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."

"Everyone has." he says, with a small smile, "It's getting past it that counts. A risk in and of itself."

I smile back at him, shaking my head.

"French poetry, metaphors, risk-taking—there's a lot more to you than meets the eye, you know that?"

The ease I feel with him is surreal, and he seems to feel it, too, because he responds with,

"Same goes for you."

"What, so I'm more than a pretty girl?" I flick my hair over shoulder teasingly, recycling the old joke because there's way too much heat in my face and I'm running out of things to say, even though I want to keep talking to him.

Thankfully, he just laughs.

"Granted, there's that," he says, and I try to ignore my stomach, flipping and flopping all over the place. "But yeah, there's more. Like opportunity and humor and, quite unfortunately for me, a fantastic French accent."

"Vraiment?" I ask, fighting back my smile.

"Oui m'dame." he says, and then, "Toutes les belles femmes le font."

Oh, my God, he's flirting with me. Reed Bishop is flirting with me. In French.

I just laugh at his words, retorting with a swift, "Et les beaux homes?"

"Je ne le saurais pas. Je ne suis pas un."

"C'est un mensonge," I scoff, to which he replies,

"La beauté est dans l'oeil du spectateur."

"Maybe," I concede, switching back to English (only because I'm having trouble keeping up with his French), "But you should take a compliment."

"Then thank you," Reed says, shaking his head with a small smile. There's a pause in which we both just look each other, but the silence is broken when he says,

"Well, Miss Opportunity—when are you going to take that first risk?"

"I don't know," I reply, staying coy, "Maybe soon. Maybe a few years from now. Maybe never."

He holds up a finger, silencing me.

"Sorry, but that's not happening."

"What?"

"You're going to take a risk at some point. Not never. Sure, it might be a long time from now, but it's gonna happen. I won't allow otherwise."

"You won't be able to keep track of me for that long," I point out, and he raises his brows.

"Who says? I might get your number and call you every single day for the rest of your life, repeating only one single question-'Hello, Evelyn. Have you taken a risk today?', to which you will reply, 'Hello, Reed. No, I haven't.', and we'll repeat this cycle until your answer changes to 'yes', and then I will stop bothering you and you can rest in peace."

I laugh. "Fine, but what happens if I block your number? Or if I'm lying?"

"Easy," he replies, not even missing a beat, "If you block my number, I call using my house phone, my friend's phones, hell, even that Greg kid's phone. And if you're lying, I'll ask you several questions in a very short amount of time, and if you seem flustered or fail to answer them correctly, I'll know."

"Hm," I say finally, trying my hardest not to laugh and tapping my chin in mock thought, "Seems like an extremely flawed plan."

"All of them are, honey," he says, and then winces. "Ugh. Sorry for the overused pet name."

I shake my head. "As long as it never comes out of your mouth again, don't mention it."

He crosses an "X" over his chest and replies, "Promise."

I'm about to respond, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Georgina. She's arm-in-arm with Hale—her makeup isn't smeared, her hair isn't tousled. She looks just like she did when we arrived, which causes the fist in my stomach to unclench ever-so-slightly. Although I'm not sure how I feel about Hale, I know she's safe.

"Georgie's here," I tell Reed, with an apologetic smile, "I think we're going to head out."

"Oh, okay," he says, and I swear there's a look of disappointment that crosses his face. But after a second, there's a smile that replaces it. "See you tomorrow, then."

"Au Revoir." I reply, and the grin grows wider, quirking up one side of his face.

I walk over to Georgie, watching as Hale leans down to grant her a kiss goodbye, which causes her to practically melt. While she's smiling like an i***t, I glance over my shoulder at Reed, who's watching them, too. I offer up a smile, and he makes a gagging motion that causes a laugh to escape my lips, just barely.

He winks and turns away, walking off to a group of friends, while I wait for mine to finish up with her newfound lover.