How to Quit Your Crush Read online

  “You could do it.”

  I startle. Anthony steps up beside me. He blocks the sun with his body, but I still feel my temperature rise. “I’d never want to try.”

  “Doesn’t mean you couldn’t do it.”

  This seems like a good time to change the subject, so I do. “What did you pick up earlier?”

  He shifts toward me and lowers his voice. “Watching me, are you?”

  “I watch everyone. I’m a very watchful person.”

  His mouth tips in a half grin. “There’s buried treasure up here.”

  I quirk an eyebrow even though he can’t see it. “You’re finding treasure? Because the rest of us are finding beer cans.”

  I think he might be quirking back at me. “Come, Watchful Person, and I’ll show you what I mean.”

  “What? Where?” His gloved hand grabs mine. Even through layers of material, I can feel the shape of his palm fitting against mine in a way that’s become too familiar. Too comfortable. “Anthony, no.”

  “I’m helping you down.”

  “That’s not how it looks.”

  “No one is looking. No one will look unless you draw attention to us.”

  “Anthony!”

  “Two minutes. This first bit is pretty steep.”

  I blow out a frustrated breath, but the truth is I don’t want to let go of his hand. Plus, I want to see what he’s going to show me. “Fine. Two minutes.”

  He leads me around the boulder, down a short vee cut into the mountain. It’s not much more than two minutes later that he stops in front of a bush growing at the base of a rock.

  My pulse spikes at the steepness of the trail, the memory of Ben talking about this trail. But probably more snakes. I look around nervously, but I’m with Anthony, and he’s not worried. “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Picking you a flower.” He crouches down and pulls up a stalk of fuzzy green leaves and purple flowers. With a flourish, he holds it out to me.

  The petals are open, a little wilted at the edges. I pull off a glove and take it; the green leaves are surprisingly soft and pillowy. “What are they?”

  “Not sure. Some kind of wildflower. They grow up out of nothing, clinging to rock and dry earth.”

  I think about that, the miracle of anything blooming out here. “How did you know they were here?”

  “I’ve been down this way.” He straightens, points to where the floor of the range spreads out beneath us. “That’s the bottom Amber was talking about.”

  “You’ve gone all the way?”

  His dimple winks at me. “I have. Want me to show you? We can hike the trail, too.”

  “Behave, Adams.”

  “Never, Senn.”

  I study the ground around us, careful to keep my weight on my back foot, closest to the ridge. I wouldn’t die if I fell, but it’s steep enough I’m not chancing it. “What kind of cactus is that?” I point to one with a rounded body covered in needles.

  “Bottle cactus.”

  “They look dangerous.”

  “There’s a reason they’ve been around for thousands of years. Good self-protection.”

  “Nature is so sensible. Everything is designed so smartly.”

  “Not so smart with humans, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He runs a finger down my forearm. “You’ve got all this soft skin. Gets burned.”

  “You get burned. I’m wearing long sleeves.” I check to be sure no one is on the trail above us. “This is not fling-time, Anthony.”

  “It should be. Flings are a part of nature.”

  “There is nothing natural about a fling.”

  “Sure, there is. Lots of species have flings.”

  I tug down my sunglasses to give him an exasperated look.

  “Giraffes are legendary for flings.”

  I add an eye roll for effect. “Liar.”

  “It’s true. The boy giraffe introduces himself to a girl giraffe by drinking her pee.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “You just said nature was a beautiful thing.”

  “It is.” I slide my sunglasses in place. “Which is why you’re making all of this up.”

  “God’s honest truth. Not the fling part, but the pee part. My brother, Troy, learned that little fact in fifth grade when information like that was gold. See,” he adds. “Flinging with me can be very educational. Try not to be too impressed.”

  I groan, but I have to turn away to hide a smile.

  “So what time tonight?” he asks.

  “Six at the library. And dress up.”

  “We’re dressing up?” he asks sharply.

  “I’m not. But you should because it’ll make you more uncomfortable.”

  He stares a second and then laughs. “Oh, Killer.”

  “What?”

  “If you weren’t such a pain in my ass, I’d kiss you right now.”

  “If you weren’t such a pain in my ass, I’d let you.”

  I start up the path, his low laugh trailing behind me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mai

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  I note the expression on Anthony’s face and decide it would be fun coming up with a few adjectives for him. Glum. Glowering. Appalled. I silently congratulate myself on tonight’s plan.

  On the drive over, Anthony tried to get the location out of me. I refused to ruin the surprise. He finally gave up and turned on the radio—something rap. I stopped that in a hurry and made him listen to Soft Sounds, my favorite station. I lectured him on the calming influence of music on brain waves. He called me a zombie.

  The night is off to an excellent start.

  Now, we’re standing outside the store, underneath a striped awning, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla in the air. It’s only six o’clock, so plenty of light to see the misery on Anthony’s face.

  “A kitchen supply store is bad enough. But this?” He points to the sign propped on an easel beside the front door.

  cooking with chemistry. free class tonight.

  I smile.

  He scowls. “Someone found a way to ruin cooking?”

