Текст книги "Resentment"

Автор книги: Nicole London

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter 4

MIA

It’s Saturday morning and I’m in a café across town, spending my day looking over my application for Western Peak College. It’s a small, private art school in Portland, and I haven’t bothered to tell my mom that I’m applying. She still thinks I’m dead set on going to Harvard.

She also thinks that I’ve “finally come to my senses” and has thoroughly embarrassed me every afternoon that Dean has brought me home. She’s waved at him from the windows as if she’s a good mother, and then she’s sat me down in the living room, asking for details like we’re some type of giddy girlfriends. Like I would ever tell her anything real.

“Now that you’re dating him, maybe you can finally feel comfortable running for homecoming queen?” she said to me this morning. “When I won two years in a row, it changed my life. I think it will change yours, too. It’ll probably help with your low self-esteem as well.”

I can still remember wanting to slam the door in her face, but I kept my calm. Until she uttered her closing remarks: “You could potentially have ‘Daddy issues’ since me and your father have been separated for so long¸ so let me know whenever you want to discuss sex with Dean. That way, I can tell you about the repercussions and get you an appointment with an associate at my office.”

I can no longer even ‘pretend’ to smile when she talks.

Why is it that all the supposed great psychiatrists are the ones who have the most fucked up way of thinking?

Shaking the thought of her away, I re-read the introduction of my essay over and over, wondering if the opening line “If you’re reading this, you’re seconds away from meeting one of the most passionate artists you’ll ever meet” is too strong. As I scratch out a few of the words, I feel the familiar buzz of my phone in my pocket.

DEAN:  Hey. What are you doing?

I smile, but I don’t answer. We talked on the phone last night for almost four hours. I’m convinced that I need to slow down whatever this is between us as much as I can.

It buzzes again.

DEAN:  I know you see my text message, Mia. What are you doing?

I look up and scan the coffee shop, making sure he’s not there.

MIA:  I’m ignoring you. Do you mind if I continue?

DEAN:  I do mind. No one should be forced to do something they don’t really enjoy :-)

MIA:  I’m filling out a college application. You know the one I was supposed to fill out last night before you called me and interrupted?

DEAN:  It was a welcome interruption. Where are you?

MIA:  Hudson’s Coffee. Why?

DEAN:  I’ll come get you in an hour. I want to take you somewhere today. I think you’ll like it.

MIA:  Have we discussed how you never ASK me if I want to hang out with you? How you always just assume?

DEAN:  No, but I don’t think we need to. That’d be a waste of a text message, and yours aren’t unlimited :-)

I smile and put my phone on silent, now thinking of a better opening line for my essay. I manage to finish the entire application by the time Dean’s car pulls up right in front of the café’s windows.

Looking outside, I see a few girls from our school waving at him as he gets out of his car and leans against it. They step closer to him, blushing and feeding him the attention he seems to get everywhere, but to my surprise, he entertains them for only a few seconds before moving away and coming inside.

“Did you finish?” he asks, walking straight to my table. “Do you need more time?”

“No.” I stand up. “But I think your adoring fans out there would’ve appreciated more time.”

“I’m sure.” He rolls his eyes and grabs my backpack. “I’m not interesting in being ‘Dean Collins’ outside of school, though. Especially not today.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” He leads me out to his car and opens the door. “Get in.”

“After you tell me where we’re going.”

“Someplace I think you’ll like.”

“Does this someplace have a name? An address? I need to make sure someone knows where I am since I’m leaving.”

“I’ll know where you are.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s how all kidnappers think. That’s not the point.”

Avoiding my question, he scoops me up and places me into the car himself, playfully clicking the child safety lock before shutting my door.

He gets behind the wheel and quickly speeds away, veering his car onto the highway that leads into another county.

“Can I ask you something, Dean?” I ask.

“Anything.”

“Why are you still paying me to tutor you? Now that we’re supposedly dating?”

“We are dating.” He looks over at me. “But regarding the tutoring payments, would you like me to stop?”

“You can.” I shrug. “I don’t feel like I have to be paid to put up with you now.”

He laughs. “Okay. I still need the tutoring though. Would you like to be paid in other ways, then?”

“No.” I roll my eyes. “I need to ask you something else, though.”

“I’m listening.”

“Why exactly do you need all A’s? You have yet to tell me about that.”

