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Also hating how annoyed I get when Ellie isn’t happy with me. Which is most of the time, nowadays.
“Have you heard anything about my car?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I’ll call him tomorrow and see what’s going on.”
“I hope it’s ready soon.”
“I hope it is too.”
Then I won’t have to give her a ride anymore or see her as much. I really wouldn’t have to see her at all, save for when our friend group gets together. Even then it’s not like I’d have to talk to her.
I
should probably cut her off, even though I’ll miss her. She’s a good listener. A thoughtful friend.
But right now, sitting in my car, filling the air with her unique scent, her essence, the last thing I want to do is talk to her. I’m not having friendly feelings toward her either whatsoever.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I clutch the steering wheel tightly, trying to keep myself preoccupied with other thoughts. Like school. I have a psych test tomorrow and I’m not even close to being ready for it. I should go home and study, but who wants to do that? I think of football. Practice. It was tough today, and I’m starting to feel like a failure. Like I’m not measuring up. I’m a third string running back, and there’s a fucking freshman who’s gunning for my position.
I need to step up my game, but why bother?
“Is there an away game this weekend?” she asks me, as if she’s in my head. Knowing Ellie, she probably is.
“Yeah. San Diego.” At least we’re going somewhere cool. Not that I’ll get to enjoy it like I want to.
“Do you think you’ll get a chance to play?”
“Probably not,” I immediately say. “I’m not that great.”
“Jackson,” she chastises, her voice soft.
“I’m serious, El. Just keeping it real with you. For whatever reason, I can’t get my shit together on the field, and the offensive coaches are noticing. I don’t know what my problem is,” I say, frustration filling my voice. Filling my head.
I’m irritated on almost all counts right now. I don’t know what’s up.
“Is there anything bugging you?” she asks, sounding generally concerned.
She blows my mind. Girl will hold a grudge and treat me like garbage—which I deserve—and then I tell her I’m having trouble with something, and she goes straight into nurture mode. What is her deal? Why does she care so damn much?
She shouldn’t care about me. I don’t deserve her worry or concern.
Wonder what she would do if I told her what was really bugging me right now.
It’s her. She’s bugging me. My feelings for her bother me. Confuse me. I don’t understand them.
“Did you plan another date with Carson?” I ask, switching the subject.
I can feel her gaze on me, but I refuse to look at her.
“No,” she says softly. “He didn’t ask.”
“You’re going to wait for him to ask then?”
“I think so.”
“You shouldn’t. Grow some balls. Take the reins. Ask him out,” I say, sounding like an asshole.