  “Not ruin it. Enhance it. Shine a light on the chemical processes that make cooking possible.”

  “Like I said, ruin it.”

  With a wave of my hand, I head for the front door. “Follow me.” The store is a colorful maze of high-end cooking things. It smells even better in here. Like eggnog. Anthony’s flip-flops slap the tile behind me. He didn’t dress up. He dressed very…down. In fact, I stop to face him.

  “What?” he asks. He shoves back his hair, ruffling it in the process. Of course he has the annoying kind of hair that looks good messed up.

  I bite back a sigh and straighten my spine. “You’re looking especially grungy tonight. Is that stain on your shirt recent or did you just not bother to wash it?”

  “Oh, it’s clean. Want to smell?” He steps close, and I have to hold up a hand. Fine, so he does smell really good. But the stain is still hideous.

  “I was wearing this shirt when I cut my arm one day,” he says. “Got blood all over the front. It brings back bad memories. Thought it would be perfect for tonight.”

  He gives me a dimpled smile.

  I raise an eyebrow—and my chin. I gesture to the plain black tee I’m wearing over a pair of white capris. “You see this shirt?” I ask. “I was wearing this the day I got notified of my National Merit Scholarship.”

  “How special,” he says drily. “You sure you want to risk it getting dirty?”

  “Oh, I’ve won an award with pretty much everything I own.”

  His eyes spark with laughter. “Your humility is—”

  “Endearing?”

  “Not the word I was
looking for.”

  “Because you pick terrible adjectives.” I wave him onward. “It’s just through here.” I pull aside a curtain and reveal a room that’s been outfitted into a full commercial kitchen complete with stainless steel appliances and two cooktops.

  “How did you know about this?” Anthony asks.

  “My mom’s brought me and Ethan here for other classes. The Mystery of Marinades was especially fascinating.”

  He groans as the instructor heads our way in an apron with the store’s logo. She’s a pretty woman with silvery hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a waistline that says she enjoys eating as much as cooking. “I’m Rita. Welcome.” She points to two elderly women with puffy white hair and wide smiles. “This is Dot and Barb.”

  “Mai and Anthony,” I say, making the introductions.

  “We’re glad to have you,” Rita says. “It’s just going to be the four of you tonight, and you’re in for a treat. We’ll be spending the next hour exploring the chemistry of sugar and the chemical reactions at each stage of heat. Doesn’t that sound marvelous?”

  Anthony groans again.

  I elbow him in the ribs.

  “We’ll also be baking cookies and using our sugar experiment to create a crème brûlée topping.”

  “Now we’re talking,” Anthony says.

  Barb smiles at me. “A reluctant participant?” She’s got a hint of southern in her voice.

  “I’m expanding his world,” I say.

  Dot laughs, her face creasing into a thousand wrinkles. “The things a boy will do for a pretty girl.”

  “Oh.” I shake my head. “It’s not like that.”

  Anthony leans forward and winks at the ladies. “It’s exactly like that.”

  They laugh, and I turn pink. Even Rita is smiling at Anthony now.

  “You hold on to that one, honey,” Barb says.

  “Yes,” Anthony agrees with a teasing note. “Hold on to me.”

  I elbow him again while they break out into full-on laughter. He turns everything into a joke. I remind myself why this would be annoying if we were really together. But it’s hard not to laugh along with the others.

  “All right,” Rita says, still smiling. “We’d better get started.” She leads us all to a sink to wash our hands, and then we gather around the cooktop. She’s got a heavy pot on a burner and tips it to show us the sugar already in the pot. “We’re going to start with these lovely clean, white granular crystals, and we’re going to end up with a brown, bubbly substance that looks and tastes nothing like what we’re starting with. How?” she asks and then answers her own question. “Chemistry.”

  She turns on the heat. “It must have seemed like magic to the first people who applied heat to sugar, but that’s the joy of chemistry. It explains the process in a logical way.”

  “I kind of like the magic,” Anthony says.

  Rita stirs more sugar into the bowl. “But once you understand the chemistry behind something, you can repeat the process as often as you want. You’re able to control it. Isn’t that better than magic?”

  I meet his eyes, waiting for his response to that.

  “You can control chemistry?”

  I know he means this. Us.

  “If you take the time to analyze,” Rita says. “Study.”

  His eyes slide to my mouth. Goose bumps spring up along my forearms. “Not that kind of study,” I hiss.

  Rita takes the sugar through each phase of heat, and we watch the chemical changes until it begins to caramelize. When it’s brown and bubbly, she shows us the results. “That’s what you’re looking for. Caramelization happens at what temperature?”

  I raise my hand. “Three hundred twenty degrees.”

  “Excellent, Mai. You’ll all want to remember because you’re about to create your own caramelized sugar for a topping on cookies.”

  Anthony perks up at the mention of cookies.

  Rita points to the two stations already set up. “For the sake of time, the dough has already been mixed. Lay your cookies out on the baking sheet, and while they’re in the oven, you’ll caramelize sugar to pour over the top.”

