Текст книги "Sweet Obsession "

Автор книги: J. Daniels

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

I turn to glare at him. “I don’t even remember your name.”

“Vince.”

“Well, Vince, like I said, I need to get back to work. But even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be interested.”

His eyebrows meet his hairline. “Why not?”

“Because I have a boyfriend.”

My feet skid to a halt in front of the reception desk. I clamp my mouth shut, sucking in a sharp breath through my nose. Vince begins to blur in front of me, followed by all of my surroundings. The walls seem to pulse, throbbing with the beat of my heart as it fills my ears, growing louder and louder. My breaths become shallow and my palms start to sweat.

What . . .

The . . .

Hell . . . did I just say?

I look around for another woman standing nearby whose voice I had to have been hearing.

That wasn’t me. I didn’t just say that. I didn’t just say I have a boyfriend.

Turning my head, I meet the gaze of the older receptionist behind the desk.

Was it you?

“Ah, gotcha.”

I look back at Vince after he speaks.

He tugs on his jacket, lifting his one shoulder. “I’m not trying to break up a relationship. That’s too much involvement for me. Good luck with your boyfriend. Hope it all works out.”

Boyfriend.

“Shut up, Vince!”

He leans back, looking startled. “Excuse me?”

I look around us, gauging the eyes on me and watching them multiply. I bring both hands to my face and mold them to my cheeks.

My skin feels warm. Too warm. I need air.

I spin around and nearly climb onto the reception desk. “Are you Helen? Please, for the love of God, tell me you’re Helen. I need a Helen.”

She stares up at me from over the top of her glasses. “I’m Helen.”

“That guy back there told me to stop here for my check. For the delivery I made. Dylan’s Sweet Tooth.”

“Oh, yes.” She smiles and picks up a check and a small piece of paper, sliding them both in front of me. “Here you go. Just need you to sign for it.”

I grab a pen and scribble something onto the receipt. I doubt it’s my name. I doubt it’s legible.

There’s a strong possibility I just signed it ‘boyfriend’.

I snatch up the check, fold it up, and shove it into my back pocket. The elevators have a small gathering of people in front of the doors. I can’t wait for those. I take the stairs instead and swiftly descend eleven flights, darting across the lobby and pushing through the revolving doors.

The sun hits my face. Oxygen hurriedly enters my lungs with the ragged gasps I take in. I move to a lamppost at the corner of the sidewalk and place my hand against the warm copper, seeking balance. I suddenly feel dizzy.

Boyfriend. I just said I had a boyfriend. I passed up sex because I have a boyfriend.

Segments of my earlier conversations in the bakery filter through my head. The noise from the busy street fades out to silence. Joey and Dylan’s voices are all I can hear as I close my eyes and steady my breathing.

“She was pacing around like a love-sick puppy waiting for him to come over.”

“You get this little smile on your face every time he comes in here, Brooke. Don’t act like you don’t more than like this guy.”

“Oh, my God, Dylan. She got jealous over this girl he was texting on Saturday night. You know what that means.”

“If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be jealous, Brooke.”

Jealous. I didn’t get jealous. I was drunk. Anything I do or say under the influence of Billy’s martinis shouldn’t be held against me. I don’t even remember Mason texting anyone.

I picture his phone and the name highlighted on the screen.

Tessa.

Fuck!

A hand on my shoulder turns my head and pops my eyes open.

Mason’s concerned face studies mine, his hands reaching out to grab me. “Hey, are you all right?”

I step back, avoiding his grasp. “What are you doing here?” I ask, looking over at the building I just evacuated like it was going up in flames. I turn back to Mason and take in his attire.

Khakis and a nice button-down shirt. Not what I’m used to seeing him in during the week.

“Why aren’t you teaching a class? Did Vince call you?”

“Vince? Who is Vince?”

I rub my hands down my face. God, I am losing it.

“Nobody. He’s nobody,” I utter, letting my arms fall limp at my sides and looking up at him.

His bright eyes are filled with worry. I probably look like I’m having a nervous breakdown.

Clearing my throat, I ask again. “Why are you here, Mason?”

He moves closer, getting out of the way of other pedestrians on the sidewalk. Sunlight catches in his hair and lightens a few strands. “I was meeting with someone about possibly expanding into a chain. Just discussing ideas. I don’t really know if it’s something I’m serious about.”

I wet my lips. “Oh.”

Mason’s logo on store fronts around the city. I can picture it. Then merchandise. Water bottles and cute little tops.

