The Hard Count (17 page)

I
pull
into the school parking lot just as the bell is ringing. I normally leave early in the mornings, just after my dad. I like to spend time in the lab, editing on the equipment at our school. It’s nicer and I can do a lot of the nuanced things, like fix the sound from my shitty mic and add notes to my editing file for shots I think I still need. I skipped that all today. I missed doing something I love because my brother has made me dread things.

I see Nico in the mornings. He gets to school early, too. In fact, Nico Medina is almost always the first person to arrive at Cornwall, even though it takes him probably an hour to push his way there on his skateboard. In the winter, he rides in darkness. Even now, fall weather beginning to settle in, Nico’s morning trek is likely cold and dim. Still, he’s always first.

I’m sure he was first today. I’m sure he was also looking for me to pass by his favorite table in the library on my way to the video lab, so he could question me about the whole
dickhead
thing. But I never passed by. Instead, I waited at home for minutes to tick by until I knew I could sneak into school unnoticed because talking to Nico might mean admitting I feel
something for Nico, and that might lead to me wanting things—wanting to
be
things…with Nico.

For three years I’ve passed by that table in the library, glanced at the board under his feet, sneered at the memory of something he said in class, and then I went about my business, my mind moving right along from Nico Medina to whatever the next thing was I saw. Lately, though…my thoughts are kind of stuck. On him.

On his story.

His voice.

His…eyes.

I’ve never had a
real
boyfriend. I’ve had dates for dances and guys I’ve gone out with to go to the movies with Izzy. There was the guy who worked at the water park over the summer who made out with me in the cabana during his break, twice, but I was not the girl he took to the summer parties. I pined after Travis for a few years, and then I settled for awkward first kisses with boys I thought were
cute enough.
Not once did I ever call someone my boyfriend, though. I had my focus—graduate at the top of my class, perfect my visual-arts skills, get into Prestige, win an Emmy or a Globe. It was a list that would take time, but I would do it.

I haven’t thought about Prestige in days. When I watch the video I’ve captured at night, I don’t think about my film. There’s a story I want to tell, yes, but more than putting together a great story, I’m obsessed with getting its pieces, because I want to know more about the boy who has catapulted into the starring role.

I want to know Nico’s story. I want to hold his hand.

I want that kiss from my dream to be real.

None of this matters because Nico likes Izzy. It doesn’t mean I don’t still want him to want me instead. Sometime during my sleepless night last night I decided that all of those things my brother said wouldn’t matter at all if Nico liked me back—as in
liked me
liked me.

I also decided that I would spend today avoiding all of it, because no matter what Nico Medina felt or didn’t feel, worrying about it was starting to mess with my head.

With my equipment bags slung over my shoulder, I walk through the main doors of the school to the sound of the final
ding.
I don’t like being late, so I jog down the main corridor toward my ancient civilization class, my arms weighed down with my things. Two doors away from my destination, something tugs my bag loose from my right shoulder, and I stumble on my feet, trying to recover it. When I realize someone is tugging against me, I spin to look behind me.

Nico’s expression is caught somewhere between amused and hesitant. I stare at him feeling the same way, with a touch of anxiety because I
do not like
being late.

“I need to get to class!” I say, jerking from his hold.

His lips purse, and his head falls to the side as he takes a step back and pushes his hands into his pockets. He’s smug. I breathe out once, hard, through my nose, and he chuckles lightly under his breath.

“What?” My word echoes in the hallway, and I turn to my left and right to confirm it’s now empty. Shit! I’m late.

“You called me a dickhead,” Nico says, pulling my attention screaming back to him.

I breathe a little harder, my heart starting to pound with this nightmare. Confrontation is so much more enjoyable when it’s in a class, over some line in a book. This kind sucks ass.

I knew I’d run into him eventually, have to answer to my behavior, but I expected a little more time. My mind races through my options, and I keep my mouth shut while I think, my eyes on his, taking in the hint of a smirk while he waits for my excuse. Then it hits me. I don’t really
have
an excuse. I have stupid girl emotions, and a brother who is trying to take me down with him, but none of it is an excuse for how I’m treating Nico. I sure as hell don’t want to tell him that, though, so instead, I cross my arms over my chest and sway once to adjust the weight of my bags while I stare him down in that position.