“A guy can’t just want to get good grades for his upcoming college prospects?”

“Not when every college is clamoring for said guy to play for them, and would happily accept him even if he had all F’s.”

He speeds past a few exit ramps before speaking again. “Said guy hates playing football.”

“What?” I look over at him in complete shock. “How is that even possible? You’re so good at it, you make it look so easy.”

He zones out again, not speaking until he pulls off on an exit. “Just because I’m naturally good at something doesn’t mean I actually enjoy it...It’s just too late to get away with backing out of it.”

“So, all those high profile offers and media coverage mean nothing to you?”

“Not a goddamn thing,” he says. “Being an athlete isn’t a guarantee. Once you get hurt or lose, people forget about you. I want to do something that matters, something that helps other people. I don’t want to be remembered as some small town sports hero, some record that’s in the yearbooks. Besides, I’m tired of people assuming that football is the only thing I fucking care about.”

I sit still, completely stunned. “So what do you want? And why don’t you just tell everyone the truth?”

“In this town?” He shakes his head. “Where football is everything? I don’t think so. Only a few more games left in the season anyway. I can make it through that.”

I’m not sure what to say next. I would’ve never guessed that he didn’t enjoy playing the sport everyone loved him for and I would’ve never guessed the guy who proudly showed off all his football trophies on the local news last year, wasn’t actually happy about any of them.

“I need you to keep this between us,” he says. “Don’t tell anyone else. Can you do that for me?

“Of course.”

We ride the rest of the way in silence and then he pulls into the parking lot of Carson, a small liberal arts college. He drives towards the Arts Campus, parking in front of a massive oak tree.

Helping me out of the car, he pulls me against his side and whispers, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Being the first person I could tell the truth to.” He plants a light kiss against my forehead before opening the door to the building.

“Is this an art show?” I ask, smiling as we walk inside. “Is that what’s happening?”

“No.” He leads me toward the school’s auditorium, where my eyes catch pictures of today’s main event. “There’s a showing of Macbeth. I figured I’d bring someone with me who’d actually enjoy.”

I have no words, and I know he can see how hard I’m blushing right now.

He hands our tickets to an usher and she points us in the direction of our seats.

As we sit down, his arm goes around my shoulder and he leaves very little space between us.

“Can I tell you something personal of my own, Dean?” I say as the lights dim.

“Sure, what is it?”

“I’ve hated you since I met you freshman year.”

“I’m aware.” He laughs softly. “That’s what you call ‘something personal’ though? I already knew that. And, you clearly don’t hate me now, so...Isn’t that a moot point?”

“I was trying to say that now...I think I really like you.” I can see hints of his smile in the darkness. “And I like this version of you far better than the version I thought I knew before.”

“Once again,” he whispers, “I was completely aware of that point, too, but...Thank you for finally admitting it...” His lips find mine and he kisses me deeply, then he pulls me even closer and wraps his hands around my waist.

We miss most of the first act because his lips take quite a while to leave mine...

Chapter 5

MIA

It’s official. I’ve lost my mind.

I’m working on a piece in “art club” and Dean is sitting across from me, playfully arguing with me about the conversation we had on the phone last night. But, instead of kicking him out or telling him to go away, I’m enjoying every single second of this.

I’m enjoying every single day of this.

I can discuss Western Peak College with him (He dropped my application off at the post office because I was too chicken-shit to mail it myself), I can discuss literature (I’m now convinced he knows more about Shakespeare that I do), and I can be myself.

With the exception of a few Saturdays here or there with Autumn and Jacob, Dean is who I find myself spending most of my time with. I go to all of the pep rallies now, sit at the fifty yard line for all of his games, and I soak up every single second that we spend together during car rides to and from school.

I’m trying my hardest to let myself accept that this is a good thing, that this could possibly turn into something more, but there’s a small, tiny voice in the back of my head that keeps warning me: “Don’t get too invested...This won’t last. He won’t last...”

Chapter 6

MIA

Winter Break

There are a lot of ways that I pictured myself kicking off the first few days of winter break, and I’m pretty sure that shopping for prom dresses wasn’t one of them. As a matter of fact, shopping was nowhere in my top twenty.

Nonetheless, I’m currently serving out another ‘BFF Trump Card’ and tagging along with Autumn as she searches for the ultimate gown. We’ve been at the mall for over five hours so far and she’s tried on at least two dresses in every single store.