He should expand. He’d be fantastic with it.

“Why are you here, Brooke? You look a bit . . . out of sorts.” He reaches out and squeezes my arm at the elbow. I don’t pull away from him like I did when Vince touched me.

After a year, I would still remember how this felt.

Swallowing through a heavy blink, I lower my gaze to a spot on Mason’s shirt. “I was making a delivery in that building and this guy I hooked up with last year asked if I wanted to go at it again. You know, have sex.” I briefly glance up at him.

He appears engrossed by what I’m saying, watching me with an absorbing look in his eyes. His jaw tight as if he’s clenching his teeth. His grip on my arm tensing.

I drop my head. “I told him I didn’t want to. That I had a boyfriend.”

“Yeah?”

I nod and step back. “I have to go.”

“Whoa. Wait a minute.” Mason grabs my arm again. His other hand cups my cheek. The corner of his mouth twitches as he stares down at me. “You said you have a boyfriend.”

I close my eyes. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

My heart pounds in my chest. The blood in my veins warms and heats my skin until a fine sheen of sweat builds on the surface.

“Brooke.”

I grab his wrist and pull his hand away from my face. “Stop. I need to go. I just . . .” I move back, but Mason seizes my waist and hauls me against him.

“What’s going on? Why are you panicking?”

“Because.”

I try and turn in his arms. I try and escape, run away from this, from my worry and the emotions I feel coiling around me and suffocating.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I suddenly feel so small and crowded in my own skin.

“Because why? Talk to me,” he pleads, bending to get closer. “Brooke.”

My name on his lips and the way he says it, like a familiar embrace, unlocks something inside of me. Another level of uncertainty. Something so overwhelming it roots itself deep in my soul and demands to be acknowledged.

Feel this. Do you know what this is, Brooke?

Panic collapses in on me. I gather a full breath into my lungs and push against his chest with every ounce of strength I have left. “Because I don’t know men like you!” I yell, my voice breaking and sounding as fragile as I feel.

Mason staggers back, eyes round and enthralling. The look on his face mirroring my own trepidation.

“I don’t understand what we’re doing and I just need a minute to breathe, okay?” Tears wet my cheeks. More threaten behind my lashes. “I need a minute,” I softly utter, wiping at my face and looking up at him.

God, what is happening to me? I’m yelling at everyone today.

He pinches his lips together through a tense nod, studying me with rapt attention. His eyes gentle yet gripping.

I try and compose myself. I manage to at least stop fresh tears from forming, but my chest feels tight and my hands are sweaty. I pray I don’t stroke out right here on the sidewalk.

Mason stares at me a moment longer, then looks over my shoulder and rubs at his jaw. “Why don’t we go grab some coffee? Sit down for a bit.”

I shake my head. “No. I need to get back to work.”

“Come on.” He reaches out for me, but pulls his hand back before he can touch my arm. He tilts his head with a tender grin. “Just a few minutes, yeah? I won’t keep you long. Just one cup of coffee.”

“I’ve already given you coffee today,” I reply, wrapping my arms around myself.

He seems to fight a much broader smile as he moves closer. “I know, sweet Brooke. But it’s either this or lunch, and I figured you’d be more agreeable to a quick beverage.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and jerks his chin in the direction behind me. “One more cup. If Dylan gives you grief about it I’ll say it was all my doing. That I kidnapped you and ignored your urgent pleas to return to work. You’ll look like the model employee, I promise.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and contemplate his request.

Coffee, then I can return to work. Do I even want to return to work? I’m beginning to think that maybe leaving the sanctity of my bedroom at all today was the biggest mistake of my life.

Everything seemed so simple this weekend. I was in my perfect little Mason bubble and everyone left me alone about it. I didn’t have to explain myself to anyone. I wasn’t being asked to define anything. Even though Billy and Joey were around Saturday night, they left the two of us alone and from what I can remember, I enjoyed myself. I usually do with Mason. But now the weekend is over. I’m being forced to analyze what I’m doing and what all happens in my perfect little bubble, and I don’t want to. I don’t even know if I can.

How am I supposed to explain this to people when I don’t know what’s happening myself?

I clear that question from my head and look up into Mason’s eyes.

He’s offering me a chance to delay further abuse from my co-workers. I’d be crazy not to take it right now.

On the other hand, agreeing to this means spending more time with the man I just stuck a label on.

My mind itches with hesitancy.

God, I seriously hate Mondays. I am never partaking in one again.

Wiping away another tear with the back of my fingers, I drop my arms and make my decision.

