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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

AT 5:45 I CALL MY DAD TO TELL HIM I WON’T BE HOME FOR dinner.

At 5:46 I lean over the gearshift console between us and kiss Jackson, careful not to squish the white cardboard cupcake box on my lap. His fingers thread through my hair, and he kisses me longer and deeper than I expected. I’m not complaining.

“You taste like vanilla,” I say.

“Want another taste?”

Yes. But then I might never make it out of the Jeep because one kiss will lead to the next. . . .

He runs his thumb along my lower lip, his dark glasses hiding his eyes. But I know he’s staring at my mouth and that makes me shiver.

“No. Behave.” I heft the box. “Thanks for taking me to pick these up.”

“Glad to be of service.”

I push open the door. It swings out and back. All I need to do is grab my backpack and hop out. But I’m tempted to stay exactly where I am, to keep hold of the hours we just spent together. They felt so . . . normal.

No Drau. No battles. No game. Just Jackson and me, driving around, listening to music, talking. Laughing. Picking out cupcakes. Just a boy and a girl on a date. A real date. Our first.

“Have fun at Luka’s.” I reach into the backseat for my backpack, but the box on my lap makes it awkward.

“You sure I can’t tempt you to come with? Shoot zombies?” he asks.

I am tempted—to stay with him, not to shoot zombies—but I have something else I need to do tonight. Plus I have no intention of becoming one of those girls, one whose name gets combined with her boyfriend’s. If I can even call Jackson my boyfriend. Which I guess he is. Sort of. Or maybe not. Does he think he’s my boyfriend?

Could I be any more ridiculous?

I shake my head. “Not coming with you, for a bunch of reasons.”

He wraps a strand of my hair around his finger, slides it free, then wraps it again. “Yeah? Tell me one.”

“Because if I go with you, I might never want to leave your side. Because if I go with you, I run the risk of becoming your shadow, doing what you’re doing just because you’re doing it. Because if I go with you, it will be so easy to stop trying, to just float along in your wake, letting you make the plans and decisions, letting you choose where we go and who we see. I need to be me. Miki Jones. Not just Jackson Tate’s girl.”

“Wow,” he says. “Not sure how I should take that.”

I realize how harsh I sound and add, “Not that I think you want to make me into that girl, but because you’re you”—I spread my hands—“the way you are . . . I need to be even stronger. I need to have my own life.”

He tips his glasses up and stares at me.

Oh my God, did I just say all those things? They weren’t for him to hear. They were just for me to know. And they weren’t even really fair of me to say because despite how autocratic he is, he’s never made me feel like he wants me to be anyone but who I am.

He’s quiet for so long that I think I’ve seriously offended him. Then he grins and asks, “So . . . what you’re saying is that you want people to call us Mikison instead of Jamiki?”

I bury my face in my hands.

“I can’t believe I said all that. I’m so embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. I know who and what I am, Miki.”

“Overbearing?”

“Putting it politely? Yeah. Besides, I like knowing what you think.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Even if what you think is really weird.” He peels one of my hands away from my face and ducks his head to look at me. “Still embarrassed? Okay, let’s pretend I just asked the question and you haven’t answered yet. Give me an answer that you’re comfortable with.”

I hesitate, then play along. “Fine. I’m not going with you to Luka’s because I don’t get how you can go there and spend the evening shooting things when we already do so much of that.”

“Zombies aren’t aliens.” When I don’t answer he says, “Maybe I like FPS games because we do so much of that. Playing one in real life sort of lessens the importance of . . . the game we play in our other life.”

Strangely, I understand what he means. But I’m not sure I feel the same way. I don’t want to lessen the impact of the game. It’s life or death. I’m not sure I ought to forget that, even for a minute.

He leans in for another kiss, his lips lingering on mine, his tongue teasing the corners of my mouth.

“Stop,” I say with a laugh. “I am getting out. Now.” I nudge the door wider with my foot.

“One thing,” he says, taking the cardboard box off my lap. “We need to discuss costumes.”

“Costumes?”

“For the Halloween dance.”

My heart does a little dance of its own. Is he asking me to the dance? Or just asking about the dance. Flustered, I stammer, “Carly, Kelley, and Dee are going as condiments.”

His brows shoot up. “I don’t even want to know.” He pauses. “In case I wasn’t clear, we’re going together.”

“We being you and Carly and Kelley and Dee?”

“Funny.” He pauses. “You and me.”

“That’s how you ask me out?” I ask, breathless.

“I wasn’t asking.”

Typical Jackson. “Last word?”

He gives me that dark, sexy smile, the one that carves the dimple in his cheek and carves a doorway into my soul. “Last word.”

My insides melt, but I try not to show it. “Not this time. You have to ask. And that smile doesn’t win you any points.”

He slides a finger under the taped edge of the box in his hand.

“What are you doing?” I lunge for it, but he moves it out of my reach. Then he slides his finger under the tape holding down the opposite side. “Those are not for you, Jackson.”

“I love it when you’re bossy. And I’m holding these hostage. Answer, or I eat them all.”

I drop my backpack out the open door onto the ground and crawl across the seat, which leaves me half-sprawled across Jackson’s chest as I reach for the box.

