Page 46 of Better Than the Movies
“You should reconsider—he’s a really good guy.”
I smiled at him, trying not to beam like a lovesick fool as he stood there looking like the poster boy for everything I’d ever wanted. “Wes isnota ‘really good guy,’ Michael—come on. He’s…” I stopped dribbling. “Wes is fun and unpredictable and the life of the party. He’s got good qualities, but he is not good.”
But as I said it, I didn’t quitefeelit anymore. That was how I’d always thought of him, but it was becoming clear to me that either he’d changed or I’d been wrong all along.
Michael gave a small nod as if recognizing my point. “Still.”
I raised the ball to shoot, but Michael came behind me and moved my hands so I was holding the ball a different way. It felt like his fingertips burned their every groove into my skin, and I had a hard time remembering how to even use my appendages. His tanned hands were spread around my pale fingers and chipped turquoise polish, and in spite of that somehow-romantic image, I still managed to release the ball and actually send it through the hoop.
“Did you teach her that, Young?” I turned away from the basket, and there was Wes, walking up beside Michael. “Because she damn sure didn’t know how to do that before.”
I picked up the ball. “How would you know?”
“I know all, Buxbaum.”
I rolled my eyes and dribbled in the other direction.
“I may have given some pointers, but that shot was all Little Liz,” I heard Michael say. I cringed. “And by the way, about my hair.”
I stopped dribbling and glanced over my shoulder. Wes’s eyebrows were quirked like he was both confused and interested to hear what was about to follow. Michael touched the front of his hair and said, “I use Ieate styling pomade on the front, to get it to hold but not look rigid, and then I just put a little gel on the sides.”
“I see.” The corners of Wes’s mouth looked like they wanted to smile, but I could tell he wasn’t sure if Michael was seriously talking about his hair or being a smart-ass.
“Your hair would probably do the same thing, honestly, if you grew it out and got a good cut.”
I almost laughed when I saw the change on Wes’s face as he realized that Michael was dead serious. “You really think so?” Wes said.
“For sure.” Michael gave Wes a pat on the shoulder, flashed an adorable grin, and said, “You can be your own hair hero.”
Uh-oh.
“Um, Michael?” I had to step in and shut it down.
“Yeah?”
Shoot—I had to say something. “Erm—have you given any more thought to prom? If you’re going to go with someone? Maybe a friend or whatever.” Oh, for the love of Nora Ephron, that seemed way too forward. I cleared my throat and added, “What about you, Wes—are you going? It just seems like a lot of people are skipping this year. I heard.”
Michael’s eyes were on me, like he’d considered me for the position, and I felt electric. He said, “I’m still—”
At that same second, I heard Noah yell, “Heads up!”
Which was a half second before a hurtling basketball slammed into my face and knocked me flat on my ass.
“I amsosorry.”
I tried to look at Noah but couldn’t see him through the wadded shirt over my nose and because of the way my head was tilted all the way back. The only things I could see were shirt and ceiling. “Stop apologizing. It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. I mean, itwasin that I wasn’t mad at Noah. Apparently he’d been goofing around and had tried to violentlychest-pass the ball to Adam, who hadn’t known and had moved out of the way at themostinopportune time.
Things had been going so well with Michael just before that ball had pounded into my nose. One minute we’d been having a potential movie moment, and the next there was blood gushing from my face.
And it couldn’t have just been a tiny bloody nose. Nope. Not for me, not in front of Michael Young. The moment the ball hit, it was like a faucet had been turned on. Wes pulled off his shirt, shoved it against my nose, and helped me sit up while Michael squatted beside me, asking if I was okay, with concerned eyes.
My new white shirt wascoveredin blood, and my jeans were pretty splattered too. I was glad I didn’t have a mirror; I was sure I’d die of embarrassment if I could see myself. No one in the world had ever looked attractive with blood pouring from an orifice.
No one.
And as I sat there bleeding, I couldn’t help but wonder if the universe was sending me a message. I mean, I was more optimistic than most and I wholeheartedly believed in destiny, but I’d be lying if I said red flags weren’t poised to raise.
