SAVE POINT 97

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Mimi

Those bastards. Those absolute, noise-in-my-business, pushy bastards. They sat me next to Dormouse. I finger the tented, nametag card, turning the thick paper, scripted in gold, over in my fingertips. For a second, I consider moving it—swapping it with another further down the white, linen-covered table lined with crystal wine glasses. So I don't have to talk to him. So I don't have to do that awkward dance. Really, I'd be doing us both a favor—

But a crowd of nerds walks by just as I've gotten up the nerve to make the switch. And I quickly drop the card back down into its designated spot. God, I'm such a rule follower. If I have an intense guilt tip and can't bend the rules for a something this small, how the heck am I ever going to hope to break them for something larger?

—But they know we're broken up, don't they? Maybe they don't know. Or maybe they know how stupid I've been...how stupid I feel.

I'm fuming as I turn away—fuming because of the inevitable situation of having to talk to the boy again...fuming because he'd looked so darn, ruggedly handsome with his hair all wind-tousled and his face streaked with grime that made me itch, wanting to wipe it away...and fuming at Maude who had told me the whole story days after the boy had already left the nerd camp. I'd never call anyone a whore, but it's a word I've been associating with the blonde lately, because she'd bated him. She'd tried to hook him in like a fish on a line just for sport, and the kid hasn't budged. He hadn't taken it. He'd refused her—her curvaceous body and charm—for me.

Maybe that's who I'm most mad at, after all.

Myself.

I'm thoroughly mad and embarrassed at myself.

And, now, I have to work side by side with the whore—err, Maude—and sit side by side next to the man whose only crime was crushing on me. Ugh.

I go to swipe a frustrated hand through my hair when my fingertips collide with the pinned-up braid there and sticky gel. I'd forgotten I did my hair up cute. I even put on lipstick that I'm sure will wear off in all of five seconds once I start eating. In fact, I'd spent an inordinate amount of time swapping outfits in front of the mirror—till the bed reflecting in the glass behind me was piled high with rejects—and putting on makeup all for...

No, I won't admit it. It was partially for me too—to look and feel good. Of course, that was the reason. I'd finally settled on a pair of dark jeans, a sweater, shell top without sleeves and a pair of sparkly, gold flats—chic but approachable.

I hoped anyway.

Right now, I just feel tall and entirely out of place, here in the buffet line. I finally reach the stacked plates—at last, something for my anxious fingers to do. I grab up a large, white, dinner plate, feeling the weight of it in my hand. There's so much food here; it's almost unimaginable. My stomach grumbles as my eyes wander ahead, over mounds of dinner rolls, bowls of salad and pasta and meats and cheeses...fruit...it's like Heaven after living off junk food and snack bars. Not being hungry will help me concentrate better. If this line would move just a little faster...

I've never felt that patience is my strong point, but I, eventually, make it through the buffet. My plate only gets heavier as I pile it high with everything yummy to eat. By the time I'm done, I've successfully distracted myself and have almost completely forgotten about the butterflies in my stomach till—

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"Soo...hey, stranger."

My fork and knife freeze mid cut. Electric alarm races through my limbs like a shock current. Dormouse—he's—

Right here, slipping into the seat next to me. He's talking to me with that lopsided grin and only looks 3/4 embarrassed and awkward although I feel 5/4ths.

My cheeks flush. Strawberry—no, darker, I imagine. Probably magenta. My breath catches.

Keep it together! Play it cool! That inside voice screams at me. But all the pleading in the world can't hide my thundering heartbeat. I smooth down the napkin in my lap, trying to compose my face before I look up. But any demure, calmness that I'd hoped for crinkles up like an aluminum can the second I meet his eyes 'cause—

'Cause, then, I'm out of breath again. Hormones suck.

"Hi," I manage, while I try to manage finishing sawing at a corner of my beef. But everything has gone to sawdust in my mouth. I can't taste anything but my guilt and embarrassment—bitter, there, at the back of my throat. People are chattering around us, but I can't hear them—just my pulse.

Loud in my ears.

Thu-thump.

Tha-thump.

"Soo, I found EneraldCity, but you don't know half the story—" Dormouse starts.

"Really?" I ask, but my tone is flat and disinterested. I can't listen to small talk, not from him. I remember how close we were in that tent under the stars—the warmth and familiarity between us as I traced my fingers over his collarbones and chest. I can't listen to him tell me about something that's basically the weather when there's a giant elephant squatting between us and on my lungs—

"Dormouse, actually, I know the whole story." I blurt, "She told me, you know."

There. There it is.

I'm breathless.

His eyes dart up at my confession.

Maude. I mean Maude told me, of course. And we're not talking about the kid's hero story anymore; we're talking about our story.

"She—told you?" He squeaks, although it seems like more of a disbelieving accusation.

I nod.

And it feels hard discussing this publicly in a room full of strangers. Someone sits down next to us, inclining their head in a hello as they set their full plate on the table. And I smile and swallow. Really, I'm just being polite...and waiting.

Because I'm on the other side of things now and—and I'm afraid I screwed it up too badly this time. I'm afraid he's seen the bad side of me—the vulnerable and crazy. And, more than that, I'm afraid he'll want to return it—exchange me like a broken TV that can't be repaired.

And I have to say something. I have to argue in my own defense. If everything is on the line here and my heart is literally clenching in my chest, I have to say something. I have to push past the sickness that is making the room spin and the lump in my throat and—

Trumpets sound, a blaring, high-pitched tone.

Everyone's head swivels to the hall's entrance doors as they fan open. And Rosabella steps through. She's dressed in ripped jeans with a black, asymmetrical bodycon top, and her hair is loose and flowing down her shoulders. But there's something different about the girl—

Confidence. That's what it is. Her chin is held high. Her eyes and sharp and determined. She's oozing confidence. She's brimming with leadership. And, for a reason I can't explain, it gives me that extra nudge I need—seeing her like that.

If she can do it—if she can face her fears and come out on top, I can too. Broken is better than not knowing. I take a huge breath and—

"I'm sorry!" I whisper, the cry jumping off my lips as I send a desperate look at Dormouse.

Oh no, it was bad timing. I look too over-eager. I look like I need him to love me—like I've been crying myself to sleep and overthinking and—

"I'm sorry too."

The kid surprises me. He reaches a hand under the linen tablecloth and finds mine, squeezing it. And I meet his warm eyes with my wide ones. ...What?

"You want to start over?" he murmurs, his gaze earnest as a piece of dark hair falls over his brow.

And I nod.

And we sit there, clasping hands under the tablecloth with the biggest grins stretching over our faces.

And no one can see the gesture hidden under the white linen or the way tingles are racing up my arm as his thumb brushes over and over the top of my hand.

But we know. And that's enough.