I stare over at Christian, who’s actually watching us, frowning — all these girls fawning over him, touching him, pulling his shirt for his attention. Vanna Ripley’s the worst of them all17 with her hand on his knee like it’s a permanent fixture. Then she reaches over and picks a piece of lint off of his shirt — and she does it like it’s nothing — like she’s comfortable there, like she’s always picking things off of his body, and I’m just dying. I think I’m dying. My chest feels tight. I want to cry. I hate watching her touch him. “He has a lot of ‘ just friends,’” I say out loud accidentally.
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omg
