Текст книги "Fall Into Forever"

Автор книги: Beth Hyland

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

My cheeks heat up. My scalp tingles.

I can’t tell if I just made him mad or if he’s trying to figure out whether or not I’m telling him the truth. He puts a hand on the wall next to my head and leans in close. My heartbeat is seriously pounding against my eardrums right now—so loud that I can hardly hear.

“I think you think there’s something going on between Sara and me, am I right?”

He smells minty, like he’s been chewing gum. And soapy, like he just washed his hands. It’s cool—really cool—that he doesn’t smell of strong aftershave or cologne.

I don’t answer.

“There’s not,” he says. “I was waiting for friends and she invited herself to my table. But if you don’t believe me, check out who she’s dancing with now.”

He moves just enough so that I can see Sara on the dance floor. And yeah. She’s Channing all over some dude’s Tatum.

“That’s my friend James,” he explains. “He’s hoping to get lucky tonight.”

It certainly looks like that’s where it’s headed.

Jon turns his attention back to me. “So, do I get to kiss the birthday girl?”

At the word kiss, my gaze drops to his mouth. Forget what I said about being able to hear my heart pounding against my eardrums. I’m pretty sure it stopped beating altogether just now. His bottom lip is fuller than his upper lip, and I wonder how it would feel moving against my own.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?” God, that sounds lame. I blame the Buttery Nipple.

He flattens his other palm on the wall next to my head, caging me in without touching me. His elbows are slightly bent. If I wanted to, I could slide down a few inches, dip under his arm, and be free. I don’t want to, but it’s nice having that option.

His breath is warm on my cheek, making a few loose strands of my hair stick to the lip balm I just applied. He reaches up and, with a feather-light touch of his thumb, gently strokes them away. My lips part. I shiver. Even though we’re in the back of a crowded college dive bar, it feels as if it’s just the two of us.

“Say yes, Ivy.”

Are you kidding me? I want him to kiss me. And it’s not just the alcohol talking. A completely sober me would want the same thing.

I nod.

He’s looking at my mouth, his nostrils slightly flared. “I want you to say it, though.”

I think the butterflies in my lower belly just guzzled a whole case of Red Bull.

“Yes, Jon, I want you to kiss me,” I say breathlessly, aware that I’ve given him more than the one-word answer he was probably expecting.

He groans. Sucks in a breath. Then he bends his elbows until his mouth is less than an inch from mine. I’m breathing in his air and he’s breathing in mine.

“Happy twenty-first birthday, Ivy.” Then he closes the space between us.

Jon’s a good kisser.

A really good kisser.

Did I say he’s a good kisser?

At first he’s a total gentleman, his lips soft, just as I’d imagined they’d be. My mouth automatically matches the rhythm of his. And that’s when I feel his tongue. It delves inside, sliding past my teeth, exploring, seeking out everything about me as if I am his to discover.

Forget what I said about him being a gentleman. Gentlemen don’t kiss the way Jon Priestly does.

It makes me want more. Much more. I arch into him. He presses into me.

Oh. Yeah.

It’s obvious he wants more, too.

He continues this relentless assault on me with just his mouth, kissing my jaw, my earlobes, my neck. Goosebumps and friends of goosebumps spring up along my skin.

I lift my arms to slide them around his neck, but he stops me. Instead, he takes my hands, threads his fingers into mine, and pins me against the wall like a crime scene outline figure.

Something sounds in the back of my head. An alarm?

I stiffen. He keeps kissing me.

I’m suddenly underwater, kicking my arms and legs, but going nowhere. I need to breathe, but I can’t. I’m in over my head. Stuck. Trapped.

My fingers tighten their grip on his. Pinned to the wall like this, my wrists suddenly start to ache. My nails turn clawlike as they dig into the backs of his hands.

Jon lifts his head. “Are you okay, Ivy?”

I don’t answer, because I’m not sure.

