Page 35
“My nails.” I suck in a breath through my teeth. “I’m stuck.”
“I can smell the fucking nail polish on you, but it’s not super glue.” He tosses his half-empty cup into the trash and wraps his fingers around my wrists, slowly peeling my hands from his shirt. “There. What was so hard about that?”
My insides liquefy as I gaze up at him. Like the other night, he isn’t wearing eyeliner, and his green-streaked dark hair is squeaky clean—loose waves replacing the sticky faux-hawk. “Your hair looks good like this.”
He scowls down at me, his mask firmly in place again. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t need your approval.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” My face flames. “I—”
“You should go. Your mom’s waiting for you.” He shoots a glance over his shoulder before inspecting the pink track marks on the front of his black T-shirt.
“How did you—?”
He cocks his pierced brow as if challenging me to correct his assumption.
“She’ll get over it.” I swallow a nervous laugh. “You know how moms are.”
His muscles go rigid and his gaze flicks back to mine. “My parents are dead, so no. I don’t.”
“I’m sorry.” A thick lump forms in my throat. “I didn’t know.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” He smirks, and his gaze travels down my body. “They’re way too flimsy for that.”
Whatever sympathy I had for him evaporates in an instant. “You’re such a jerk!”
“Happy Valentine’s Day, princess.” A deep rumble of laughter rolls out of him as he turns and walks away.
“What are you doing out here?” Mom pokes her head out of the coffee shop while I stand frozen on the sidewalk, waiting for—what? For Jordan to come back? Not likely. I don’t even know why I’m still watching the corner as if he’ll come storming around it to get in another zinger.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, Kennedy! What did you do to your nails?” Mom grabs my hands.
I shrug. “Had a little accident.”
“So I see. Come on.” Without another word about food, Mom drags me back to the nail shop to have my polish redone.
I would’ve been perfectly happy making do with bare nails, but my mother—the same woman who considers factory outlet underwear perfectly acceptable—wouldn’t dream of having her daughter go out without the perfect manicure. The woman’s priorities are seriously messed up.
“Oh, sweetheart, you look beautiful!” Mom clutches her hands to her chest, then comes to vivid life like a cartoon character and rummages around in her massive shoulder bag. “I brought my camera. I need to get a picture.”
“My phone has a perfectly good camera.”
“It’s not the same.” She waves me off, dragging out her ancient Nikon to snap some pictures she’ll probably never get developed.
“Do you even have film in that antique?” I snicker as I imagine her scouring the earth for the last roll of Kodacolor.
“Yes, of course.” She scoffs. “I’ve been preparing for this moment since—”
I don’t even bother to suppress my groan. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been planning to document my deflowering for posterity.”
I know she wants to live vicariously through me, but I wish she’d go find herself a nice man to keep her busy.
A loud laugh erupts from her throat. “I ordered film the moment you told me you had a date for Valentine’s Day—rush delivery.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn to the hall mirror to fix my hair one last time. Mom used a jeweled clip to pin one side up, leaving the other side down in a cascade of curls.
“Leave it. You look beautiful.”
