Page 43 of Better Than the Movies
I tried getting back into the book, but now I was hyperaware that he was reading every paragraph of the flirty, sexy-sweet book as well. I kept scrolling, but the words were different now, cartwheeling over each other with new tumbling context as the main characters started having a mildly sexual conversation.
I turned off my phone when they went into a bedroom together.
“Your cheeks are so red,” he said quietly, his deep voice rich with restrained laughter. “Why’d you stop reading?”
I coughed out a laugh and faced him, his dark eyes mischievous as he gave me a knowing smirk. I said, “It’s just too bumpy to read in here.”
“Ah, yes.” He gave me a slow nod as his lips slid into a full smile. “It’s the bumpiness that made you stop reading.”
“I might get carsick and vomit on you if you aren’t careful.”
“Oh, Liz.” Laney leaned through the space between the two seats and said, “I heard about that—about Ash getting sick on you. That is so terrible. She feelssoooobad.”
My smile went away as she put a hand over her heart and gave me an empathetic pout. Was she bringing it up on purpose to make me look bad? I shrugged and said, “What’s a party if you don’t get puked on?”
I heard Michael chuckle beside me and felt like I’d won that point. Laney jumped right back into her nonstop chatter, so I put in my earbuds to let the sounds of Wicked Faces drown out her nonsense. Before I hit play, I paused to offer Wes an end. He took it, and we listened in silence until we made the turn into the school parking lot.
As Adam put the car in park, Laney finally said something that made me happy. She pulled open the sliding van door and said, “Thanks again for the ride, Adam. I’ve got to go find the team. And don’t forget—I’m riding the bus back.”
That meant I would have all of the basketball game to talk to Michael—without the distraction of dreading the ride home. No one actually watched the game at sports functions, right?
Wes handed me back my earbud, but when I tried to catch his eye to silently communicate how thrilled I was at the good news, he was too busy texting someone to notice.
As it turns out, high school basketball games are incredibly loud.
I sat between Michael and Wes, and the others sat in the row in front of us. The pep band was to our left, and they seemed to be all hopped-up on deafening enthusiasm. They blasted out a constant stream of tunes that made it impossible to converse. It looked like the hope of making Michael see the real me was going to have to wait until after the game.
I was kind of okay with that, though, because I liked the vibe of the gym. The place was teeming with energy, like every single person in that gym was about to explode with their uncontrollable excitement. The team was warming up, and it felt like something big was about to happen.
Balls bounced, students climbed the steps of the bleachers looking for their friends, minutes ticked down on the giant scoreboard, and cheerleaders danced in time with the band. I looked at Laney and watched for mistakes, but of course there were none to be seen. She did every choreographed move like she’d created it, her smile never wavering as she kicked, spun, and cheered in perfect unison with the other girls.
Disappointing.
I glanced at Michael, but thankfully he was talking to the guy next to him.
Wes nudged me with his shoulder. “Having fun?” He kind of yelled it into my ear. “At all?”
I laughed into his ear. “The band is on their third performance of ‘Uptown Funk,’ so I really feel like it’s gearing up to be a special evening.”
That made him smile. He leaned in closer, but his face remained fixed on the basketball court. “All right, Buxbaum—let’s make this interesting. If that guy right there,” he said, pointing to number 51 on our team, “outscores number twenty-three on the other team, you win fifty bucks.”
“What? Why?”
“No questions. Do you want a fitty or not?”
“Er, of course.” I was fifty dollars short on THE dress, after all. “But what if he doesn’t?”
“Then you wash my car.”
I pictured his car. “Your car seemed pretty clean earlier. What’s the catch?”
“No catch.” He gave a tiny shrug, crossed his long arms, and said, “I mean, I may or may not be off-roading in Springfield tomorrow, but I wouldn’t call that a catch.”
“You’re such a cheater.” I looked at his teasing face as the band started playing “Hit Me with Your Best Shot,” and I said, “But you’re on. What’s fifty-one’s name?”
“Matt Kirk.”
I watched number 51 hit a shot from behind the white line, and I turned to smile at Wes. But he wasn’t watching the court. He was looking at me—smirking, actually, in a way that made my stomach do a little stutter thing. I blinked, turning back to the court, hoping he didn’t notice whatever little blip that was. Then the buzzer went off, and thankfully jolted me back from whatever weird place that moment was all about.