“Cuz if you’re not, we can stop. It’s no big deal.”

The butterflies in my stomach are now piranhas, and I feel as though I might get sick. I breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

He releases my hands. I rub my wrists, even though that’s not where he’s been touching me.

“Ivy?”

My lips feel swollen as I blink his face into focus. He’s frowning and his eyes are boring into mine, but he doesn’t make a move to grab me again. I test him and push on his chest. He backs up a step, putting more than a foot of space between us, and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I’m sorry if I… Do you want to go back out there?”

I’m standing here, my hands still on his chest, but he’s not touching me. He’s letting me go. I can leave if I want to.

I look at him again. I mean, really look at him.

Like I said before, Jon isn’t the kind of guy I’m normally attracted to. Gauges in his earlobes. Unruly dark hair hanging over one eye. His face hasn’t seen a razor in days, and he’s probably got more tattoos and piercings elsewhere on his body that I can’t see. However, and this is a big however, anyone with a vagina, and some with penises, would agree that he’s totally hot.

So you see, it’s okay that he’s not really my type. I’m not looking to fall in love or start anything long-term. I just want a temporary bandage. Someone to help shrink the mess inside me until I can figure out how to do it on my own.

Besides, it’s my birthday, I’m buzzed, and I deserve a little fun. I’m trying to forget all that heavy shit anyway. It doesn’t exist in the new world I’m trying to create for myself.

I take a step toward him, then another and another. Until he’s the one pressed against the wall and I’m the one caging him in. Which makes me the one in control.

At first he looks a little surprised. Not pissed-off surprised, but the kind of surprised you feel when you open a present that’s not what you expect but is still really cool. He grins and there’s a mischievous gleam in his eye. He seems totally fine with the power reversal.

I relax and let my body take over.

I’m not sure how long we kiss back there, but somehow we end up on the dance floor. His hands are on my hips and my arms are above my head. I’m laughing. He’s laughing. Then he’s turning me around. Back at his table, he pulls me onto his lap and I smear frosting on his lips from one of my birthday cupcakes. Then I kiss it off.

I want him to come home with me, and I tell him so. I’m not ready for this night to be over.

He cups my jaw and whispers in my ear. “I want you, Ivy. So fucking bad. But you need to be completely sober, because afterward, when you’re lying there in the dark, I want you to know it was your choice. Your decision. No one else’s.”

I literally melt into him when he kisses me again.

“Plus,” he says against my lips. “I want you to remember everything.”

chapter nine

I can hear you best when the world falls asleep

and I open myself to the stars.

~ From Jon’s collection of lyrics

Jon

The sound of water rushing and clanging through the pipes isn’t my favorite way to wake from a deep sleep. But that’s one of the drawbacks of living in an old house with old plumbing. When someone flushes or showers, it’s really loud. Given that most of my roommates are slobs, I doubt someone’s doing the dishes or laundry. Rolling over, I bury my head under the pillow, hoping I can fall asleep again. I’m not ready to get up yet.

As I lie here, I think about Ivy. Last night at the pub, we had a great time together. I couldn’t seem to get enough of her. She made me laugh like I hadn’t in a long time. We slow-danced to the fast songs and kissed during the slow ones. Her hands guided mine over her hips while the music and crowd surrounded us.

As the night wound down, she told me to come back to her dorm room with her, saying Cassidy was a heavy sleeper. I teased her about having sex in her twin bed with her roommate just a few feet away, and told her she’d had too much to drink. She tried arguing with me, and I just about caved. God, her lips were so soft and her body curved against mine so perfectly. At that very moment, there was nothing I wanted more than to bury myself inside her and feel her shatter around me. Had she been anyone else, I know I would have.

But something different lurks in those sultry green eyes of hers. I didn’t want an alcohol-fueled hookup to change it in any way, so I stayed strong last night.

I grab my cell from the nightstand and check the time. It’s been almost ten hours since I saw her. Before I talk myself out of it, I send her a text.