Nico runs his hand over his mouth, and after a few seconds I can tell he’s laughing behind it.

“You think I’m being funny?” I ask.

“Oh, I think you’re being hilarious,” he says, letting his hand fall away and relaxing against the wall behind him. He’s so comfortable, even though he’s late for class, too.

“We’re going to be late,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“So,” he quips.

A laugh punches out from my chest.

“So, he says,” I mumble to myself.

“Yeah,” he says, drawing my eyes back to his. “So.”

I meet his stare again, and we both battle through this standoff. I’m clearly losing, and my arms start to quake with the weight they’re carrying. I shake my head at him and begin to walk away, but his hand wraps around the strap of my bag again, this time pulling me closer to him.

“Nico, I’m late for class. My things are heavy. Just…tell me what you want?”

I push my lips together tight, but can feel them twitch. I’m nervous, and I want to go back to fighting with him over ancient philosophies and the foundation of religious beliefs. That…
that…
is actually easier than standing here and feeling like this.

Feeling…
vulnerable.

“You missed practice yesterday,” he says.

“It’s allowed to happen without me there,” I respond back quickly.

My tongue passes over my bottom lip, a move I don’t even realize I’m making until Nico’s eyes catch it. He looks at my mouth in a split second, and his chest moves with his breath. It makes my mouth dry again, and my heart beat even faster. I can feel every twitch of my nerves vibrate through my body, so I shift my weight and let my bags drop to the floor so I can flex my tired fingers. Nico grabs them in his.

I don’t meet his eyes. Instead, I stare at the way his hands are holding mine hostage. His grip is strong, a suggestion I shouldn’t try to pull away, but not so strong that I couldn’t if I wanted to. My instincts tell me I should, but I don’t.

“You’re mad at me,” he says, his fingers sliding to mine, his thumb covering the top of my knuckles while the rest of his hands hold my palms.

“I’m not mad at you, Nico. I was busy. I have things that don’t have anything to do with you,” I say, still fighting.

He chuckles.

“You’re still mad at me,” he says, and I glance up just enough to see his smile, all lopsided and perfect, the dimple that he gets when he’s right in its place. I hate him so much.

“Why would I be made at you,” I sigh, acting as best as I can while my mind races through all of the reasons I
am
mad at Nico Medina—not a single one of them really his fault.

I meet his challenge, staring back at him, forcing the stern expression to remain on my face, while he looks back at me with perfect lips curved up a hint on one side and unfair eyes that act as target sights. I’m caught in them, and they will not let go.

“You’re mad because you think I want to go to that homecoming dance thing with Izzy,” he says, and I laugh once because…fuck!

“Admit it,” he smirks.

“Nico,” I begin, finding it hard to even say his name. “I could care less who you want to go to some stupid school dance with.”

“
Couldn’t
care less,” he says quickly. I tilt my head and pinch my brow. “You said you could care less, but really…you mean you couldn’t.”

I jerk my hands away and huff.

“Could you?” he says, his hands back in his pockets, his head tilted, angled so I can’t ignore it.

I push my tongue in my cheek and shake my head, glancing away, but always coming back to his gaze. His stupid, perfect, eyes and face that I want to put my hand on. The damned lock of his hair that falls forward when his head leans forward, his tongue caught in his teeth. His kissable lips that I felt in a dream and watched speak in class. His arrogance. His confidence.

“Gah!” I exhale, shaking my head and focusing on the bricked wall behind him. He stands there with one foot against the wall, his back leaning into it, so comfortable seeing me so uncomfortable.

“You make me so mad!” My eyes slide to his, and his lip ticks higher.

“I knew you were mad at me,” he nods.

I stretch my arms out wide, my eyes wider, and I stare up to the ceiling with another shake of my head.

“Fine!” I shout. “Yes, you got me. I’m mad at you! Can I go do class now, please?”

