist, just a little, and for the briefest of moments, we're back in time, back in the stairwell, and we belong to each other all over again. I don't want to be back there with him now, but I couldn't be more thankful that it happened.

“Someday, there's going to be a Grown-Up Me,” I tell him. “That Grown-Up Me is going to have High School You to thank for a little part of who she is. Future Grown-Up Me says thank you. Thank you so much for helping her turn into herself.”

Itch stares back at me and I realize we've both stopped swaying and my fingers are gripping his shoulders. I relax them and feel him relax, too. “Tell her she's welcome,” Itch says. “I mean, when you see her. When you see Grown-Up You, tell her I said you're welcome.”

“I will,” I say, and we smile genuine smiles at each other…until Itch's gaze drifts past me. His expression changes.

Akemi is back.

I turn so I can apologize to her, so I can explain that I'm not trying to do anything inappropriate with her boyfriend and that we're just talking…but it's not Akemi.

It's Oliver.

He is standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching us with a dark, furious look. He's seeing Itch's hands on my hips, my hands on his shoulders. I know Oliver saw our smiles and the way we were staring into each other's eyes. It must look like one more lie I told him: about being done with Itch.

Panic rises in me and I tug away from Itch but it's too late. Oliver is gone.

I whirl back to Itch. “I'm sorry,” I tell him. “I have to go.”

“Wait.” Despite my need to find Oliver, I let Itch fold his arms around me. It's a hug that would have felt awkward when we were dating, but somehow, now that it's not supposed to be romantic, it's just nice. Itch feels nice. “If he doesn't want you, he's a jackass,” Itch tells me.

“Thanks.” I separate myself from him just as Akemi arrives.

“I'll take him back now,” she says, reaching for Itch's hand.

“You should,” I say. “You guys make a supercute couple.”

I charge in the direction Oliver disappeared into the crowd but realize there are several doors leading out of the ballroom. I choose one and find myself back in the ornate lobby. A uniformed bellboy looks up when I race in. “Can I help you, miss?”

“Did a guy come through here?” I ask breathlessly.

The bellboy shakes his head. “Can you be more specific?”

“Tall, blond, really cute?”

He looks like he's considering. “There was this one dude, but I think he had brown hair. He was probably closer to my height, and I'm not that tall.”

“Just now?”

“No. Ten minutes ago. Maybe more like fifteen—”

“Thanks,” I say, not meaning it at all, and run back toward the ballroom.

An empty corridor. I almost turn back but then I notice the two doors leading to bathrooms. I rush up to the one that says
MEN
and pause. All my internal rules prohibit me from opening this door. I knock on it and wait, but nothing happens. I reach out, turn the handle, and am about to walk in with my eyes squeezed shut when the door to the women's room bangs open and Ainsley appears.

“June, what are you doing?”

If Ainsley was gorgeous in normal, everyday street clothes, right now she's an actual angel. Her skin glows bronze against her glittery white dress, and her green eyes are wider and brighter than usual.

“I'm knocking on this bathroom door.” World's most obvious statement.

She sizes me up. “I thought you hated prom.”

“I did.” I don't want to tell her I'm looking for Oliver, because I don't want her help, or anything to do with her. That brief flash of friendship I had with Ainsley…it wasn't real.

And then the bathroom door opens, and of course Theo comes through it. “Was that you knocking?” His eyes ooze up and down my body before flicking to Ainsley. “I'd do a three-way. Since it's prom and all.”

Back to this. Forever this. Some of us have the ability to change, to shed our skin, to move forward. And some of us…are Theo.

“I don't suppose there's anyone else in there?” I ask him.

“Nope,” says Theo. “But if you want to go in and check, me and Ainsley will wait right here. Or, better yet, you could be the one to wait here and guard the door while the two of us go in and—”

“Shut up,” says Ainsley, and for a second, I think she's talking to me. But her eyes are narrowed at Theo. “Get a new joke,” she tells him before turning to me. “We dropped our car with the valet, but Oliver didn't. He parked in the lot behind the hotel, because he said he wanted to be able to make a quick getaway.” She points back in the direction I came from. “Go left down that hallway off the lobby.” Ainsley sees my hesitation. “I'm telling the truth,” she says. “I didn't always, but right now I am.”

“Thank you, Ainsley.” It comes out sounding heartfelt, and I belatedly realize it's because I feel that way. “For real.”

Ainsley cocks her head and regards me, like she's trying to figure something out. “You know that thing about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer?” she says. “I was doing that. Except you weren't ever an enemy, were you?”

“Only to myself.”

“Fair enough.” She makes a shooing gesture. “Hurry. Before he leaves.”

I give her a last grateful look before racing off.

The bad news is that the parking lot—like most parking lots—is huge. The good news is that so is the behemoth. I see its dark shape towering over the surrounding cars and I hurry toward it. Maybe I'll sit on the hood or something until Oliver arrives.

Except that when I'm right in front of it, the headlights flare, blinding me. The engine rumbles to life, but I stand my ground, raising my arms to shield my face from the light. He'll have to run me over if he wants to get out of here.

Standoff. I wonder if he'll honk, because that would be a very Oliver thing to do, but he doesn't. He only kills the engine. The lights cut off and the glare is replaced with darkness. After a minute, he gets out. I can't see him, but I can hear his voice.

“June, what are you doing?”

He doesn't sound mad, which is what I expected. He sounds tired, and that might be worse. I know I need to say something important and epic and romantic, because this is a moment that requires an important, epically romantic gesture, but the words aren't there. Instead, all I have is the overwhelming fear that I've already lost the one person I most want to find.

So I blurt something out—something that hasn't always come naturally to me.

The truth.

“I'm going to learn how to drive.”

“Congratulations,” he says. “Very independent. You don't need me anymore.”

Well,
that
came out wrong.

My vision adjusts to the lack of light in the parking lot, and Oliver comes into focus before me. His eyes are hard. Cold. Angry.

“No, listen. My dad was supposed to teach me.” I try to explain, the words scratching raw against my throat. “It was going to be this fun thing we'd do together, the way his dad taught him, in parking lots and on farm roads. He kept saying he was coming, but then he'd always have a reason why he couldn't, and I always acted like it didn't matter, because I needed to pretend that was true. Because otherwise it mattered
so much
that he never, ever did what he said he'd do. That I was always disappointed. That he made me feel like
I
didn't matter. And, Oliver”—I draw in a deep breath and let it out all in a rush—“it mattered. You were right. It all mattered. What your dad did and what mine didn't. All the traditions and moments and choices. You taking this stupid bank internship that we both know will crush your soul. Ainsley and Itch. Everything.”

I stop and wait, but apparently my speech isn't nearly epic or romantic enough, because Oliver doesn't sweep me into his arms. The only thing he does with his arms is fold them in front of his chest. “Great revelation,” he says. “And nice timing, since just now I saw you and Itch
mattering
to each other.”

“We were
talking.
You know that.”

“How would I know that?” Oliver glares at me. “You didn't tell me when you broke up with him. Why would you mention it if you got back together?”

“Oliver.” I know I sound desperate, but I don't care. “Please. We've already talked about this.”