Hey, Ivy on the Roof. Good morning.

It takes only a few seconds until my phone vibrates.

Hey yourself.

Are you awake?

No, I’m sleep-texting you.

Is she being a smartass or is she pissed off? She was pretty freaked out when I first kissed her, back near the restrooms. I set the phone down and rub the sleep out of my eyes. What did she think I was going to do to her, anyway? She acted fearful, almost panicky. Had she warmed up to me only because she’d been drinking?

My cell vibrates again: a smiley face.

Okay, maybe she’s not mad.

That was fun last night. Hope you had a good birthday.

Thanks. I did. At least the parts I remember. I hope I didn’t do anything too stupid.

Except for the part where you jumped on the stage, grabbed the mic, and started singing.

OMG whaaat?

Just kidding.

She texts a smiley face with a tongue sticking out.

I stretch and yawn. How do you feel this morning?

As in, am I hungover? If so, the answer is a little. But I’ll be fine as soon as I eat something.

Good.

Good that I’m hungover or good that I’ll be fine?

Haha. Good that you’ll be fine when you eat something. My stomach growls. Do you like waffles?

Okay, that was random. Is that what you’re eating?

No. So, do you?

They’re my favorite breakfast food.

I knew there was a reason I liked you.

I’ve never been admired for my food preferences before.

I laugh out loud, making it hard to text back. Guess there’s a first for everything.

Another smiley face. And a heart now, too.

I sit up in bed and check out the window. It’s not raining. What are you doing right now?

Waking up.

Good. Be ready in twenty minutes.

Whaaat?

I’m picking you up and taking you out for waffles.

Twenty minutes???? But I’m still in bed.

Then get your ass up. And wear something warm.

You mean like a sweatshirt? You still have my jacket.

Which reminds me. Hopefully, Stella got the stains out. Then wear mine. Unless you’ve given it away to the Salvation Army already.

Not yet. But I was on the verge.

Twenty minutes later, after calling Stella to tell her I’d be by this afternoon, I turn onto the narrow, one-way street in front of Ivy’s dorm. I pull up to the curb, expecting that I’ll have to wait for her, but she jogs down the steps, looking totally hot in skinny jeans, a pair of black Chuck Taylors, and my jacket.

I close my eyes for a moment, hoping I’m not making a huge mistake. I learned long ago not to let anyone in too deep, and Ivy is rattling all sorts of things inside me I didn’t know were there. But it’ll only be a problem if I let it become a problem, right? Besides, I’m an expert at keeping people an arm’s length away. I won’t get emotionally attached to her. We’re just friends. Potentially friends with benefits. And that will be enough.

“Hey.” She flips her hand in a nervous little greeting, looking my bike up and down with wide green eyes.

I hand her the extra helmet and help her with the chin strap. “Have you ridden on the back of a motorcycle before?”

“No, never. My dad would kill me.”

“Good thing he’s not here, then.”

She hesitates only briefly before climbing on behind me and clamping her arms around my waist. She doesn’t need to hold on this tight—we’re not going very far and I’m taking the corners easy—but I like the front of her pressed to the back of me, so I don’t say anything. I’m tempted to drive around the block a few times more than necessary.

We’re soon seated in a booth at the Waffle Stop, and Ivy can’t decide whether to order waffles with fresh strawberries or get an omelet. Two little frown lines mar her smooth forehead.

“Which ones are you looking at?” I lean forward, trying to read her upside-down menu.

As she angles it for me to see, a strand of hair slips into her face. Without thinking, I reach out and tuck it behind her ear. Her eyes meet mine for a moment, then she blinks and looks down at the menu.

“The sausage and mushroom omelet looks really good,” she says, pointing.

“A flavor explosion of epic proportions,” I read aloud from the plastic-coated page, slightly sticky with syrup. “Sounds pretty damn awesome. I’m not sure how you can pass that up.”