Nico snickers, and I cross my arms over my chest. He pushes forward from the wall, taking a few steps toward me. On instinct, I take one back, but not far enough from his reach. He reaches for my hand again, and I hug myself tighter, tucking my fingers under each arm for protection. I’m throwing a fit now, but I’m this far in, there really isn’t any way to undo it.

Nico holds my elbows when he’s unable to get to my hands, and realizing how ridiculous I would look spinning out of his hold, I give in and let him. His touch is gentle and warm, and I wish I could just get over myself and take his hands back in mine. But I’m scared. My bottom lip shakes with nerves. Nico’s eyes glance at it, so I pull it into my teeth. I want to hide every weakness from him, but eventually I’ll have to curl up inside myself. I have too many.

“Why are you mad at me, Reagan?”

He says my name, and the word falls from his lips soft and sweet. No judgment, no challenge. My lip falls loose from the hold of my teeth and my eyes flutter shut for a long blink. I open again to find him waiting, still looking at me.

“I don’t know,” I say, with a small shake of my head.

“But you are,” he says, and I nod with the same slight movement, sucking in my bottom lip and breathing through my nose.

“Yeah,” I say, my lip falling away and my eyes only able to look at his cheek.

“Would you still go to that dance with me?” he asks, and my eyes crinkle with the short laugh that escapes me, my face tingling, my arms held hostage in this strange cradle because that’s all I was willing to give him. “Even though you’re mad at me, which…I’m willing to get to the bottom of, will you let me take you to a dance?”

I pause, holding my breath, my mind racing through every aspect of what this means—Izzy, my father, Noah…
Nico.

“Yeah,” I say, my eyes trailing back up to meet his.

I’m holding myself tighter than I ever have, my fingers actually digging into my sides, my nails rough against my skin through the fabric of my gray Cornwall sweatshirt. Nico doesn’t flinch once. His eyes stay on mine when I give in, and his expression doesn’t shift from the gentle, sweet one he’s held.

His right hand lets go of my elbow, moving to the few strands of hair resting against my forehead, falling over one eye. Nico takes them with his thumbs, moving them behind my ears, his eyes watching his movement then settling back on mine.

“You’ve worn your hair down ever since I said I liked it,” he says.

I breathe in long and deep, letting myself feel this moment—all of it. I
have
worn my hair down. I did it hoping he would touch it, but never once actually thinking he would.

“That’s how I knew,” he says, and my forehead crinkles. He smiles on one side, repeating the gesture and moving the long wave of blonde hair from my face again. “That’s how I knew I was more than just some guy you wanted on your dad’s football team.”

My pulse drums against my ribs. I don’t respond. I don’t need to. Nico is right. He’s more than some guy. He’s more than a great story. I swallow under the intensity of his stare, and my lips grow numb in anticipation. I want to be kissed right now, out here in the high school hallway. I want the clichéd moment in my mental scrapbook, and the more breaths I take, the surer I am I’m going to get it.

Nico steps back quickly, and I linger in my bliss, oblivious until he speaks.

“She’s coming, Mr. Vernon. Her bag slipped, and we were just picking up her equipment,” Nico says. I blink once, then glance to my left where my ancient civilization teacher is hanging from the doorway, a clipboard propped against his stomach with one hand.

“All right then,” he says. “I figured it must be something like that. I’ll write you a note, Nico, for helping.”

I chortle a laugh to myself, and Nico nudges his foot against mine.

“You liar,” I whisper.

“I believe you mean
dickhead,”
Nico says, leaning into me. I flush and wince all at once, but regardless of my crush being out in the open, I’m never letting Nico Medina completely get the best of me.

“That, too,” I say in return, which only makes him laugh.

“You like me,” he says, winking as he steps by me, my bag held in his hand, his forearm flexed. I take it from him as he reaches for the late slip from Mr. Vernon. “Thanks, Mr. V.”

“Anytime, Nico,” our teacher says.

Nico’s dimple is the last feature I take in before his eyes slip from their hold on me and he heads toward the other end of the hallway, hands in his pockets and nothing on his back. I’m not sure where his stuff is, but I know that he planned on waiting me out. I could have shown up an hour late and Nico would have been there. Because he wants to take me to the dance. Not Izzy.
Me.
And that feels…