The Natural History of Us (3 page)

“When
Gabi hears I'm married to Lauren, she's gonna go ape shit.”

Carlos groans and I tear my gaze away from a near hysterical Peyton. My best friend flips his pencil in his hand and feigns stabbing himself in the chest. “Think Coach Stasi will let me switch partners?”

It takes a second to process what he's asking. Peyton's laugh is still ringing in my ears. But I'm a born bull-shitter, so I smirk and say, “Tell her that's what she gets for not taking FACS with the rest of us.” Then I steal another glance up front.

I haven't heard it in years, but Peyton's laugh is normally musical. Like, if sunshine, rainbows, and flying unicorns had a sound, her laugh would be it. Or, at least what it is supposed to be, not that hard, cynical, pain-edged shriek she just gave. It's so wrong, so
off
, that I physically wrap my hand around the desktop just to keep from going over to her.

As if she'd want me there anyway.

Carlos shoots me a sideways look. “Kid, how in the hell do you score so many women?” Then he snorts and shakes his head. “Never mind, I answered my own question. You, my friend, know ‘Casuals.' Let me instruct you in the ways of ‘Commitments.'” He leans across the aisle like he's about to impart some sort of top-secret intel and says, “If I followed your advice, Gabi would cut off my nuts and lock them in her camera case.”

“And you wonder why I don't do relationships,” I reply with a half-smile, but even I hear that my delivery is off. His smirk falls and he squints in my direction, but I turn my head. The last thing I need is more questions.

A dull ache twinges behind my ribcage and as I fight to keep from staring a hole into the back of Peyton's head, my gaze lands on Aly. She nods at something Brandon says and leans forward to kiss his cheek. I release a breath. It's probably weird to admit since we went out earlier this year, but seeing her with him, happy and smiling, eases the pressure in my chest.

Aly and I weren't right together. She's had a thing for Taylor since freshman year, and as history shows, I suck at commitment. But our blink-and-you-miss-it relationship was the closest I've come to wanting one in years, and ever since we broke up, there's been this itch under my skin. An annoying sixth sense that something is wrong or missing, and nothing I do—not girls, school, or even baseball—feels the same anymore.

Which sucks, since baseball and girls are the only things I'm actually good at.

Carlos's cell buzzes on his desk and I glance over as he drops his head into his hands.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Hurricane Gabi is making landfall.”

“Someone tip her off about Lauren?” I ask, grabbing a pen. In the corner of my packet, I start sketching a baseball
diamond. I'm not Brandon so I can't draw for shit, but it beats the hell out of sitting here psychoanalyzing what's wrong with me.

He nods wearily and I snicker. How people spread shit before Facebook and texts I don't know, but in this case, technology is my friend.

Count on good old Carlos to remind me why I don't do commitment. I swear, he and Gabi invent stuff to bitch about. They're constantly fighting over nothing and spend most of the time driving each other insane. I'm no expert, but that shit ain't normal.

“Carlos, look at me.” He lifts his head from his hand and I clasp his shoulder. “Tell me the truth… she's already got you by the balls, doesn't she?” His eyes narrow and I grin. “Blink once for yes and I'll go get help.”

His good-natured smile returns as he knocks away my hand and flips me off, which is good since I
am
kidding. Well, mostly anyway.

“What about you, huh?” He picks up the packet and starts turning pages. “What lucky lady got stuck with your punk ass for the next month?”

Since I don't really give a shit I shrug and lean back to study the stained ceiling tiles… until I hear him say, “
Huh
.”

I glance over. “Is that a good
huh
or a bad
huh
?”

He rocks his head back and forth as he replies, “Guess it depends on how you look at it.”

I sit up straight and grab the paper from his hand, searching for my name. The fact that I can feel him watching makes me nervous. I've hooked up with half the girls in this class (half the school, really), but none have ended
that
badly. For the most part, they know the score before it even starts—that's the beauty of dating “Casuals.” The only semi-weirdness I ever had was with Aly and that's long over. She and Brandon are way too whipped on each other to care about me.

As I near the bottom of the page, Carlos asks, “You two used to hang out, right?” and I do a double-take when I reach the final row.

“Did y'all have a falling out or something?”

“Or… something,” I mumble, swallowing hard.

Justin Carter and Peyton Williams
.

This at least explains that hysterical laugh.

Slowly, I lift my eyes toward the front of the class. As if she can feel my stare, Peyton turns in her seat, and when her wide blue-gray eyes lock on mine, I completely forget how to breathe.