“I know. It’s a hard decision.”

I find myself staring at her as she bites her lower lip and tries to make up her mind. God, we kissed a lot last night. And I mean a lot. But I couldn’t help myself. Her lips were so soft and willing against mine. Her whole body was.

Shifting slightly, I tug on the crotch of my jeans. “Get both.”

“I may make it sound like I have a ginormous appetite, but I can’t eat all that food.”

I flick her menu. “What if we split it?”

“You like mushrooms, too?” Her slightly upturned eyes sparkle with excitement. Over a silly omelet.

I have an insane urge to kiss her. Lean over the table, put my hand on the nape of her neck, and pull her toward me. I clear my throat instead and look back at the menu.

“Yeah,” I lie. It’s not that I hate mushrooms, I just don’t purposely order them.

“Okay, perfect,” she says, clasping her hands together. “That totally solves my dilemma. I hate choosing between two really good things.”

The waitress takes our order and pours the coffee. One by one, Ivy opens up four little containers of cream and dumps them in. She stirs and the spoon makes a musical sound as it clinks inside the mug.

“Your cream-to-coffee ratio is much higher than mine.” I wrap my hands around my cup of plain black coffee.

“And you’re quite observant this morning.” She blows on the surface, then takes a sip. “Does that mean I’m slipping on the food preferences slash likeability scale?”

I hold up my fingers, indicating an inch. “Just a little.”

The sound of her laughter sends pleasant ripples through my body. When I picked her up this morning, I figured she wouldn’t be this comfortable with me after last night. I expected her to be a little more reserved, maybe even embarrassed, but she’s not. It could be because she doesn’t remember that she invited me to stay over.

Or maybe she decided she could trust me.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says.

“So tell me something, Ivy.”

She looks at me, waiting.

“Since you’re twenty-one, why are you living in the dorms?”

“Why? Is it that unusual? My roommate is, and so are a few people on my floor.”

“I’m just curious, that’s all. Most people would be living off campus by now.”

She carefully sets down her cup and plays with a few grains of sugar that spilled on the table. “Technically, I’m a freshman, that’s why. I dropped out of my old college with less than forty-five credits. Since PSU makes all freshmen live in the dorms, that’s why I’m there.”

“Did you get sick of school and decide to join the circus? Backpack around Europe with a band of roving gypsies? Get tired of living in a tent?”

She snorts, then immediately clamps her hand over her mouth. A little boy in the booth behind her turns around to stare. I make a funny face at him.

“How do you do this to me?” she says through her fingers.

“Do what? I’m just sitting here, waiting patiently for my breakfast.”

She throws a plastic creamer container at me that I try to dodge, but it glances off my shoulder and clatters to the floor. “Make me laugh at a situation that I normally don’t find funny.”

“I don’t know about you, Ivy, but joining the circus is no laughing matter.”

She groans, puts her head down on her forearms, and mumbles something.

Despite all the joking around, I wonder why she dropped out of her old college and came here. Especially since PSU is so far from home. When we were dancing last night, she told me she was from California. Did she switch majors and decided to switch schools, too? What does she want to do when she gets out of college? Why does she seem scared at times, then fun and free-spirited at others? Impulsively, I reach across the table and grab her hands. I like the feel of her touch. She doesn’t pull away this time.

“How did you end up here?”

She searches my face, her gaze reaching inside me. It looks as though she’s trying to decide whether to tell me the easy reason—the one she tells everyone—or the actual one. Her dark-fringed eyes are clear, but I see the indecision, concern. Should she or shouldn’t she?

I hope she sees safety in mine. Tell me. You can trust me.

It’s like she’s lived a lifetime of experiences already—not all of them pleasant. She’s an old soul like me, though I’m sure she’s not nearly as damaged.

She swallows nervously. “I…uh…went to a small college right after high school, but dropped out when…when something happened.”

