Page 70 of John Wilder Gets Schooled
CHAPTER 18
AVERY
I’d never seen Wilder look so defeated, not even at the beginning of the school year when I’d laid down the law about him being late all the time. Not even when he’d forgotten Gracie’s snacks on her first day and I’d shut the door in his face.
It won’t happen again. None of it will happen again.
Like, the fuck didthatmean?
It didn’t take a genius to work out that he wasn’t talking about the fucking Adventurama.
I stared at the door. I wanted to go after him, but it seemed like that would open a whole can of worms. As though she could read my mind, Mrs. Freeman nudged me with her elbow and said, “He seems pretty shaken. I’ll watch the kids if you want to go and talk to him.”
She meant as class teacher, right? She couldn’t possibly know about the other stuff. “Right,” I said. “Thanks.”
I didn’t run out the door exactly, but it was a close thing. Wilder was halfway across the parking lot when I caught up to him.
“Wilder,” I called. He kept walking, so I tried the only thing I could think of. “Johnny!”
He stopped dead, then slowly turned to face me. To a stranger,maybe it would have looked like he was stony-faced or pissed. I knew him better than that. He was barely holding himself together, and it made my chest ache.
“Johnny,” I said again, softer this time, in the same tone of voice you’d use to coax a stray cat closer. “What do you mean, it won’t happen again?”
A driver honked, and I moved out of the way. When I glanced at Wilder again, he looked like a man who was one breath away from a breakdown. “All of it,” he said, sounding like the words were being torn from him. “Us. Everything. I—we can’t.”
“Because your father made some dumb complaint? The school isn’t even taking it seriously, so why should it matter?” I laid a hand on his shoulder and counted it a win when he didn’t shrug it off.
“You don’t get it,” he said. “My reputation’s shot in this town already. If it gets out that I’m with you…”
And suddenly it all made a terrible, sickening kind of sense. Wilder was just starting to salvage his reputation. If it got out he was dating a guy, he’d be back to square one. And I got it. He had Gracie to think of. But at the same time, what thefuck? He was happy to have his dick sucked and my fingers up his ass as long as nobody found out about it? That was bullshit, and ithurt.
“I don’t care about that,” I said. “I guess you do, though, right?”
He blinked. “What?”
“You don’t want it getting out you like—” I looked down at Gracie, who was following this conversation as avidly as an episode ofBluey. “Who you like.”
“What?” he asked again. “Avery, I don’t give a fu—lipabout anyone knowing I like guys. You’re the one who doesn’t want to date me!”
My jaw dropped.
“And I get it,” Wilder continued, less fire in his voice this time. He shook his head. “I’m the pastor’s son who had everything going for him until he knocked his girlfriend up and dropped outof school. My job’s not great, and my other job is—” It was his turn to look at Gracie. “Also not great.”
“But you’re the one who said you didn’t want a relationship and you’d prefer to stick to, um”—I glanced at Gracie—“playdates.”
Wilder shot me a look that said I wasn’t getting it. “Avery, let’s be real. Everyone in this town thinks I’m trash, okay? I’m worried that if we get together, they’ll thinkyou’retrash too.”
I looked at him standing there, tension and insecurity rolling off him in waves, and it hit me what he was saying. It wasn’t his reputation he was worried about if we dated. It wasmine.
Well, fuck that. It was time someone taught John Wilder exactly what he was worth. So without thinking too hard about it, I said, “So what if people think I’m trash? Let ’em.”
And then I took a step forward, cupped his face, and kissed the hell out of him. Wilder froze for a second, and then he kissed me back eagerly, and just like always it feltrightand the world around us ceased to exist. We probably would have stood there making out all day except we were interrupted by Tyrell calling out, loud enough for the entire town to hear, “Mr. Smith is kissing Gracie’s daddy!”
We pulled apart and Wilder ran a hand through his hair, his cheeks flushed. But Gracie, bless her, didn’t miss a beat, shouting back, “They’reboyfriends!”
Oh, to have all the stubborn certainty of a five-year-old.
“Are we?” I asked softly and tried to remember how to breathe while I waited for Wilder to answer—this was his call, after all.