“Fine. Okay. One more cup.”

MASON

Brooke stares down at her fingers knotted together in front of her as I wait for our coffee.

She isn’t crying anymore, but she doesn’t look like my Brooke. No sweet-dimpled smile. No luminous spark in her eyes.

She looks unsettled. Caught up in some worrying thought she’s allowing to consume her. A stark contrast from the warm, gregarious woman I openly kissed and touched Saturday night.

The one who very openly kissed and touched me.

I allow my mind to go there for a moment. Be present with that Brooke. Feel her hands around my neck and her breath against my cheek. Remember her quiet words, the ones I’m not sure she even realized she was saying as I held her on the couch and enjoyed our time together.

With the softest voice, with her lips moving against my ear, she asked if I could stay a little longer, if I could hold her until her heart stopped racing. If mine was racing too, and if that was normal for me, because it wasn’t for her. She told me to kiss her, again and again, to move my hand a little higher and that no one could see us. That even if they could she didn’t care, and that she wondered what we looked like together, not just then but all the time.

“Do you think they know?” she whispered, her fingers filtering through my hair.

“Know what?” I asked, just as softly, pressing a kiss to her nose, the flush in her cheek.

“That you’re kind of my thing too.”

We laughed and talked until she fell asleep with her face pressed into my neck. I carried her to bed and lingered there. I didn’t want to leave. I was beginning to hate the moments I spent away from Brooke.

All of them. Each miserable second.

But I knew what would happen if I stayed. If I slid beside her and kissed her some more, touched her where we both wanted. If I allowed my urges to overwhelm me, I wouldn’t be able to stop. My resistance had been wavering all night and was close to being non-existent. And Brooke, among being unconcerned with her affection for me, was drunk.

She was open and comfortable, sweet and warm . . . and very, very drunk.

So I left, but fuck, it was bloody difficult, knowing the next time I saw her she would be different. Not as showy with her fondness. Still a bit tentative and unsure.

She seemed okay yesterday when we spoke on the phone. Hungover and regretting those cocktails, but still my Brooke. Laughing and willing. Even this morning when we met for coffee, there was no sign of the woman I’m currently observing.

I need to find out what’s gotten her like this. Why she’s so shut-off from me now.

What the hell could have happened in the span of five hours?

Taking the coffees as they are held out for me over the bar, I thank the barista and walk over to the seating area, moving between oversized lounge chairs and a leather sofa.

Floor-to-ceiling windows span across the front of the shop, offering a spectacular view of the bustling city, but I doubt she’s noticed yet. Brooke’s barely lifted her head since she sat down.

“Here you go, gorgeous.” I set her coffee on the round high-top table and claim the stool across from her. “I got you a mocha this time, since you had white chocolate this morning. Figured you’d be due for a bit of a change.” I take a sip of my black coffee and watch her above the brim.

Her hands slowly wrap around the paper cup. She clears her throat. “Thank you. How much do I owe for this?”

“Nothing.”

I give her a strange look when she finally glances up at me.

How much does she owe? Is she being serious?

Sighing, I set my cup down and brace my weight on my elbows. “You’re not paying me back for something I asked you out for, Brooke. That’s never happening. This was my idea. I will always treat you, yeah?”

“You shouldn’t keep paying for me when we do stuff, Mason.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it’s not like we’re . . .” she pauses, her lips pinching together through a frown. Her shoulders sag, then with a much quieter voice, she continues. “I mean, we’re just having fun, you know? When we hang out like this?”

I feel my jaw clench. I roughly scrub at my face, then stare at her, trying to figure out where this is all coming from. “Yeah . . . no, I don’t fucking know, Brooke. We’re just having fun? This is news to me.”

She leans back a bit. Her teeth drag across her plump bottom lip.

I take in a deep breath, remembering how all of this started for her. What she was solely after in the beginning before I got her to consider trying things my way.

Just having fun was her main interest then. A quick root and then nothing. I thought we were past this absurdity.

“What’s going on with you? What happened?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even and not at all accusing.

She looks away. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Her worried eyes flick back to mine.

“Don’t do that,” I tell her, straightening up. “Don’t shut me out when something obviously happened, Brooke. You were just calling me your boyfriend and crying about it on the footpath, and now suddenly we’re just having fun. Help me understand why you’re being like this. Talk to me.”

She looks down at her cup, her hands still wrapped around it. She sighs through a heavy blink. “Everyone keeps asking me what we are, or what we’re doing. I don’t know what to tell them because I don’t know. I don’t know what this is.”