Her racing pulse under my fingertips reminds me of a pair of butterfly wings, trapped under a layer of silk. I rub my thumbs over her soft skin.

“What happened, Ivy?”

Her shoulders sag as if they’re too heavy and she can’t hold them up any longer. “There was…an accident. A car accident. And…I was in a coma for nine days.”

I curse under my breath, squeeze her hands. “You almost died.”

She presses her lips together. “So they tell me. Good thing I don’t remember it.”

Physically, she looks fine. And I’m pretty sure I saw her running a few mornings ago. “I’m not surprised. That’s common with traumatic brain injuries.”

“The only lasting effects are the memory loss and the fact that I suddenly have a need to do creative things. Before the accident, I was probably the most unartistic person on the planet. I was going to major in something practical, like accounting or business, but now I crave something more creative.”

“Thus the photography class?”

She nods. “I’m planning to major in graphic design now.”

“I should’ve known that class didn’t just fulfill your arts credit.”

She looks up from her hands and narrows her eyes. “I suppose that’s why you’re taking it.”

“I’m like you before the accident. Uncreative with a capital U. The only things I can draw are stick figures.”

“I didn’t say I could draw now,” she says, laughing. “And what are you talking about, claiming to be uncreative? I’ve seen your guitar, remember?”

When has she seen– Oh, that’s right. I had it when I helped her off the roof. “I just play around with it. So you left your old school for PSU’s graphic design program?”

“That and…” She takes a deep breath. “I needed to get out of Lincoln Falls. I couldn’t go back to school there. I tried, but I ended up failing a lot of classes.”

I wonder if she’s got lingering cognitive issues from the brain injury. “Did you have a hard time concentrating? Because it can take a long time for the brain to heal.”

“Yes, but…it wasn’t because of the accident. At least, not entirely.”

Before she can explain further, the waitress shows up with our food, effectively ending the conversation.

Ivy cuts the omelet in half and slides the plate to the center of the table. “You pick,” she says. Then she takes a bite of her waffle, making sure to scoop up some strawberries.

I hesitate, not sure what she wants me to do. There aren’t any extra plates, and I don’t want to put it with my waffles.

She points to the omelet with her knife. “The person who divides the food doesn’t get to pick which piece they get. Since I cut it, you get to pick which half is yours.”

“How equitable,” I say with a grin.

“It prevented all sorts of fights between my sister and me when we were growing up. As the oldest, I thought I was being smart when I got to cut the doughnut or the cake and pick first, but Rose wised up when she realized she was always getting the small piece.”

“Smart sister.”

“Thanks.”

“I was referring to your little sister.” Smirking, I pour maple syrup over my waffles.

She opens her mouth to reply, but casts a glance behind her first. The little boy is still looking at us. His parents must be happy that he finds us so entertaining. Leaning toward me so the little boy won’t hear, she whispers, “A-hole.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh loudly. She can be such a goddamn smartass when she wants to be. And I totally love it.

She’s got something on her chin. I reach over and wipe it off with my thumb. “Strawberry juice.” Without thinking, I lick it off my thumb.

She drops her gaze and her cheeks redden. “Thanks.”

I section off a piece of the omelet, one that has a lot of sausage and mushrooms, and hold the bite out to her. “Here. You first.”

She looks skeptically at my fork, then back at me.

“If you’re concerned about germs, I haven’t taken a bite yet. My fork is clean.”

“I’m not worried about your germs, Jon,” she says softly.

My heart thuds in my chest as our eyes meet. I think about how much we kissed last night and wonder if she’s thinking the same thing.

“Go on,” I say, my voice hoarse. “It’s getting cold.”

“You’re not going to smear it on my face, are you?”

“I’m not five. Now, eat.”

She leans forward, takes the bite from me, and chews.

“Is it good?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Is it a flavor explosion of epic proportions?” I ask in my radio voice, quoting the menu.

“Actually, it is.” Now she gives me a bite.

