Page 5 of Chasing Chase London, Part 8: Valentines Day

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“Daria”–Splendora

“What did you do to your hair?” Chase asks, a pained expression on his face as he stops at my locker on Monday morning.

“I got it straightened.”

“But I love your curls,” he says, still with the look.

I try to shake off the jittery feeling I get from being the focus of his attention.

“Your girlfriend doesn’t have curly hair,” I point out, trying to toss my hair over my shoulder like Daria. Weirdo that I am, I overreach and end up scratching my nail against my neck.

Note to self: Practice hair toss.

Chase catches my hand and tugs it down. “Don’t do that,” he says, looking genuinely pained now.

He doesn’t let go of my hand, but I wrench it from his grasp. I’m on thin ice already. I can’t have Lindsey seeing us holding hands.

Undeterred, Chase slings an arm casually around my shoulders. Then he pulls my head to him and says into my ear, “Don’t try to be like Lindsey. Please.”

I suck in a breath, startled at the intensity of the electricity coursing through my body when his mouth brushes my ear.

“Chase,” I warn, my head swimming with his nearness, his masculine scent, the sensation of his strong body against mine.

“You’re a hundred times sexier,” he murmurs, his voice deep and seductive.

Gathering all the strength that remains in my melting body, I shove his chest. He slowly slides away from me, an infuriatingly teasing look in his eyes as his hand casually makes its way over the back of my neck, my shoulder, and finally, down my arm.

What the hell? How can he say things like that to me?

Either he has no idea the effect he has on me, or he does, and he’s making the most of it. Either way he’s completely out of line. He said this wouldn’t happen anymore. No more inappropriate flirting.

“You said you’d stop all this,” I say, finding my voice and my senses at the same moment.

I look away from his piercing blue eyes, sparkling with wit. I hate myself for the flutter in my stomach I still get whenever he’s around. He makes it so hard.

“I have no memory of that,” he says, brushing my hair away from my cheek and winding one long, straight strand behind my ear. “I said we shouldn’t be alone together. I can’t trust you not to use your seductive charms on me.” He leans against the locker next to mine, a casual smirk on his face.

My skin prickles deliciously where he touched my cheek. I turn to face my locker so he can’t see how flushed I am. “I don’t think I have those,” I mumble.

“Oh, you do.”

“Chase…”

“I never said I wouldn’t talk to you,” he points out. “I mean, I’m still your friend, even if you’re dying to get in my pants.”

I promised myself I’d stop all this silliness, for Lindsey if not for myself, but my body just doesn’t seem to care what I promised.

It’s not listening to anything my mind is saying.

No matter how conflicted I feel, how torturous it is to be around Chase and Lindsey, never knowing and always wanting, my heart doesn’t care.

It just wants more. My body craves his touch the way an alcoholic craves a drink, with a want bordering on need, a need bordering on pain.

Suddenly I understand Daria all too well.

At work that night, I get warned about all my absences. I don’t even care anymore, but I insist I was sick over the weekend. It’s not a total lie. Lovesickness counts, right?

As if it’s karma for lying, I get sick for real right afterwards.

I spend the two days before Valentine’s Day with my head in the toilet.

I’m secretly relieved I don’t have to worry about having a boyfriend for the big day, or how many candy grams I get at school, or helping Lindsey and Daria pick out dresses for their dates.

Mom brings me soup dutifully, oblivious to the fact that she’ll probably catch my virus by coming near. She never seems to care about that when one of her kids is sick. It makes me forgive her a little for all her horribleness this year—and feel guilty for my part in it.

Valentines’ Day afternoon she brings me a huge bouquet of roses and a big box of fancy chocolates.

I’m a little better today, but the thought of chocolate is enough to turn my stomach.

My heart skips a beat when I see a card sticking out of the roses, though.

It’s just like Chase to give me something completely extravagant and boyfriendish.

I hate myself for wanting them to be from my friend’s boyfriend. Why would he get me something for Valentine’s? It’s a holiday for couples, for giving things to the person you love. Still, I have to squelch my disappointment when I read the card.

Sky,

I’m still sorry. Please forgive me.

Love, Todd.

“He’s downstairs,” Mom says. “Do you want to see him?”

“No,” I say, sinking back against the pillows. I’m still weak, and I look like hell. But when Daria texts that she wants to come over that evening, I tell her to come. As long as Lindsey doesn’t see me like this, I don’t care what girls think of my wan appearance.

“Nice flowers,” Daria says, leaning down to sniff them. “Who from?”

I can tell by the too-casual way she asks that this is fodder for the gossip mill.

“Todd,” I say, handing her the card.

“Ooh, ‘ Love , Todd,’ That’s big.”

“He didn’t say he loves me,” I point out. “Wait, did he?”

“No, but it’s like, the step before telling you.” She pauses and rummages through her purse. “I got something like that from Brandon.”

She hands me a card. I take it out and read it. Brandon actually writes “I love you” at the end of his.

“Are you guys back together?” I ask, suddenly annoyed with myself for getting sick and missing school. “What else have I missed?”

“Nah, he’s still hung up on me though,” she says, looking quite pleased with herself. “Actually, I’m thinking about going out with Oliver.”

