Just My Luck by Adele Parks (best interesting books to read TXT) 📕

my hand when he pushes me up against a tree. The bark scratches my bare shoulders and back, but I don’t care because his tongue is down my throat. He’s kissing me hard and I know what this sort of kissing means. I’m glad. I kiss him back. Just as hard, our teeth bang and our tongues clash as though they’ve forgotten how to move with each other, but I don’t stop. I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull his head toward me so he can’t stop, either. His hands are running up and down my body. It seems neither of us have forgotten how good that is. His kisses make everything else just fall away, as though there is just us up against one of those green screens they use in movie making, our own space to create of it what we will. A moment ago, I could hear the party blaring in the background—the DJ, the fairground rides, shrieking and laughter. Now there is no sound except our breathing, heavy and fast. Someone has hit the mute button on the world’s remote, and there is nothing to see, my eyes are closed, all there is is him. His touch. His warmth. His presence.

After a bit, I know I have to ask. I don’t want to. I want to carry on with his lips on mine, with his hands exploring my body, but I have some self-respect and so I break my mouth away from his. He just attaches his to my neck, to my ears, to my arms and face. His breath is warm and perfect. I can smell beer and toffee apples on him. His fingers are edging into the leg on my leotard. Panting, I ask, “So, Evie Clarke then?”

He stops kissing for a moment to face me and grins. “Jealous?” I am, obviously, but can’t see it would help to admit it.

“Curious,” I say. I’m pretty pleased with that retort. I think I sound witty and sophisticated, not quite as anxious and worried as I am. He shrugs. If I didn’t love him so much, I’d say he looked dumb. Or maybe embarrassed. I freeze, understanding this even through the haze of alcohol and lust.

I thought he’d say she was nothing. He’s not saying she’s nothing.

Which means she is something. The latest thing. But then, he was just a second ago kissing me. I block out the memory of him standing at the door of the school toilets while Megan slapped and kicked me. I try not to think about him taking photos of me with my knickers around my ankles. He starts to look about him, he seems confused. Almost as though he’s suddenly unsure as to how he came to be alone in the woods with me, as though he’s forgotten he was the one who took my hand and practically dragged me here.

“I’m really drunk,” I say. I’ve heard people say this, by way of an excuse, when they’ve done something they regret or when they want to do something they know they shouldn’t and are already making excuses even before it’s happened. And sometimes people say it just because it fills a gap in conversation, and they can’t think of what else to say. I’m not sure which of these applies to me. Maybe all of them. The ease between Ridley and me has been hacked apart. He’s nervous and jumpy and can’t look at me. I want him to look at me more than anything in the world, because my costume is cool and I had my makeup done professionally and if ever there was a time for him to want me, it is now.

“I’m pregnant.”

So now he looks at me. His head snaps around so damn quickly I think it is going to fall off. I expect to see some level of regret or sympathy, maybe even excitement, or is that too much? All I see is rage.

“You are fucking lying.” His voice breaks on the word fucking. Which—’cause I’m drunk—makes me sort of want to laugh. Laugh for two reasons, I mean, one, his voice is still unreliable and he’s going to be a daddy. Plus two, the word fucking is definitely the pertinent one here. We had sex, more than once, now there’s a baby coming. It doesn’t take Einstein. My brain is thinking this, but lots of other stuff, too. Once again I feel like I’m floating above this conversation, not really in it. It’s too much. I guess I’m technically hysterical.

I shake my head, try to focus. “It’s true. I took a test.”

“Fuck.” He drops into a low crouch. Goes down like he’s been shot. Balancing on his feet, his elbows resting on his haunches, his shoulders bent, head in his hands, he stares at the ground. It’s a familiar stance. He squats like this when his team loses a match. “Fuck,” he says again.

“It’s okay,” I say. Although I don’t think it is. I don’t want to be a mum. I’m too young. We’ve just won the lottery and I’ve bought all those cool clothes. I won’t be able to get into them because I’ll get fat. But on the other hand, we’ve just won the lottery and I am sixteen in a few weeks so maybe it could be okay. If Ridley wanted the baby. If he wanted me. I crouch down next to him. Very close. Our heads are almost touching. I want to put my hand on his back. Stroke him. Comfort him. I start to, but daren’t, not quite. My hand hovers near his skin but not on it. I can feel the heat coming off him. It drives me mad.

I hear him mumble something, but it’s tricky to make out exactly what. I’m swaying—crouching in heels after debut-vodka-chugging is hard. He repeats himself, clearer this time. “I don’t want this.”

“This?” I ask, dying.

“You. A baby. This.” He looks straight at me now. Arrows fly from his eyes