“How does this one look?” She comes out of the dressing room, wearing a sparkling pink, backless gown.

“Didn’t you just try that exact same dress on in a different color?”

“Yeah, so?” She eyes herself in the mirror. “There’s a huge difference between black and pink, Mia. One is light and the other is dark. Plus, they’re two different colors.”

“Wow, insightful. How exactly did we become friends?”

She laughs. “Do you like it or not?”

“It’s okay. I liked the blue one you tried four stores ago.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” She shrugs. “Okay, well, let’s go to a few more stores to make sure that one is the one.”

I nod in agreement. The second we get out of here I’m going to do one of the things that was on my top twenty list.

Instead of returning to the dressing room, Autumn steps in front of me and crosses her arms. “Hold on a second. Please tell me you plan on going to prom.”

“I actually wasn’t planning on it.” I admit.

“Okay, now I need to ask: How exactly did we become friends?” She laughs. “Why wouldn’t you go? At least for me?”

“For you? You’re going with Jacob.”

“Yeah, but it’s more-so about seeing everyone one last time. Surely you’ve read enough Young Adult books to know that. You need to start looking for a dress.”

I shake my head at her. “It’s six months away. Even if I do end up changing my mind, I have plenty of time to look for one.”

“It clearly takes a long time to find a good dress.” She tugs at her gown’s fabric. “Why don’t you ask Dean if he’ll take you and be your date?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you ask Dean if he’ll take you and be your date?” She repeats, slowly emphasizing every syllable. “Did you catch that or do I need to say it again?”

“We’re just—”

“Friends?” She scoffs. “Please! I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Everyone has actually.”

“What do you mean everyone? I haven’t told anyone about me and him but you.”

“Mia...” She tilts her head to the side. “Did you really think that all of the time you two have been spending together would go un-noticed by everyone at Central? You’ve said it yourself, everyone watches every move Dean makes. Those moves now include you.”

I sigh. I honestly have been enjoying my time with him too much to focus on what everyone else is saying.

“Ask him if he’ll take you to prom,” she says. “It won’t be a surprise to anyone if you two go together.”

“No...” I shake my head. “That’s okay. I have a perfectly good reason why that’s a bad idea.” Before I can say anything else, she snatches my cell phone out of my hand.

“Let me help you out,” she says, tapping my screen.

“Oh, my god, no!” I reach for my phone, but she steps back and locks herself in the dressing room. “Autumn, please don’t do this to me!”

She starts humming, singing “You’re going to thank me one day,” and I frantically twist the doorknob, wishing I could prevent her from doing whatever she has schemed.

“Can I please have my phone back?” I ask, my heart now racing a mile a minute. “Right now?”

“In a second...” She hums again, and I consider calling the manager over, consider telling him my friend is shoplifting just to get him to open the door.

“All done!” Autumn opens the door and tosses me my phone. “Shall we do Macy’s next? Feel free to tell me ‘Thank You’ while we’re on the way. You’re welcome.”

I immediately tap on my text messages, realizing that there’s a whole new thread between “me” and Dean:

MIA:  Hey...What are you up to right now?

DEAN:  Just got out of practice. I told you it was a two-a-day practice for today, remember?

MIA:  Sorry, I must have TOTALLY forgotten! Anyway, I need to ask you something. Something important. (And OMG do you have any pictures of your abs? I don’t see any in my phone’s gallery so, yeah...Just wondering, since you’ve clearly never sent me any.)

DEAN:  What is it you have to ask? (Attached :-) )

MIA:  Holy fuck...

DEAN:  LOL What is it you have to ask?

MIA:  Are you going to prom this year? (Do you mind if I send Autumn a few of these? I mean, she has a bf of her own, but she would really appreciate having these to look at...In private you know?)

DEAN:  Yes, I’m planning to.  (I don’t mind.)

MIA:  Did you already have a date, or were you planning to go by yourself? (I’ll make sure Autumn doesn’t show them to anyone else. I promise!)

DEAN:  I’m not going by myself. (I would appreciate that.)

MIA: Okay so...WHO are you going with then? WHO ARE YOU GOING WITH THEN???

DEAN:  :-)

MIA:  That’s not an answer damnit! Tell me right now!

DEAN:  I’m going to ask Mia, Autumn. Sometime over the break, probably when we’re alone. (Why do you have her cell phone?)

