Every Little Thing

06

After the game has ended, Georgina and Hale disappear somewhere—I try not to imagine where or why—and I turn to Greg, saying swiftly,

"Why the hell would you do that?"

I'm surprised at my own intensity, but in my mind, it's deserved. After all, what kind of guy is that sensitive? I didn't like the way he was looking at me, I didn't like how he was flirting with me, and I didn't like that he called me "really pretty"—it's such a petty, thrown-around compliment.

Greg just holds up his hands in mock surrender, brows raised.

"Whoa, now. It's true, isn't it?"

I shake my head, getting to my feet and crossing the gravel lot, getting away from him and trying to find someone else, a girl from school or an old friend or someone.

But before I can latch onto the first vaguely-recognizable person in sight, someone catches me by the arm, causing me to spin around to face them. My heart skips a beat when I realize that it's Reed, and he's smiling gently at me.

"It was you, wasn't it? Rejecting that Greg kid."

I open my mouth to object, but fall silent instead, with a small nod. He laughs.

"How did you know?" I ask, as his hand slips from my arm, the warmth of his fingers still burned onto my skin. I try to commit the feeling to memory.

"I saw it with my own eyes. You were talking, then he said something and looked at you all flirt-like, and you turned away. Not exactly a rejection, but something that obviously hurt his pride."

"Yeah, well," I huff, "I—I wasn't interested. In him."

"Aw, but you're a really pretty girl," he says, mocking Greg's words in an over-exaggerated voice. I slap his arm, rolling my eyes at his cheeky smile even though my heart is beating so fast it deserves a speeding ticket.

"So you aren't interested in him," Reed says, running a hand through his dark hair, glinting in the glow of the fire. "Big deal. He'll get over it."

I nod, but then—out of nowhere—a sentence erupts from my lips,

"What a dick."

I say it louder than intended; several people hear me and shoot me weird looks. I clasp a hand to my mouth in horror, but Reed's head is thrown back in laughter. He laughs for a good few seconds, and when he looks back at me, his eyes are glinting with merriment.

"Oh, my God," he says, his voice slightly breathy. "You're too much to handle."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I challenge, through a mortified laugh of my own.

"You're just—" he sighs, shaking his head. "You're an opportunity."

"What?"

"You're a possibility. Like, you could be anyone you want to be-do anything you want to do—if you just gave yourself the chance. Every time I see you, you're living your life without risk, and that's fine, but if you actually took the risks, there's so much opportunity. There's so much room for freedom. Does that make any sense?"

I just look at him, unsure of what to think or what to say. I get what he means, but I don't know why he explained it or knew enough about me to make the assumption.

"Please don't be offended," he says quickly, clearly flustered. "It's a compliment, really, and I didn't mean—"

"No," I say immediately, "No, it's fine. And it's true. Yeah, I've—I've always had a problem with the whole risk-taking, living-life-to-the-fullest thing."