The Natural History of Us (8 page)

“What's your secret?” he asked, leaning in. “Are you laughing at the rest of us? Plotting our destruction?” I shook my head, trying desperately to suppress my smile and failing miserably, and he added, “Singing along with Barney in your head?”

The purple dinosaur reference almost got me. Out of nowhere, the motivational quote from my physical therapist's office floated in my mind and I said, “A smile doesn't always mean you're happy.” I shrugged and looked away. “Sometimes it just means you're ready to face whatever comes.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” From spouting innuendo to quoting inspirational posters in a matter of minutes. At least I was unique. “Just something I read somewhere.”

We drove in silence for another block, but the quiet wasn't awkward. It was comfortable, exciting. I stopped short of calling it
normal
, as this was the first time I'd sat so close to a boy I was crushing on. Not that surprising since I was a crush-virgin—unless you counted Gilbert Blythe, Theodore “Laurie” Laurence, and the hotties on Supernatural. But being this close to Justin felt nice.

Yes, I realized testing my innocent heart on a boy like him wasn't my smartest move. It was sort of like trying to eat a gallon of Ben and Jerry's in one big gulp—you're more than
likely gonna regret it. And walk away with a brain freeze. But wasn't that what this new chapter in my life was all about? Doing what scared me, stepping out of my comfort zone?

I stole a glance at him, watching the way his lips tightened, how his forehead furrowed and his chest stopped moving like he was deep in thought. Suddenly, sharing a car ride with this boy wasn't enough; I wanted to know everything I could about him. What he liked, what he hated. How he felt about a certain Diamond Doll.

“Hey, I've got an idea.” I slid my foot beneath me and turned to face him on the bench seat. He quirked an eyebrow. “Have you ever played three questions?”

“Uh, is that a thing?” I nodded eagerly, and he laughed. “You've just got, like, surpluses of energy, don't you?”

I winced. “Ah, pretty much.”

Would I ever stop being such a weirdo? Here he was, fresh out of practice and no doubt exhausted, and I was like an exuberant puppy with a chew toy.
Way to be hot and fun, Peyton
!

Justin touched my hand and I lifted my eyes. “I like enthusiasm.”

For once, his wicked grin was gone, replaced with something softer, sweeter. Sincere. Then he linked our fingers together. My heart stopped in my chest. It was the first time a boy had ever held my hand. “How do you play?”

Blink. Blink. “Hmm?”

“The game?” he asked with a small laugh. “How do you play it?”

“Oh! It's simple.”
Don't let go of my hand, please don't let go of my hand
. “Uh, I pretty much ask you any three questions I want and then you get to do the same. No judgment, no worries, we just say the first thing that comes to our minds.”

The warmth from his skin spread up my arm and into my chest, leaving me breathless, rambling, and giddy as heck. I swallowed and attempted to tone down the crazy. “Are you in?”

For the length of three passing cars, he just looked at me. No words, no face change, and I'd never wanted to be a mind reader more than I did in those moments. It wasn't fair that he held all the secret powers in this… friendship? Relationship? Gah, whatever
this
was.

Justin's firm lips twitched. “Sure. Why not?”

Victory!

“Great!” Too late, I remembered my goal of tempering my puppy-like enthusiasm, and I fiddled with my school skirt. “Um, want me to go first?”

He nodded, once, and said, “Remember, you promised to be gentle.”

Oh, dear heavens above
. “You never stop, do you?”

He chuckled. “Nope.”

As Justin glanced up front, presumably to make sure Rosalyn wasn't paying attention, I forced my mind onto the game. I was on a mission, after all, and while I doubted his housekeeper could hear a thing anyway, threat of a potential audience wasn't about to stop me. Who knew when I'd get another chance to be alone with him—
if
I'd get another chance?

Lolling my head casually against the seat, I asked, “What's your favorite book?”

Justin laughed. “Seriously? You know there's a huge divide between being gentle and a softball-question like, ‘what's your favorite book,' right?”

“Yeah, well, maybe I'm working up to the hard stuff,” I suggested. “Ever thought about that?” Really, I was just a huge book nerd who loved raiding people's bookshelves. But he need not know that.