“What?” I squeak.

“What?” she asks back, widening her eyes.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just, you won’t sleep with someone your friend has slept with, but you’ll date Colin’s brother ?”

I wonder briefly if it’s because he’s the closest thing to Colin she can get, or if it’s because of all the guys she could date, dating his brother would piss off Colin the most.

She shrugs. “He hasn’t slept with any of my friends. I asked around.”

“Okay, but you should know that Oliver is, um, saving himself.”

“For what?” she asks, checking her reflection in my mirror.

“Marriage?”

“Seriously?” she asks, wheeling around and gaping at me. “Wow, I am getting all kinds of good stuff from you today. You need to be sick more often if it makes you divulge all your secrets. Quick question, though. How do you know this?”

“Isn’t it common knowledge? I thought everyone knew. I kind of thought that’s why he didn’t have a girlfriend.”

“No,” she says slowly. “So why’d he tell you?”

“I don’t know, maybe because I haven’t done it either?”

“He told you because you both have your V-card?” she asks. “Like some sort of celibacy club?”

“I would not be surprised if he started one. He’s all gung-ho about it.”

She regards me with suspicion. “He just, like, told you this one day?”

I shrug, avoiding her gaze. “I guess he heard that I was too. Thanks to you.”

“Lame,” she says, tossing her hair back and turning to the mirror again, clearly bored with the subject. “Guess he wouldn’t date me then. If Colin keeps being a dick, though, I might get back together with Brandon. He got me these.” She leans over to show me a pair of diamond teardrop earrings.

“Oh, yeah, shit,” I say, sitting up straight. “It’s Valentines. Why aren’t you out with Colin?”

“We had our date early,” she says. “They have band practice tonight. You know how guys are about this stuff.”

“Actually I don’t,” I mutter.

“They never think about Valentines ahead of time,” she says.

“None of the guys in the band can have dates tonight because they scheduled a practice. Besides, you’re sick and you need cheering up.

Speaking of, I brought your candy grams. You got six!

” She pulls a handful of boxes of candy hearts from her purse and drops them onto my lap, each one with a little red note attached.

“Thanks,” I say. “Is that a good amount, or is it pathetic? How many did Lindsey get?”

“Six is a respectable number,” she says. “And considering people can buy as many as they want, it’s not really that special, so I wouldn’t even worry about it as long as you get some. Now when it’s time for prom roses, that’s when it really gets interesting.”

“Spill.”

She gives a little squeal of excitement and a flurry of claps.

It’s good to see her acting like her usual self again after the crying incident.

“Okay, so,” she says, clapping her hands together a final time.

“Prom roses are sold by student council during prom week. Every student can only buy one, and they’re delivered during homeroom.

But they don’t have tags, so only student council knows who sent them.

Unless someone tells you they’re sending you one, and then you have to take their word for it. ”

“That sounds like a recipe for drama.”

“Oh my god, so much drama,” she says with a gleeful grin. “Last year, someone actually stole the logbook to find out who sent everyone roses. I heard they’re locking it up this year.”

“Wow.”

“I mean, if a guy gives you his one rose , it’s like, a thing.

Also there’s friend drama, because they have red and white ones, and basically, you can buy a red one to say you like someone, or a white one to say friendship.

So if the guy you’re talking to gives you a white rose when you were expecting red… You can see where this is going.”

“Yeah,” I say with a grimace. “Though you wouldn’t know it was from him…”

“You’d know he didn’t send you a red one,” she points out. “Or if someone you thought was a friend sends you a red one instead of white, it basically means he likes you. Or if you send a guy a red one, it means you’re down to fuck.”

“Sounds complicated.”

She laughs and waves a hand. “Just don’t do that. Oh! Or do!” She wiggles her brows at me.

“Pass.”

“Of course not everyone buys one. Some people think it’s elitist or whatever, but they’re just jealous. If you get one, you put it on your locker door all week so people will see that a guy likes you. So you definitely need to get one if you’re in our group.”

“Great,” I mutter.

“Don’t worry, girls send each other the white ones, so even if a guy doesn’t give you one, a bestie might. The red ones are more important, obvi, but a white one is still respectable. You just want to make sure you have at least one, or everyone will think you’re a loser that no one likes.”

“So what you’re saying is that I need to send a white rose to Lindsey during prom week.”

She laughs and drops onto my pull-out bed, which squeaks in protest. “That too,” she admits.

“It’s going to be a big deal to see who she gives hers to this year.

Last year I swear people were more obsessed with that than who won prom queen.

Anyway, let’s watch something. Are you allowed to see Magic Mike ? ”

“What do you think?” I ask, rolling my eyes.

“Lame,” she says. “Then let’s watch something with Ryan Gosling.”

So we do. We watch a movie and eat candy hearts and giggle about how bad they taste and what they say.

I ignore the fact that Daria keeps checking her phone, obviously hoping Colin will text when he’s done with practice.

I ignore the tiny voice in my head that whispers that if we really got to give our best friend our one prom rose, I wouldn’t give mine to Lindsey.

Even more traitorous, I wonder who else only gives one to her because they’re too afraid to give it to anyone else. Would Daria give hers to me too?