  Dot and Barb move to one side of the kitchen, and I lead Anthony to the station at the other side.

  He reaches into the bowl of cold dough and grabs out a finger full. “Anthony!”

  “What?” He sucks in the dough and smacks his lips. “I washed my hands.”

  “There’s raw egg in there.”

  “So?”

  “It’s full of bacteria.”

  “I’ll take the risk.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “Are we fighting over cookie dough?” A mischievous smile appears. He takes his finger and deliberately sticks it back in the dough.

  “Anthony!” I smack his arm. “That time your finger wasn’t clean.”

  “Mmm,” he says, swallowing. “So what? Everyone double dips.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You put your cheesy fingers back into the bag when you eat Cheetos.”

  “I don’t lick them in between!”

  He rolls his eyes. “You’ve kissed me, Mai. Multiple times. If I have germs, you’ve already gotten them.”

  “That’s not the point. You aren’t respecting the process.”

  “Because I tasted the dough?”

  “Because you don’t follow the rules. Not even when it comes to making cookies.” I scoot the bowl out of his reach, upset to realize that I’m upset.

  “What’s it matter? We’re still going to have cookies.”

  “It matters to me! You won’t even make the effort for something as silly as cookies.” And, a little voice inside whispers, you won’t make the effort for me.

  I’m slapping chunks of dough on a cookie sheet when Rita appears at my shoulder, her voice concerned. “Is everything all right here?”

  “Yes,” I say, trying to slow my breath. I shouldn’t be surprised or disappointed. This is who Anthony is. I’m not going to change him. That’s why I’m getting over him. “We’re fine. It’s good.”

  When she turns away, Anthony leans in. “Not everything has to be about rules, Mai. Some things are just fun. And good. Like raw cookie dough.”

  “And some things require care and patience and commitment. Like using high heat to create a chemical reaction.” I give him a pointed stare. “You couldn’t answer her question about the right temperature, could you?”

  “Because you don’t have to know,” he says. “You can see it in the pot. When the sugar turns a pretty color of brown, it’s done.”

  “You are so…” I bite off my words as I take the tray of cookies, open the oven, and set it in. But I’m so quick, I miss the shelf, and the tray tips. I straighten it but not before my hand hits the oven rack. An instant later, I feel the hot flash of pain.

  “Ow,” I mutter. I slam the oven door and pull my throbbing hand to my chest.

  “Are you all right?” Rita is immediately by my side.

  Anthony already has a hand on my elbow. “I got her.” He leads me to the sink, and there are tears at the corner of my eyes, and I’m not even sure why. “I’m fine.”

  “Let’s get some cold water on that.” He uncurls my hand, and we can both see the stripe of red burned into the side of my hand. “It’s all right. Not too bad. Stuff like this happens all the time.”

  “Not to me,” I say. “Accidents like this never happen to me. I’m always careful. Methodical.” I look at him. “It’s being around you. We’re a disaster together.”

  He surprises me by smiling and turns up his own hand and the scrapes he got coming to my rescue yesterday. “We kind of are. Matching injuries.”

  “And it’s only been a day.”

  “We should wear life preservers from now on.”

  I let more water
wash over my hand. “Don’t make me smile.”

  Rita comes back around. “I hope this won’t spoil the date for you two.”

  “Oh, it’s definitely spoiled,” Anthony says cheerfully.

  I brush at my eyes and laugh.

  Rita stares at us a second and turns away muttering, “Kids these days.”

  …

  It’s only seven thirty when we pull up to the library. Not even dark. I’ll have time to do more research, I tell myself. It’ll be better than arguing with Anthony and sustaining another injury. Except it doesn’t sound better at all.

  Anthony turns off the car and leans back in his seat. Quiet settles around us. A tree shades the car and makes it feel like we’re somewhere remote. Alone. He nods at my hand. “How is it?”

  I run fingers lightly down the puckered skin. “It hurts.”

  “Best thing is to run cool water over it.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “I’ve had burns before.”

  “Setting dumpster fires?” I suggest.

  His eyebrows lift. “You think I’m that bad?”

  “I like to think the worst of you. It’s helpful.”

  A tiny smile plays around his mouth. “I try to think the worst about you, too. And then you smile at me.”

  “Inappropriate fling comment.”

  “Yeah. I keep having those.”

  “But it was a bad date, right?” I ask. “In every possible way?”

  “Even worse than I expected,” he agrees. “A cooking class and I didn’t get any food. Even the cookies were terrible.”

  “Because you didn’t pay attention to the thermometer and you burned our sugar.”

  “Who wants to cook sugar anyway? It’s good just the way it is.”

  “See?” I say as if this is the final piece of proof. “We have nothing in common.”

  “I know.” He shrugs. “So maybe we should end this now.” His smile fades, leaving an assessing look in his eyes I’m not sure I like.

  I smooth my hair self-consciously. “What?”

  “I was just testing myself.”

  “What kind of a test?”

  “To see if I was, uh, done with having inappropriate thoughts.”

  “Oh.” My throat is suddenly dry. My gaze drifts to his mouth. “And are you?”