Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [45]
“Yes, but I imagined us taking our time and taking a totally crazy, indirect route. We would camp out in the Grand Canyon. Hike in the Rocky Mountains. Swim in the Great Lakes. Try on wigs in Dollywood. Eat pretzels with the Amish. Whatever!”
“We can still do that . . .”
“And I imagined us being alone.”
“I thought you'd enjoy spending time with Bridget and Percy,” he said.
“I'd enjoy spending more time with you,” I said. “Alone.”
“You're implying that I'm somehow trying to upset you here, which is not my intention, Jessica. So we'll jettison Bridget and Pepe. Does that make it a better proposition?”
“It makes it a better proposition, but still not a possible one.”
“Jessica,” Marcus repeated. And then he said some other stuff that I didn't really listen to because I was thinking about how Marcus is the only person who calls me Jessica. Everyone else calls me Jessie (my parents), Jess (anyone who knew me in high school), or J (anyone who met me in college). I was thinking about how if you say Jessica over and over again—jessicajessicajessica—it starts to sound like gajussgajussgajuss. And “gajuss” means nothing.
“What are you afraid of?” Marcus asked, breaking through my thoughts.
What am I afraid of? Why should I be afraid to spend uninterrupted time with my boyfriend? Is it because more time means more opportunities for him to change his mind about me, like he does about everything else?
Or for me to change my mind about him . . . ?
“Jessica?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “Nothing at all.”
the eighteenth
So one happy couple is going on a cross-country adventure. But it isn't Marcus and me. And it isn't Pepe and Bridget, either.
It's Marcus and Bridget.
I am, apparently, the only one who sees anything sketchy about this. And my paranoia made me do something I'm not proud of. I went over to Bridget's house and interrogated her.
“So . . . uh . . . are you and Marcus going to stay in the same hotel room together?” I fished.
“Probably,” she said. “It's cheaper.”
“Are twin beds cheaper than a queen?”
“Jess, you're not serious, are you?” she asked. “Marcus is, like, totally not my type.”
“Well, wiry black guys weren't your type before you hooked up with Percy.”
“Need I remind you how, like, upset I was when Manda slept with my boyfriend?”
I slumped to the pink carpet, beat down by it all. “I'm sorry, Bridget. I'm just . . .”
“Jealous,” Bridget said, finishing my thought.
“I'm not jealous of you!” I protested weakly, not even bothering to get up off the floor. “You can't date someone with his history and get jealous all the time.” I conveniently neglected to mention the Sierra episode. And also that I was a dirty liar.
Bridget set down the straightening iron she was about to put in her suitcase. “You're not jealous of me, but the chance to go with him.”
And I responded by drawing my legs up to my chest and resting my head between my knees. She was right. By going on this trip—one that I turned down—Bridget would be spending more uninterrupted alone time with Marcus than I ever had.
What was wrong with me?
“Look, if it upsets you that much, I'll fly out to California. I wanted to drive so I could save money—I need new headshots—but if it's going to hurt you, I won't do it.”
Girls want to hate Bridget because she's so goddamn gorgeous. Hell, I used to hate her for it. But she is the most trustworthy person I know. I attribute this to the fact that she wasn't always so stunning; I mean, she'd always been cute, but she didn't blossom into an eye-popping beauty until the summer before seventh grade, when the removal of orthodontia miraculously coincided with the addition of boobage. She had more than a decade to actually develop a soul, unlike girls who are born beautiful and never bother because they don't have to. But how do I reward her loyalty? By ignoring her. Doubting her. Accusing her of the worst.
“Bridget, I'm so sorry we didn't really hang out this summer,” I said.
She twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “I know