Guilt, longing, and that damn stupid question—
what if
—hits me square in the chest. You'd think seeing her after three years would get easier. It hasn't. I've just gotten a hell of a lot better at hiding the fallout. Pretending I don't occasionally search her out in the halls, checking to see if she's all right. Wondering what she's thinking, what she's doing, and acting like it doesn't make my whole damn day when I catch her smiling. I used to be the reason for Peyton's smiles.

Now, I'd be thrilled if she didn't glare at me like I was dog shit stuck to her shoe.

“Damn, dude.” Carlos whistles under his breath after she spins back around. “That girl is not a fan of yours.” He laughs under his breath, ending on a cough when I glare at him. “What in the hell did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” I say, wishing that were true. “Just a small misunderstanding.”

But it wasn't small, and it damn sure wasn't a misunderstanding. Whether it was the truth or not, Peyton saw exactly what I wanted her to see that day. She believed what I thought she
had
to believe in order to protect her. To protect me. The same thing I've regretted every day since.

Me cheating on her.

So
this was high school. Students streaming through every door and lining the walls. Multi-colored fliers and trophy cases, a thousand conversations at once. Mass chaos was what it was, and as I strolled through the middle of it all, wide-eyed and staring like Dorothy in Oz, I couldn't help but gawk. A girl in a uniform exactly like mine walked past and sized me up with a scrunched up nose, and I (thankfully) stopped myself just shy of waving like some sort of socially inept dork.

This. Was.
Awesome
.

Okay, so yeah, starting school on a Tuesday was weird. And I was a semester behind, my uniform was stiff and scratchy, and I was walking the halls with my
dad
. But none of it mattered because it all meant I was here, at Fairfield Academy, and that despite every whispered doubt and liquid fear in my bones, I'd finally gotten my fresh start.

Already I could tell there were things I'd miss. I'd been homeschooled all my life, and with that came certain advantages, such as never having to think coherently before
nine A.M. and wearing my ratty pajamas all day. Also, in between learning algebra and earth science, I could bathe a basset hound, watch Days of Our Lives, or ride Oakley after lunch. Most importantly? My stomach never roiled like it wanted to ingest itself. But the fear knotting my gut simply walking through the main door today proved that I was alive, and I was clinging to my new motto like a desperate cowboy on a buck-crazed horse:

“Do what scares you.”

“I've missed that smile, angel girl.” Dad's gray-eyed gaze softened at my gooberific grin and he watched me wistfully before coughing and glancing away. “Now, the nurse knows your history, and so do most of your teachers. If anything happens—and I mean
anything
—if you feel weak for any reason, or think you need to lie down, you just tell them. They'll understand.”

“Yeah, Dad, I know.”

“
Or
, we can always delay it another semester.” He looked at me again, eyebrows lifted with hope. “There's no shame in waiting until—”

“Dad!” My voice echoed off the ceramic tile and a group of upperclassman stopped what they were doing to stare.
Fabulous
. Twin surges of heat burned my cheeks as I closed the distance between me and my father.

“We've been over this a million times,” I said, lowering my voice. “You promised that when I was well enough to walk through the door that I could come here. Well, I just did it. Sans wheelchair and with exactly zero assistance.”

Six months ago, that feat wouldn't be so impressive, but today I was flipping ecstatic.

“So yeah, I'm a semester behind,” I told him with a shrug. “So what? I've finally gotten through the worst, and I don't care if all the cool clubs are full or the best electives are taken. I'm not wasting another second.” When my stupid nose started to
burn, I turned away and blinked to clear my blurry vision. “I'm not letting this disorder steal one more thing from me. Not anymore.”

My voice wobbled toward the end and I mentally slapped myself for showing weakness. The goal today was to prove that I was strong and tough—that I could do this. Not to break down in the hallway and wind up with the nickname Weepy McNew Girl.

“Besides,” I said, knocking his arm with my elbow. “If anything happens, you're here.”

That, of course, was my ace in the hole. Coming to the school where my dad taught had always been the plan, and now it just made my argument that much stronger.

Fairfield Academy had an amazing dual-credit program with the local college's Veterinary Technology department. Becoming a veterinarian was all I'd ever wanted… well, other than kicking McKenna's butt in the Junior High barrel-racing ranks. That program alone was worth the price of admission.

Which, technically,
was
a heck of a lot more than homeschooling.

My steps slowed as guilt walloped me in the chest, not unlike the time Oakley got spooked and threw me against the fence. We could have literally wallpapered the den with my unexpected medical bills, so maybe…

“Is this about the tuition?” I asked. “Because if this costs too much—”

“Don't be silly.” Dad forced a smile, but it didn't quite meet his eyes. “Faculty gets tuition breaks. Even if they didn't, the money doesn't matter, not as long as this is what you really want…” His voice trailed as we came to a stop outside the office doors, and I nodded vigorously.