Page 13 of The Summer We Played Pretend

I shrug. “Brendan never liked me wearing short skirts,” I admit softly.

Jackson takes his hands off the wheel and twists to face me. “For real?”

“Yeah, he…he used to give me the silent treatment when I wore one.”

I feel so dumb for even admitting I went along with this. I always knew it was wrong, but it seemed easier not to argue.

“God, Chloe, he’s even more of an asshole than I thought.”

I nod stiffly. It was only really skirts Brendan hated.

And too much makeup, I suppose. I wait for Jackson to notice the extra eyeliner and lip gloss I’ve applied, but he doesn’t say anything as he shakes his head and starts the car.

“If my girlfriend had legs like yours, I’d want her in skirts every damned day.”

My cheeks warm, and I struggle to summon a response. The image of being Jackson’s girlfriend pops into my mind, and I suddenly wish it were true, which is insane. A guy like Jackson wouldn’t really be interested in his best friend’s little sister. Next to him, I feel naïve and foolish. His previous girlfriends have all been far cooler and worldlier than me. I bet they never even considered not wearing short skirts if a boy asked them to.

“I take it the skirt’s deliberate?” he asks as he drives out of our neighborhood toward town.

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Yes.”

The word comes out dry and raspy. It’s insanely dumb to feel this way about wearing a skirt—one that I always loved but tucked away for fear of pissing off Brendan. I knew the moment I spotted it, I needed to put it on.

You lost the right to tell me what to wear the moment you dumped me, Brendan.

But I can’t lose that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that always happened whenever I did something he didn’t like.

“That’s my girl,” Jackson says with a grin, and the sensation low in my belly vanishes.

That’s my girl.

I’m not his girl, but it doesn’t matter. It gives me the strength to square my shoulders and think about facing Brendan, legs out and lipstick on.

“Yeah, screw Brendan,” I mutter, more to myself.

“Screw Brendan,” repeats Jackson loudly.

I laugh and throw my head back. “Screw Brendan!” I shout to the roof of the car.

“You got this, Chlo.”

“I have.” I nod rapidly. “I’ve got this.”

When we pull up opposite the restaurant, I don’t feel so confident. How do I face the guy who threw away our whole future in a text? Who was probably sleeping around behind my back while I was picturing engagements and a house and eventually children together?

Jackson’s hand rests over mine, warm and reassuringly rough. I look down at the contrast between his tanned, big hands, worn by working with cars all day long, and my small, slightly paler ones.

For some weird reason, I like the image too much.

“You deserve answers,” he reminds me, his dark eyes seeming to dig deep inside me as though he can see every fear floating to the surface. “You’re owed answers.”

“What if—”

“And you owe it to him to make him freakin’ squirm.”

I press my lips together. “Yes.”

He releases my hand and nods toward the restaurant. “Now’s your chance.”

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