Okay. It is delicious. Even with the mushrooms. “I could get used to having you feed me. Do you cook, too?”

“Not unless you do.” She looks at me expectantly. Was that an invitation?

If I said I did, would she want to cook with me? “I do sometimes. Next time, you’ll have to come over.”

“What’s your specialty?” she asks, taking another bite.

“What else? Waffles.”

As we eat, I learn that Ivy’s father owns a once-successful construction company, but business hasn’t been good, so he’s been drinking a lot. Her mother works for the local school district and is always stressed out. Her little sister Rose is a sophomore in high school.

“Enough about me. I want to know about you,” she says. “You’re a chemistry major, right? I heard you’re a tutor for the hundred-level classes.”

Sara must’ve told her, which means they were talking about me. Normally, I like being the topic of female conversation, but for some reason, it makes me feel sort of awkward. “For a few different science classes, actually. I’m majoring in applied chem.”

“That’s cool. Now I know who to call if I need help.”

“Are you taking a science class this quarter?”

She nods. “Biology 101 with Professor Weller…along with half the freshmen.”

“Yeah, his classes always fill up fast. You’ll like him. He’s a good guy. Lots of homework, though.”

“Great.” She waves her hands with mock enthusiasm, making me chuckle. “Just my luck.”

“You’ll have to come study in the science library. It’s got a good study vibe, if that makes sense.” She looks confused. I can’t tell if she thinks that’s weird or if she’s never heard of the science library. “It’s in the new building right next to the Fine Arts building, where we have photography.”

“Don’t I have to be a science major to use it?”

“Everyone assumes that, but anyone can go. It’s the best-kept secret on campus. And the coffee shop on the first floor makes the best scones. Better than anywhere else on campus.”

“Good to know. I’ll have to check it out.”

I can’t tell if she’s just saying that or if she’s really interested. Hell, why am I so unsure of her reactions to me? This is, like, basic shit. But with Ivy, it’s like I’m walking in uncharted territory. Everything is new, different.

“So what do you want to do with your Applied Chem degree?” she asks.

Should I give her my standard answer or tell her what I’d really like to do with it? Since she opened up about what happened to her, I decide to tell her the truth. “I thought about going to medical school, but I’ll probably end up working in a lab. Several biomedical companies recruit here, so hopefully I’ll land a job with one of them after graduation.”

“Medical school? You were considering becoming a doctor?”

I instantly regret saying anything. Does she think I’m joking? That I’m not good enough?

“Can’t picture me as a doctor, huh?” I try to sound casual, but I can’t hide the edge creeping into my tone. Although I’m used to people having low expectations of me, I wasn’t expecting that reaction from her, too. I’m not sure what the fuck I was thinking. Turning my attention back to the food on my plate, I stab a forkful of hash browns.

Ivy reaches across the table, her hand closing around mine, making the shredded potatoes fall off my fork. I jerk my head up, thinking I’ll see amusement or ridicule in her expression. But I don’t. Her head is tilted slightly, and she looks…interested.

“Well, that depends,” she says.

“On what?” I ask cautiously.

“First of all, you seem like a really caring person. For a guy who’s on the radio and used to talking, you’re a surprisingly good listener. Since you’re a chemistry tutor, you’re obviously smart and good at explaining things to people who don’t understand something.”

The air around me goes thick all of a sudden and the lump in my throat turns into an elephant. Except for my mom, no one’s ever thought I was caring before, and that was a long time ago. I flex my fingers, recalling how she held my hand that day, squeezing until the bones felt like they were about to crack.

“Mom, you don’t have to do this,” I kept my head turned away from where the tattoo artist was leaning over her chest. “You’re fine just the way you are. Who cares about scars?”

“You’re so compassionate, Jonny. So caring.” She grabbed my hand and held on as if it were a lifeline as the tattoo needle buzzed. “How did someone like me become the mother of someone like you?”

