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have after battle—and accident survivors—and crime victims too. I thought PTSD made people shout and lose it when provoked. I'd been provoking Jess since I'd slammed into her car.
If she's admitting she's still sick that means I do suck. My chest tightens. I can't swallow as I take in how her shoulders are still trembling—how she doesn't want me to notice that they are.
Foul on me for being the world's biggest jerk to the one girl who doesn't deserve anything but absolute kindness—especially from the one person that knows her real deal. By reading that list I'd torn off her face mask and shot for the goal well after the whistle had been blown.
She turns to face me and I try my best to apologize.
“Whatever you want to do—or say to me right now—hell, I deserve it, okay? I'm a complete asshole. You can even punch me, if you want. I'm not going to tell anyone about this—about you—the list—anything. It's a promise.”
Taking a deep breath, she notches her chin one inch higher. She shoots me a look that says she's not hurt, or insulted or shaking all over right in front of me. She wants me to think she doesn't care about what I've just done. The blatant vulnerability I'd seen disappears. The trembling in her arms and hands stops. The girl layers on another one of those ice-blue glowers, and fires out a wall of contempt. If I hadn't been staring directly at her the whole time—if the glower hadn't exactly matched the one she gave me from the cab of her Jeep, I might have missed it.
“Want to be my number three?” she asks, and raises both eyebrows up and down in a distracting offensive. And it works. I'm completely blindsided.
Humbled. Awed. She's got game face. Major. She's an expert at the cover-up.
After thousands of hockey games against formidable opponents, I realize I've taken Jess Jordan down, but no way is she out. More buckets of guilt and a fresh dose of self-loathing crash around me, almost bringing me to my knees.
She continues on, “What do you say, Porter? If I land the boyfriend on that list, I'm golden.” Her voice rings with reckless bravado. “You in?”
“Uh…no…no,” is all I can muster because I have no air left in my lungs.
“You don't have to look so disgusted at the idea.” She shrugs again, while my mind reels out of control. “I'm sure you have girl standards that I don't meet. Why rub that in with the bitter-lemon face?”
“I'm not making any faces. You're just—” I stop myself because I can't think of anything to say that doesn't sound hurtful. And at all costs, I vow to never willingly hurt her again. Ever.
“Go on. Just what?” she demands. “Whatever you say won't shock me.” Her tone is now so obviously self-condemning I wince as she continues, “There's thousands of ways to finish. You think I haven't heard them? Try these: I'm too bitchy to be your girlfriend, too ugly , too weird too crazy , too smart ?”
“I didn't mean that I wouldn't have you for a girlfriend,” I say gently, refusing to rise to her bait. “I meant someone else might. Girlfriends take up way too much time.”
She glances sideways through her lashes and I get the sensation she's studying my expressions. “What would my half of this job be worth to you? You said you want money. C'mon. I know there's a deal to be made here.”
I feel like I've just entered crazy land.
“There's no half . There's one job and I mean to get it. Frankly, you turning normal this summer seems to be way easier than me winning the lottery.”
“Can you be so sure you're going to get the internship?” she says, leaning closer.
“I'm almost sure,” I lie.
“The whole of this internship equals eight thousand dollars summer pay.” She reaches into her bag to pull out the crumpled normal list and hands it back to me. “I offer to work it for free, and you agree to be my fake boyfriend for the duration of the summer. How hard could it be? We'll keep it light. We won't have to use your real name. If you're