“All right,” he replied. “
Moneyball
.”

Challenge rang from his tone and from his craned eyebrow, it was obvious he expected me to tease him for his choice. But that's not how this game worked. Plus, Dad had read that thing like a gazillion times, too. And I was fluent in Brad Pitt movies.

I gave an approving nod. “Good one. Now it's your turn.”

“That's it?” When I nodded, he seemed surprised. “That was easy enough.”

I stayed quiet, simply smiling, as a sudden case of nerves ping-ponged in my gut. Would
his
question be easy, too?

How did I not think this through? What if he asked about my occasional slight limp? What if he'd caught me staring at him in the hallways and wanted to know why I was such a stalker?

Why on earth had I thought this would be a good idea?

Justin's left eye closed slightly more than his right as he pondered his first question, and I was certain that I was toast. “Biggest pet peeve?”

I released a grateful sigh, thanking my lucky stars, and replied easily. “Entitlement.”

“What do you mean?”

I shrugged. “I'm just tired of people taking things for granted. Thinking they're owed something. Throwing a fit or acting a fool when they don't get their way. Nothing in life is a guarantee, you know? Every day that we wake up and get to throw off our covers is a freaking gift, and we can either appreciate that, be grateful for what we have and work hard for what we don't, or we can choose to wallow and complain and expect someone to just hand it to us.”

The last bit was punctuated with a
smack
as my free hand slapped my thigh, and the noise jolted me off my soap box.

‘Fun and hot' was slipping further and further away.

Taking a breath, I snorted at my own dorkiness and concluded, “I guess I just think we could all stand to be a little more grateful, is all.”

Smothering a sigh, I mumbled an apology, and Justin gave me a crooked grin. “Don't be sorry. I like seeing you get all feisty like that.” He leaned close and whispered, “Who knew Sunshine had a hidden edge?”

Ha! The words, of course, were typical Justin flirtation, but when he leaned back, the look in his eyes said he meant it. They'd gone soft, like melted chocolate, and the combined effect of the expression, his words, and his proximity turned me into a sticky puddle of Peyton goo. Mentally, I doodled our names together in linked hearts and fantasized about him giving me his letterman jacket in front of the entire school.

I frowned. Or did that only happen in old movies?

Sitting taller in my seat, I said, “So, it's my turn again.”

The goal for this round was two-fold: shift the attention away from me, and crack Justin's impenetrable shell. I grinned when the perfect question came to me and I leaned in close. “Secret love?”

“What?” Eyebrows shot heavenward as he snapped his head back, banging it with a thump against the window. He glanced at Rosalyn, still jamming out to Rod Stewart, before asking, “You mean like girls or something?”

“No, nothing as horrifying as that,” I teased.

Note to self: avoid all uses of the “L word” in the future
.

Ignoring my tingling spidey-senses, I said, “What I mean is, what gets your heart racing? Or, just the opposite, what calms you down? What's the thing you enjoy doing more than anything else in the world but no one else knows about?”

When Justin shifted uncomfortably, I gave him one final nudge. “Hey, you're the one who said I'd soft-balled you before.”

At my teasing smile, he huffed. “Yeah, well, remind me never to correct you again.”

He dropped my hand and rubbed the back of his neck, the skin around his mouth growing taut. When he shifted in his
seat, tugging on the leg of his jeans, I took in his narrowed eyes and dropped my mouth open in surprise. I'd actually gotten to him.

The unflappable Justin Carter was flapped!

I watched, gape-mouthed, as he turned to face the window, and I figured that was it. Game over. Either that or he was preparing to toss out another flirty one-liner. What I hadn't expected was hearing him clear his throat and mumble, “I like to write.”

The words, spoken softly, hung almost visibly in the air between us.

That he had answered… and then
how
he'd answered… left me so stunned, so speechless, that I just sort of sat there. Writing obviously encompassed any number of things—something as simple as keeping a diary to writing full-length novels. But the literary geek in me was awake and swooning hard.

