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"What the hell, Matt?" She leans in close keeping her voice low. "Everyone's watching and you're making a scene. Just leave Jenny alone. It's kind of obvious she doesn't want to talk to you."
"Jen," he says. "Look at me."
I want to. I want to look into his brown eyes so badly. See the hints of gold and copper hidden among the deep swirls of hazelnut that feel like home when I'm staring at them. But I don't. Because he's not mine. He never will be. And the sooner I push away the hope that this was all just a big misunderstanding, the faster my heart has a chance to heal.
"Dammit, Jen," Matt mutters so only I can hear. "Please, just look at me."
I swallow hard, willing my eyes not to shift from the scratched wood grain on my desk to Matt's perfect face. But they do anyway. Because apparently, I enjoy torturing myself.
He looks like hell. His dark hair is mussed on the top of his head like he's been running his fingers through it all day long. His beautiful eyes are framed by dark, sleepless circles and his shoulders are slumped over in defeat. His whole body screams misery.
"Sorry, guys," Mr. O'Connell apologizes as he steps back inside the room. "My wife is pregnant and she thought she was in labor. Just a false alarm."
Matt doesn't turn around in his seat. Instead, we take each other in for the first time since Monday, a thousand emotions flooding both of our faces. Sadness. Heartache. Hurt. Guilt. Pain.
"Mr. Thompson," Mr. O'Connell calls from the front of the room, "I know I'm not as nice to look at as Miss Kearns, but please turn around."
Slowly, Matt's devastating eyes leave mine and he turns to face forward. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Alright, let's begin," Mr. O'Connell instructs.
But I don't pay attention.
—
"Mom!" I holler as I throw my backpack on the stairs and head towards the kitchen.
"Out here, baby!" she yells through the open sliding glass door on the patio.
I trudge through the dining room, into the kitchen, grab an apple off the counter, and step onto the back porch.
My heart freezes in my chest when I see him. Kyle Thompson. Matt's older, slightly more attractive, infuriating brother. He stands there, his long, lanky, tanned arms crossed over his chest like he owns the place. His dark hair is shorter than the last time I saw him, held in place by good genes and an unreal amount of hair product. His eyes, the same stupid golden brown as his brother's, roam my face in amusement.
"Jenny," he greets me with a mischievous grin.
Ignoring him, I take a bite out of the apple and turn to face Mom. "I need my driver's license. I need it, like, yesterday."
Mom takes a sip of her white wine. Seems a little early in the evening for a drink, but it's Friday and I'm sure she's had a long day at the store.
"Don't be rude. Say hello to Kyle," she chastises me as she sets her glass down on the table, the ice cubes clinking together in the process.
"Mom, I need my own set of wheels. I can't keep relying on everyone else to drive me around," I continue. "Fallon made me pay her for gas because she has to drive six miles out of her way just to pick me up."
"Why isn't Matt driving you?" Kyle butts in. I throw him an annoyed look before turning back to Mom.
"They're fighting," she informs Kyle. "Something about a kiss and—"
"Mom!" I interrupt. "Stop telling everyone everything!"
"Sorry," she raises her hands in defense. "Didn't realize it was such a big deal."
"You know what," I grit my teeth, "I'll just ask Dad."
"Sounds good, honey," Mom smiles at me as I stomp off angrily in the direction of the garage.
"I need my driver's license," I tell Dad, my foot tapping restlessly against the concrete floor. He slides out from underneath his truck covered in grease and oil.
"I thought you had your driver's license," he says as he sits up. His eyes, the same ocean blue as mine, appraise me. "What's wrong?"