“Go to the dance with me,” he whispers, nuzzling my neck.

“Fine. Now give me the box.”

“Fine? That’s how you answer?”

I close my eyes as he traces his nose along my jaw and inhales against my skin. “I’d love to go to the Halloween dance with you. Better?”

“Much.”

I open my eyes. “Good. Now give me the box.”

“If I can’t have a taste of these, I get to take a taste of you.” He sinks his teeth gently into the spot where my neck and shoulder meet.

I elbow him in the stomach. And hit rock-hard muscle.

“You tightened up,” I accuse.

“Gotta protect myself. You’re a force to be reckoned with.” He kisses me one last time and says, “Go, while I can still make myself let you.” Last word. Typical Jackson.

He calls after me through the window as I head up the walk, “Hey, Miki . . .”

I stop and turn.

“You’ll never be that girl. And I’ll never try to turn you into her.”

He presses two fingers to his lips, and then holds them out toward me. Then he puts the Jeep in gear and pulls away.

I stand there watching until his taillights disappear, then I head up the walk and ring the doorbell, my homework-laden backpack slung over my shoulder, the white cardboard box held in front like an offering. The two curved pieces on the sides flap up and down because Jackson slit open the tape and left it that way. There’s a cry of, “I’ll get it,” from beyond the door and then the click of the lock being turned.

The door swings open and Carly stands there, her hair in a high ponytail, her brother’s sweats swallowing her, loose and comfy. For a second, her expression’s completely unguarded, and there’s no mistaking her unbridled happiness when she sees me.

I grin back at her, feeling like we’re just Carly and Miki, exactly as we’ve always been.

Then the balloon pops. Used to be I could head over to Carly’s anytime and it would be like she was expecting me, even if she wasn’t. Now, as Kelley and Sarah step up behind her, I feel like an outsider. It only gets worse when Dee wanders up the hall. She’s not in their Spanish class, so she’s just here to hang with them, not to work on their project. I take a deep breath. The only way to fix this is to stop acting like I’m separate and apart.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” Carly says. Her gaze dips to the box and the distinctive Sugar Hill logo. “You’re kidding,” she breathes. “You are kidding.”

“Not kidding.” I ease the box toward her, the smell of cupcakes wafting up. “You gonna let me in? Cuz that’s the only way these cupcakes are crossing the threshold.”

“A bribe?”

“Totally.”

“Depends on the flavors,” Carly says with a grin and a wink.

“S’mores, banana cream pie, chocolate raspberry, vanilla éclair, Roc City crunch, and lemon cheesecake. Two of each.”

“A dozen cupcakes?” Kelley moans. She presses her palms together and holds her fingers to her lips.

“That’s three for each of us,” Dee says. “Because twelve divided by four is three. I mean, there’s five of us, I guess, but Miki doesn’t count.” Everyone turns to look at her.

“Foot in mouth, much?” Sarah asks.

Dee narrows her eyes at her. “I mean, Miki never eats cupcakes, so I’m not counting her among the cupcake eaters.”

She’s right. I never join them for treats. My one exception is a single weekly Pop-Tart. I control every bite that goes into my mouth, making sure it’s healthy, a holdover from when Mom was sick. She tried every medical option the doctors offered, and every alternative option she could find. That included healthy eating to up her antioxidants and bioflavonoids and stuff.

The healthy eating stuck with me. Which isn’t a bad thing. But what Dee just said about me not being a cupcake eater is a bad thing, not because she said it, but because it’s how she sees me. How they all see me. How, maybe, I need to start seeing myself. I’m so rigid that I snap at my friends if they even offer me a cookie. And that definitely isn’t a good thing.

I’m starting to think that maybe trying so hard to always be in control is making me feel out of control.

So tonight I’m going to eat a cupcake and laugh with my friends and let the evening turn into whatever it is. Tonight, I loosen the reins enough to just be.

I take a deep breath and a leap of faith. “Actually,” I say, “there are five of us. I’m planning on scarfing down one of these puppies.” They all stare at me. “Just one. The rest of you get to split the other nine.”

Carly steps outside and hugs me. She knows me better than anyone. She knows what this is costing me.

“Wait . . . nine? How does a dozen minus one equal nine?” Sarah asks.

“Oh, um, there are only ten cupcakes in the box. I bought a dozen, but Jackson ate one of the banana ones and one of the vanilla ones . . . payment for driving me to pick them up.”

“Oh. My. Gawd.” Dee’s eyes widen, and she claps her palms together. “Jackson drove you? As in, you were with Jackson Tate? The two of you? Alone? Like a date? With Jackson?” She rushes the door and scoots around me, then spins back when she finds the street empty, looking disappointed. “You could have brought him in.”

“No, she could not,” Kelley says. “Because then she couldn’t spill deets.” Carly takes the box. Kelley grabs my arm. “Talk. Now.”

And just like that, I’m one of them again. Maybe I always was.

“Can I come inside first?”

“Always,” Carly says, her smile so bright I think I need to borrow a pair of Jackson’s shades. Her eyes meet mine. “And while I won’t complain about the cupcakes, you will never, ever need a bribe to come inside.”