As much as I hate to admit it, Shane’s story is believable. He is not a liar, not a gossip, and Ty admitted himself that he is more than happy to throw fists instead of settling things with a civil conversation.
But the drug deal? No way, Jose. Ty lives healthy, eats clean and hated it when I smoked pot, so much so that he’s probably a big part of why I decided to quit. He’s not a drug user. No freaking way.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“At first I didn’t want to make a fuss. I figured this guy would get the fuck out of your life before you even blinked. Then when I realized you were spending more and more time with him, I didn’t want you to think I was saying something because I was jealous. But it's not about me. It's about you."
My phone starts buzzing in my hand, and I turn the sound off immediately. I know it’s Ty. I recognize his ringtone—“My Soul Is Empty And Full of White Girls” by Slaves, his all-time favorite song that I introduced to him.
Shane shakes his head. The phone is still buzzing, but his eyes are screaming at me not to answer. And I don’t. I just glance at Shane, my phone, and then Shane again.
"Ask him about it, okay, B? I care about you."
I know he does. Because he sees me. Like Ty said. They both do. I take a step back from Shane.
"Fine. And Shane? Please don't try to hit on me again." I rub my flushed cheeks.
That's it. I kept my promise to Ty, my loyalty to Izzy, and it feels...well, it sucks.
Shane looks up at the sky and sighs in frustration. "Talked to Izzy?"
I shrug. "You don't want me, dude. And that's fine, I don't do blonds who aren't Charlie Hunnam. But don't do anything just for the sake of crushing Izzy. I won't ever forgive you."
Shane looks tongue-tied. The tables have turned. Now I'm the one preaching to him.
He opens his mouth, his stormy-blue eyes laser-focused on mine. "I'm not —" he starts, but I learned a good trick from the master of mind-games.
I stop him mid-sentence, my hand on his heaving chest. "I'm going to kiss you now. If you truly want me—me and not my sister—give me your lips. If not, turn your cheek." I pause, biting at the corner of my lip as I contemplate my next sentence. "And I'll still be your friend."
I tiptoe to Shane, and I'm smiling, confident that he'll do the right thing. This is my best friend, here. He always does the right thing.
Third grade—Izzy and I got our hands on a pair of scissors and gave him the worst haircut in human history. He didn't rat, even when he got into so much trouble.
Sixth grade—he stood up to a bully at school, even though he didn't even know Liz Shudell, the girl who got victimized by the turd ass who wouldn't let her walk the hallways in peace.
Junior year—he turned down one of the hottest girls in high school because she was drunk when she tried getting it on with him.
Senior year—guess who he took to prom? That's right, Rhonda Chan, who was in a wheelchair at the time and crazy bummed about it.
Now, we're grown-ups (sort of) standing on a campus sidewalk and getting attention, for sure, but I still trust Shane like I did in third grade. I close my eyes, my lips reaching for his skin. I smile when I feel the one-day stubble on his cheek. He didn't act on it. He is not mine.
Well, he is, but now I know he is Izzy's too.
Shane looks all kinds of pissed off, his lips thin and his forehead wrinkled, when he picks up the content of his bag.
"Thank you for the money, by the way. You shouldn't have covered for him. But you did. You always do."
"It was a misunderstanding," I admit.
"Yeah, there seems to be a lot of those whenever Ty is around."
"Jesus, Shane," I look away, not really wanting to face him. Why does he always do this recently? Rain on my parade when all I want is to dance in the puddles.
"Talk to your boyfriend, B," he grunts in annoyance.
"He is not my boyfriend." I actually twirl when I walk toward my final exam, the last one before I’m done with my degree, and send him a cheerful smile.
"Whatever, dude. Just do it."
***
After my test, I try my best to make a beeline out of the building and back to the Mini, but as it happens, I’m graceful as a blind elephant and manage to make a lot of noise stumbling in the hallway and dropping my phone on the floor. I hear Professor Penniman’s voice from an open door down the hall.