The Other Half of Me Read Online Free Page B

loose gravel by the barbecue, but then I remember Faye’s still away at her gourmet chef classes. Cupping my hand to the glass, I peer closer to see who he’s talking to. A shiver creeps over my bare arms and jean-covered legs when I see that it’s Tate Brodeur, and he’s looking up, as usual.
    Only this time it’s at me.

FOUR
    I can paint in my mind reasons why Tate Brodeur would grace my backyard with his presence:
    (1) He’s lost.
    (2) He has an urgent message from Camp Cedar for Sierra and Sage.
    (3) Now that summer is ending, he’s looking for yard work to make extra money and sees the gravel pile and dirt-encrusted rocks at the back of our yard as his chance to score big.
    Of course none of the reasons listed is the one I’m hoping is true. I make my way down the staircase, my hair wet on my neck, my pulse racing, to the backyard. From the sliding glass door at the far end of the kitchen I watch how relaxed Tate looks with Russ. They’re tossing a Nerf football back and forth as they talk. Sierra and Sage sneak a few glances at Tate and giggle.
    “Jenny!” My mom’s voice is muffled behind the sliding door until I open it and her true volume registers.
“Jennnn-y!”
    “I’m right here.” My flip-flops make funny noises as I walk onto the patio. It’s one of those entrances that make me cringe: too much attention on my arrival. I prefer to slip into a scene without much fanfare.
    “So glad you can join us!” my dad booms, gesturing at me with the tongs he uses to flip steaks or barbecued chicken, or whatever it is we’re having tonight.
    “I like your shirt,” Sierra says, and points to my tank top.
    “Dry looks good on you.” Sage laughs.
    Nice. Why is it that their snide remarks make me so annoyed? On a normal evening I might spit out a nasty retort that my parents would send me back to my room for (and without dinner, I might add). But this is not a normal evening. Tate Brodeur is a few feet away, catching passes from Russ and looking over at me.
    Maybe the reason he’s here in my backyard, decked out in his beach-worn green shorts and trashed sneakers, is the reason I didn’t have the heart to add to the list before: maybe Tate is here to see me.
    “Hey, Fitz,” Tate says.
    “Hey,” I say to him, but Russ jogs over and elbows me.
    “He means me, Jenny.” Russ’s forehead glows with sweat, and he knocks the football from Tate’s hands. “You two know each other?”
    I look at Tate directly for probably the first time ever, and he stares back. A grin spreads over his face, and I return the expression. Life is good. Tate steps forward and offers his hand. “I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced,” he says.
    Ever the host, Russ pulls me by the hand so I can shake Tate’s. “Tate Brodeur, Jenny Fitzgerald. There ya go.”
    If only Russ knew that the introduction was hardly necessary. For two years all I’ve done is fantasize about this moment.
    “Hey.” I feel my pulse speed up as our hands are about to make contact. He grips my hand, but he doesn’t turn his gaze away from me for a full five seconds. Maybe it’s less. I can’t count when I’m near him, because most of my brainpower is spent trying to resist him.
    And why must I resist him? There are several reasons. First, he’s not my type—i.e., he doesn’t wear ripped T-shirts and flaunt a knowledge of art house films, etc. Second, most people call him Bro, which is just ridiculous, and I have no idea why he allows this. Third, Tate and I could never survive as a couple at our high school, because I circulate on the periphery of the cliques. I’m what you would call a floater—not preppy enough to be a cheerleader, not bookish enough to be a wonk, not sporty enough to be a jock (not sporty in the slightest), and not bland enough to be anonymous. This last reason makes liking him pretty damn near futile.
    Still, I want to know Tate’s reason for being here more than anything. And then it’s