“Uh huh. In senior year.”
“You looked hot for a sixteen-year-old,” I admit.
“Oh, just you wait a second.” She flips the pages back showing me a different photo.
Taken back by the difference, I zoom in closer to look properly. It looks nothing like her. In the photo, she’s wearing some granny jumper with patterns of roses all over it and awful, mustard-colored baggy jeans. Her face is covered in zits, and behind her smile are braces.
I pull a face, not intentionally wanting to offend her. “You look…”
“Awkward? Hideous?” She laughs. “I’ve never shown this photo to any guy. It’s like my worst nightmare. Secret-business-type stuff that I should burn but don’t want to regret letting go of the memory.”
“I’m flattered I got to see your pic that will give me nightmares,” I joke.
She punches my arm softly, laughing along with me. We both relax on the bed chatting with ease about our high-school memories. With Zoey rambling in my ear about some fashion faux pas in her senior year, while I turn the page back to the first photo she showed me of her in the cheer-squad dress. The uniform’s royal blue and yellow, tight, and typical of a cute cheerleading outfit. There are four girls in the photo with Zoey standing proudly in the middle, perfectly posing with her hand resting on her hip. Her blonde tendrils are tightly curled sitting just above her waist. The green in her eyes captures the moment, sparkling with her lips curled into a cute smile.
She’s beautiful.
And if life had a different way of working out, just one moment with a girl like her would have completely changed everything. Given me the much-needed confidence boost during the years when I thought Andrew Baldwin didn’t deserve to be here.
The year when Lacey Everson, the homecoming queen, blatantly said to my face that I was a worthless geek who should go home, turn the car on, and close the garage door behind me. A motherless waste of space with a poor loser of a father. Her words are still engrained in my memory to this day.
This is what the popular girls did. Beat the not-so-cool boys down for their own pleasure. And I was definitely not in the cool crowd.
The memory disturbs me sending this chilled moment into the shadow of a dark cloud. Zoey is still chatting away at record speed, and with my head wanting an escape, I listen and catch the end of her conversation.
“As much as I would love to stay and chat, I need to go get ready for work.” I stand up and stretch my arms, my shirt pulling up, exposing my skin. “Zo, are we all good now?”
Her eyes are lingering on my stomach watching me with an odd stare. She doesn’t realize she’s biting her lip until she catches me watching her, and immediately covering her embarrassment by over-smiling and distracting herself by playing with her hair.
“Yes.” She grins, disguising the red face. “Sorry for my bitch fit.”
“Sorry for my awkwardness and for accidentally getting a boner when we kissed.”
She scowls then tilts her head back laughing painfully and holding on to her stomach, trying to control the outburst. “See, I had no idea. Must be the little peewee,” she babbles in baby talk.
I seriously want to pull my pants down to prove her wrong, but then that would be equal to the shaving incident. There goes my stupid brain for bringing up that image again.
“I know what you’re thinking, Baldwin. Don’t you dare. This weekend has already scarred me, and I don’t need your baby wang to throw me over the edge,” she warns me.
I give up. Upon exiting the room, I hear my name again as she scurries behind me. I turn around, stopping her fast in her tracks. She fiddles with the ends of her hair—her signature move when she’s nervous or needs a favor from me.
“Totally forgot. So you know how I saved you yesterday? I need a favor.”
“Don’t you mean I saved you?” I remind her.
“Yeah, sure, you saved my life, uh huh, super nice of you. But hello, Mickey would still be here if it wasn’t for me and imagine the peewee talk.”
Zoey batts her eyelashes pretending to be innocent and sweet. This is the look of pure evil. I hate when Zo has something to hold over me. It never ends well.
Taking a deep breath, my voice tightens as I bellow, “What do you want?”
“I need a date for Mia’s wedding.”
“When?”
Responding promptly, “Two Saturdays from now.”
Argh. I hate weddings. I don’t think any man likes them. Maybe the groom, but that’s because it guarantees him pussy for life. They drag on all day, plus I have to put on a suit. Hmm, a suit, eh? Suits attract women. Weddings swarm with single women. Maybe, just maybe, this isn’t such a bad idea.