Justin glanced at me from the corner of his eye and barked a laugh. “Jesus, Peyton. I'm not a total dumb jock.” He stretched out in the seat, picked at a nonexistent piece of lint, and just like that, his bravado was back, slipping on like a well-worn pair of Nikes.

Quickly, I said, “No, of course not. It's just…”

It's just that I want to peek inside your brain and learn ALL the things. What makes you tick, what prompts you to write, how it started. And maybe sniff you some more while I'm at it
.

“Write how?” I asked. “I mean, in what form? Can I read any of it?”

“Hell no,” he shot back, eyes wide. He laughed again, sort of breathless, and that along with his borderline vulnerable smile softened his words. “I believe it's called
secret
love for a reason,” he said, bumping my shoulder with his. “As for what kind of writing, well, that'll cost you your last question.”

Oh, the boy was good. Giving in was tempting, so very,
very
tempting, but for now, other things—
relationship
things—were equally as important.

“Nah, I'll let you keep your secrets.” I grinned and silently added, for now.

He flashed me a smile. “That means it's my turn again.”

I nodded, already plotting how I could steer the conversation back to his secret bookish side, and Justin tilted his head. “Your name. Don't get me wrong, I think Peyton is damn sexy on a girl—”

“But you're wondering if I'm named after a football player,” I finished for him.

Justin lifted his shoulder. “I heard someone call you Manning in the hall.”

I banged my head against the seat. “Our teacher in homeroom is obsessed with roll call,” I explained via way of complaint. “Manning is actually my
middle
name, but she refuses to remember that. After the first day or two, it was easier just to go with it.” Truth was, I liked my name. The family tradition around it, the uniqueness.

“Manning's always been one of my dad's favorite athletes, even back when he played in college,” I went on. “The University of Tennessee is his alma mater. But Dad's equal opportunity when it comes to sports. My oldest brother, Jesse, is named after Jesse Owens, and Lars is named after Yogi Berra.” I grinned. “Lucky for him, Dad went with Yogi's real name, Lawrence.”

“Wow.” Justin nodded, impressed. “Your old man's some sort of sports nut, huh?”

“That would be an understatement,” I agreed with a laugh.

We came to a stop and I glanced out the tinted window. We were at the light in front of the railroad tracks near my house, which meant we were about five minutes away depending on traffic. Time to bring in the big guns.

“Final question.” I paused as the ending notes of one song faded and a new one began, then watched Justin carefully as I said, “You've got quite the reputation with girls.”

His smile was slow, confident, and amused. “That's not a question.”

I shot him a look that said, “you're hilarious,” and urged the butterflies flapping in my gut to chill. That crooked grin of his so wasn't helping.

Clearing my throat, I scooted closer, lowering my voice as I said, “Word on the street is that you hook up with tons of girls—”

“Word on the street?” Justin's smile grew, and I rolled my eyes. I would not be deterred!

“—But that Lauren Hays is your girlfriend?”

I leaned back, proud that I actually got that out, and of my wordsmith skills. Part statement, part question, I was ninety-two percent sure he couldn't tell my very happiness depended on his answer. Even if he could, though, it wouldn't matter. My obsession demanded answers.

“Definitely not.” Justin's lip curled with disgust, and my belly did a flip. A bit prematurely, I discovered, when he added, “I don't do the whole girlfriend thing.”

Ah. His eyes met mine, hammering the point home, and I strove to keep my face neutral. “Good,” I replied, light and breezy. See, no skin off my nose, la la la. “I don't do the whole boyfriend thing, either.”

Easy to say when I'd never been given the chance, but whatever.

We fell silent after that declaration, Justin searching my eyes, looking to see if I was sincere, and me desperately trying to shield my emotions. Not the easiest thing to do when you're straight up lying, or staring into the face of the boy of your dreams.

“What about you?” he finally asked. “What's your story?”

I released a pent-up breath. “Is that your final question?”

He nodded, and I shrugged. I'd already decided against sharing details about my illness, but GBS was the only semi-interesting thing that ever happened to me. “Not much to tell.”