“Who is everyone?”

“Joey. Dylan.” She pops the tab on her lid but doesn’t take a sip. “They’ve been bugging me about it all morning. Non-stop. They want me to admit things. Label it. Us. I don’t feel like I should have to. It’s nobody’s business what I’m feeling, or what I’m not feeling.”

Our eyes meet. My hand curls into a fist on the table.

What she’s not feeling?

“That’s complete bullshit,” I want to say, but I don’t. I didn’t coax her to sit with me and practically beg her to talk just to have an argument.

But I know she feels something. I know this changed for her too. I don’t buy her denial.

She’s freaked out because she knows what this is. Not because she doesn’t.

Brooke looks away again, tapping her fingers on the cup.

I force my hand to relax and slide it into my lap. “All right, then don’t. Don’t explain it,” I suggest, catching her cautious attention. “Why do we have to be labeled anything? Why can’t we just continue doing what we’re doing, ‘cause I thought it was pretty fucking great.”

“But everyone . . .”

“Who cares about everyone?” I ask, my voice growing a decibel louder. “Am I asking you to tell me what this is? Or if you could start referring to me as your boyfriend?”

Fucking hell. Not that I don’t love hearing she did that. Why couldn’t I have been present for that little offhand comment?

She frowns. “No, but you’re asking other things of me, Mason. Things I don’t do.”

“And you’re doing them.”

“I know that!” She startles at her own voice, her eyes round and regretful as she looks around us, at the attention we’ve possibly drawn, but I wouldn’t know for certain if that’s the case.

I can only look at Brooke. The anxiousness radiating off her in thick waves. I can practically feel it on my skin.

She shakes her head, drops her elbows to the glossy table-top, and begins rubbing at her temple. “I know that. God, do you think I don’t?” she asks much quieter, looking across the small table at me. Her hands lower. “Do you have any idea how strange this is for me? How confusing this must be, for me? Do you? Or are you just caught up in getting me to do things your way? As long as I’m agreeing to shit, that’s all that matters, right?”

I give her a hard look. “What? No, of course not.”

“Yeah, okay,” she remarks coldly, averting her gaze.

My brow furrows as I observe her.

Jesus Christ. Women are mysterious creatures.

I force myself to calm down, once again. The beginnings of one hell of a headache builds behind my eyes.

Just pull her aside and tell her you love her.

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Right. Because she’s not already freaked out enough. Bombarding her with that confession will surely do her in.

I absorb the idea of Brooke having a complete nervous breakdown. Right here. Right now. Being too distraught to talk or even move after I’ve divulged my deepest feelings for her.

Will I be permitted to visit her in the hospital while she’s under clinical observation? Surely the staff won’t know exactly why she’s in there. That is, if she isn’t talking . . .

Reaching out, I brush my fingers against the back of her wrist. Her eyes follow my calming gesture. “I see how hesitant you are, Brooke, but I also see how you relax around me. How playful and fucking adorable you get when we’re together, and not just when you’re pissed. Though I do enjoy that version of you a good bit.”

Her head lifts. She winces at the memory. “Christ, that hangover was epic. I thought I was dying.”

We share a brief, quiet laugh. Hers more fleeting than mine. She’s still too anxious to soften for me.

I slide my fingers lower and gently squeeze her hand. “I know I ask a lot of you. I know I have since the beginning, but I think you rather enjoy yourself when you stop thinking so much about what this is and just fucking be with me. Stop thinking, Brooke.”

“I can’t,” she whispers, tugging her hand away, her gaze drifting to the table. “I can’t stop thinking. Trust me, I’m trying, okay? But it’s not happening. Not today.” She bites at her lip and slouches against the back of her stool. “I just need . . .”

“A minute?” I suggest, drawing her eyes back to my face. I faintly smile.

I hear you, baby.

She stares at me, frowning. “Yeah,” she replies through a small nod, her voice incredibly quiet. “A minute.”

I push at her cup, sliding it closer.

An offer of coffee and company, minus the conversation. Somehow I think this is a better option for Brooke rather than what I’ve been working around to this entire time.

Talking until she understands how ridiculous her worries are. How she doesn’t need to label us if she doesn’t want to yet, just as long as she acknowledges and admits to everyone in this bloody coffee shop that she is mine as much as I am hers. Once she’s done that, we can take her announcement to the street, let the general population know. Venture out to neighboring cities and alert the media . . .