I swallow hard at the memory. “What else does it depend on?” I ask Ivy.

“On how accurate my first impression of you is.”

I’m confused. “The night we met, I helped you off the roof. I thought I was being a nice guy.”

“No, before that. The first time I saw you was when you were beating the crap out of some dude. Remember?”

Oh.

“So, yeah, doctor isn’t the first profession that comes to mind. Now, if you’d told me you were training to be an MMA fighter or hit man, I’d go, hmmm, I can totally see it.”

A huge weight falls from my shoulders and we both laugh.

As we finish breakfast, I hear all about her little sister’s obsession with One Direction, her rescue dog Torque (at first I thought she said his name was Dork), and her friend Deena in LA who is studying to become a voice actress.

When we get back to my bike, Ivy takes the helmet but doesn’t put it on. “About the doctor thing.”

I start to tell her that there is no doctor thing, but she keeps going.

“I do have a slight problem with it.”

This should be interesting. Instead of putting on my helmet, I tuck it under my arm. “You do?”

“If you showed up in my hospital room and said you were going to operate on me, I wouldn’t be able to think straight. For one thing, I’ve never seen a doctor who looks like you.” A mischievous glint sparkles in her eye as she puts on the helmet. “But then, maybe all big-city docs are hot and tatted up, and I’m just some clueless girl from a small town.”

Without waiting for my reaction, she climbs on the back of the bike, all confident and shit, like she’s done it a million times. Meanwhile, I’m standing here, my mouth open wide, not sure what just happened.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks.

I laugh and shake my head. “I’m not sure if that was supposed to be a compliment or an insult.”

“What? I’m serious. I’d be embarrassed if a gorgeous young doctor was about to see me naked. As in, freaking mortified. I’d clutch my robe and tell you to take a hike.”

Pediatric medicine is what I’d been thinking about, not surgery, but whatever. God, I want to kiss the hell out of her right now. It’s not helping matters that she looks so damn hot straddling my bike.

I start to make a move. Fortunately, I catch myself just in time. Without the backdrop of a pub or party, a kiss in the middle of the day is way more meaningful. I’d be moving into dangerous territory, and I’m not sure I can afford to let that happen. She stirs me up inside like no one else does, which honestly scares the shit out of me. She’s too perfect, too sweet, too fun. And I’m too fucking fucked up. I’ve done bad things. Things I want to forget. She’s responding to Jon, the ‘church is now in session’ guy. The guy with all the friends. The guy who says what a girl wants to hear in order to sleep with her.

Not Jon, the foster kid who barely finished high school because he was sent to juvie. Or the guy whose own father doesn’t think he’s good enough.

No, I don’t want her to know the real me, because if she does, she’ll only be disappointed. Plus, I have a knack for fucking up people’s lives. My mere existence fucked up my mom’s.

The ride back to her dorm takes about five minutes. When we get there, she climbs off and hands me the helmet.

“Thanks for breakfast. That was fun.” Her eyes flicker up to mine but don’t linger. I know she was expecting me to kiss her back there. Or maybe she’s thinking I’ll kiss her now.

“Sure, no problem.”

The silence stretches awkwardly between us.

She takes a step backward. “See you in class on Monday?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Still wearing my coat, she turns and walks away.

Don’t go, I want to tell her. It’s early and the day is long.

Why didn’t I ask her to come to Stella’s with me? We could’ve picked up her coat and…

Just before she gets to the bottom step, she hesitates and slowly turns around. Her eyes are narrowed, as if she’s surprised I’m still here. “Have you started on that photography project yet?”

“What photography project?”

“The one with the themes.”

It sounds vaguely familiar. “When is it due?”

“Um, Monday.”

Damn. “No, not yet.”

“Do you…uh…want to work on it together?”

“Together?” My chest constricts. “When?”

She squints at the gray sky. “It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. If you’re not busy, we could do it right now.”