Okay, maybe that last part is a bit of a pipe dream. I’ll be fucking ecstatic with one broad declaration to the masses.

Or to me. Hearing her tell me will be enough.

Brooke regards the coffee, her expression soft and timid. Finally reaching out with both hands, she brings it to her mouth and takes a long sip. I do the same with mine, watching her, wanting to be closer so I can smell her hair and that vanilla cupcake body lotion she slathers on herself.

She turns her head and reveals the long slope of her neck. Her pale throat.

Desire hums in my blood.

Fuck, I love kissing her there.

I swallow a heaping gulp of coffee.

She needs a minute? I need a bloody minute.

Clearing all indecency from my thoughts and willing my cock not to react, I watch her dimple cave in with her next sip.

Time passes. We embrace the silence between us, only it’s not contented or easy like it’s always been. I can practically hear her mind analyzing and overanalyzing, considering labels and then dismissing them with dishonest perception.

I have to bite my tongue to keep from speaking. I know how easily I can shoot this nonsense down. How concluding my argument is.

I’m in love with you. We’re damn near perfect together, and you know it. Stop fighting this and come home with me.

Brooke taps on the side of her cup and stares between the window and the phone she places in front of her, every few minutes or so noting the time.

I finish my coffee and debate on getting another. I have a feeling my afternoon classes will be demanding and unusually difficult to focus on. Maybe a massive caffeine boost will help. My attention already wanders absentmindedly to thoughts of Brooke when I’m supposed to be instructing.

The curve of her hips. Her cute laugh. The way her tongue always tastes of sugar.

Knowing she’s across the street questioning us might be enough to distract me entirely.

Might be? Who am I kidding? I’m tempted to clear out my schedule and spend the rest of the day convincing her. Erase all doubt from her mind as my hands roam her body, as I press the most vulgar words I can think of into the flush of her skin.

That sounds like a brilliant plan.

Licking the mocha off her lips, Brooke checks the time again, abruptly standing and palming her device. She grabs her nearly empty coffee. “I need to get back before I lose my job. Dylan already has cause to fire me. I accidentally yelled at her earlier.” She looks away, muttering, “I’m yelling at everyone.”

I touch her wrist. She quickly jerks her hand up and adjusts her pony.

A subtle, yet not so subtle move to keep me from touching her? I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just becoming paranoid.

“All right then.” I stand and toss my cup into a nearby rubbish bin. Following her to the door, I hold it open and allow her to walk out ahead of me.

She steps onto the footpath. When she glances in my direction, I gesture down the street.

“I’m just down there. Where did you park? I’ll walk you.”

“Um.” She looks up at me, her eyes careful. Both of her hands holding her cup. “Maybe you don’t?” she quietly suggests.

Maybe I don’t?

I feel my eyebrows raise in surprise, my lips slowly part, though I’m not sure why. I should be expecting this.

She said so in the coffee shop. In so many words, with her stiff, averse body language, she needs me to back off a bit. Give her some time. Her minute. Honestly, it’s the last thing I want to do, but what choice do I have here? I want Brooke to acknowledge on her own what this is for her.

What I am to her.

I need her to say it. I won’t force the words I’ve been waiting for out of Brooke. I won’t push her when she’s obviously struggling more than ever with this right now.

I won’t push her like I did this past weekend. Never again.

I have to rely on what I feel, how bloody sure I am of us. That’s the only way I’m going to be able to step off and leave her be while she takes her minute, which apparently begins right fucking now.

She wants time? I can give her time, if it’ll help move this along.

I’ll give her whatever she wants.

I push a rough hand through my hair. My fingers slide down to my neck where I grip harshly at the skin. “Right. I almost forgot. I can’t do our breakfast tomorrow.”

Our breakfast.

Jesus Christ. I’m bailing on this again. I can’t catch a break with this fucking day.

Brooke studies me, lowering her coffee after taking a sip. Her mouth pulls into a frown.

She looks . . . disappointed?

No. That can’t be. Why would she look disappointed? Taking a bloody minute involves distance. I’m giving her that.

I drop my hand and continue with my lie. This fucking sucks. “Since I canceled classes on Saturday while we were away camping, I decided to add on a few early ones this week to make up for it. I didn’t want to lose any potential clients. It would’ve been bad business not to offer.”

In my mind, I try and remember the names of some of my attendees who requested classes before sunrise. There was at least a handful of them, business women who work long hours in the city and have difficulty getting home at a decent time. Weekends are usually spent with family, so they inquired about something before work. I told them I would consider it.

Maybe I could quickly throw something together for tomorrow so I don’t feel so terrible about making this up.

I rub at my jaw.

Come on, mate. She wants a breather. Look at her. Look how she’s acting. She would’ve canceled on you anyway.

“That’s really early. People are insane wanting to workout instead of sleep.” Brooke looks down the footpath, her gaze possibly following the couple who just strolled past, hand in hand. Making it look simple.

We can have that. Be that.

All too quickly, she lowers her eyes back to her cup.

“Mm.” I look away and observe the world around us.

Cars go zipping down the street and a few bicyclists zoom past in a blur. The sun peers out from behind a cloud. Warmth spreads across my neck and down my forearms.

It’s a gorgeous day, but I’m too tense now to enjoy it. My shoulders are tight and my back aches. Hopefully my next four classes will help with that.

“Well.” Brooke turns her head, her pony flopping against her shoulder. She lifts her cup and weakly smiles up at me. “Thanks for the coffee. I should go.”

Instinctively, and just because I really fucking want to, I move to lean in and kiss her, but catch myself before she seems to notice my intentions. Straightening and shoving my hands in my pockets, I give her a quick nod. “I’ll see you around then.”

I think I see something, maybe a glint of a distaste for my bullshit impersonal goodbye. Whatever it is, it’s gone before I can analyze it, and so is Brooke.

She turns without saying another word. Without giving me another glance.

I watch the soft sway of her hips until she disappears around a corner. I saunter in the direction of my car, my hands curling in my pockets. Tensing, releasing, and tensing again. I think about how else I could’ve responded to Brooke’s irresolution just now. How I could’ve reacted differently, and if it would’ve mattered.

I think about it all afternoon.

Through four classes, while I struggle to keep my attention off the studio window and the bakery across the street, I picture Brooke’s face on the footpath when I first found her out there.

Those big, rolling tears wetting her cheeks. Her quivering lip. The way she startled when I approached her.

I remember the feel of her hands on my chest as she shoved me off, yelling about how she doesn’t know men like me.

Good, I recall thinking. I want to be the only one. Her only one.

Seven o’clock rolls around. Stragglers from the last class finally gather their towels and water bottles and exit the studio. I shut and lock the door, allowing myself one glance across the street.

One more glance.

The lights are off in the bakery. Brooke’s probably home by now. Or out, erasing me from her memory. Replacing me . . .

The thought makes me nauseous. I take a long, hot shower and heat up some soup for dinner.

Sitting at my kitchen table with my bowl in front of me, my laptop opened, I update my website and send out a newsletter via email, informing subscribers of the additional class tomorrow morning.

Maybe I’ll at least have one person show. That’s enough to transform this lie into a truth.

I swirl my spoon around the bottom of the bowl, stirring up the vegetables. Just as I’m about to close out of my email, a new message shows up in my inbox. The sender, [email protected], heightens my intrigue.

The small bookstore down the street.

I move the mouse and open up the message, quickly scanning the short paragraph.

Trish, the owner I met a few weeks back, has mentioned my class to her daughter, who in turn informed her roommates. Excitement is brewing. They are all interested in attending and are hoping for something this week. Maybe something permanent, if they all enjoy it.

My first smile in hours stretches across my mouth. A lightness moves through me.

I type out my response, my suggestion of a day and time. I allude to my enthusiasm as well, and welcome any parents or siblings, offering my standard ‘first class on me’ discount. I send the email and grab my phone to shoot out a quick text to my sister, Ellie, as I pad toward my bed.

She’ll be so excited about this.

I sit on the edge of the mattress with my phone in my hand. Instead of opening up a new text, my thumb hovers over the last message from Brooke. I hesitate, then press on the screen to enlarge it.

Brooke: I’m a genius. Let’s camp out in your loft! That way I can enjoy the tent (and you) and I won’t even have to be outside. FANFUCKINGTASTIC idea, yeah? ;)

Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my legs and stare at the screen. I read the message two more times. I breathe deeply, evenly as I picture Brooke admiring the tent pitched in the corner of my room.

By the window, obviously. I’d like her to see the stars.

She climbs in excitedly and tugs on my hand. We tumble down together onto the soft, billowy sleeping bag and clutch at each other. Clothes are stripped. I taste her skin, nuzzling my mouth between her legs. My hands fit to her curves, squeezing her hips, her breasts. She explores my body with her eyes and wild touch, dragging her nails across my back, arching off the floor and writhing against my tongue.