MIA:  I thought so...Good! I’ll delete this thread so she won’t see these messages. (Because she was too chicken shit to ask you, so I figured I’d do it myself.) Thanks!

DEAN:  Make sure you delete this.

MIA:  TOTES!

***

Later that night, when I arrive home, I see that my mom has placed a large packet from Harvard on the dining room table. She’s draped one of her red and white Harvard T-shirts on a chair and written, “I think this is a good sign!” in a red Sharpie on the back flap of the envelope.

I consider submitting it to the postmaster as proof of her mail tampering, a federal offense.

I wonder how much time she would get...

Annoyed, I rip it open and pull out the letter.

The first word is “Congratulations!” There’s not even a full paragraph between that and the words “our prestigious university,” but I can’t deny that I feel a small sense of pride at their offer of a full academic scholarship with room and board.

If only it was the right school...

I leave the letter in plain view on the table, so she can see that I’ve read it, and then I go up to my room, pulling out the much smaller envelope from Western Peak. I set it on my desk and stare at it, scared to take a look. Small, thin envelopes are never a good sign.

After staring at it for half an hour, I tuck it inside my jeans and decide to open it after Christmas. That way, if it’s bad, it won’t ruin what’s left of my holiday break.

I lay across my bed and pull out my phone, deciding to get the inevitable over with.

MIA:  Hey, mom. I saw the letter on the table from Harvard and opened it...I got in!

MOM:  Of course, you got in! So happy you’ll be going to the same college I went to! We’ll have to celebrate later. I’ll take you wherever you want for dinner, okay? You can even invite Dean! :-)

MIA:  Okay...When will you be back?

MOM:  Probably not until nine. Let’s celebrate tomorrow night, okay? That gives me time to call everyone I know and make it a huge event. Is that okay?

It’s more than okay. I was only asking her about what time she’d be back so I could paint in peace.

MIA: More than okay! See you later!

MOM:  See you later, future Harvard grad!

Ugh...

I toss my phone onto my bed and open my closet, pulling out a blank canvas. It still depresses me that I have to hide evidence of my passion in my own house.

I go into my bathroom and push aside the cleaning supplies in the closet, taking out the green box where I hide all of my acrylic paint.

I take my time setting them against the window sill in my room, turning on my ceiling fan. I take out a few unfinished traces from my desk and debate which one I’m going to transfer onto the canvas.

Just as I decide to go with the picture of the crowd at the bonfire from my first pep rally, I hear the garage door opening.

Shit! She must have changed her mind...

I toss all of my paint back into the box and place my canvas face down on my bed. I rush downstairs, sitting at the table where the Harvard letter is and put on my best fake smile.

Taking a deep breath, I silently mouth, “I’m definitely excited about following in your foot-steps. So, so excited.” I wait for her to walk through the door, but nothing happens.

Confused, I walk over to the door and open it. It’s Dean.

“What the—” I shake my head. “What are you doing here?”

“I can’t come see you?”

“You can. I’m just confused as to why you would be opening our garage.”

He smiles, stepping back. “I thought that was your doorbell.” He looks at the two panels outside our side door again. Then he presses the actual doorbell. “Is that better?”

“Yes.” I laugh, holding the door open for him. “Come in.”

“Was I interrupting something?”

“No, just a painting session. I haven’t started yet, though. I was setting up.”

“Hmmm.” He stops at the dining room table and picks up my Harvard letter, reading it. “Congratulations. Did you just get this?”

“Yeah, just opened it a few minutes ago.”

“Is this a different type of ‘Harvard’ or something? Why don’t you seem excited?”

“The same reason you’re not excited about ESPN calling you the ‘number one high school quarterback’ in the country.”

“Noted.” He sets the letter down. “I was looking forward to tutoring today, you know.”

“Why? We’re on break, and you have an A. Actually, you have an A-plus, a higher grade than me.”

“She only gave me the extra plus because the team is still undefeated.” He looks around the room. “Where is your canvas and paint?”

“In my room.”

“And where is that?”

“Somewhere you’re not invited to be.”

He smiles. “I was going to offer to bring it to my car. I want you to come to my house.”

“What?”

“Oh, right,” he says. “You need me to ask you, so you can pretend that you’re not interested.” He clears his throat. “Will you come with me to my house, Mia Gray? My dad’s gone for the day and I really need some good company.”

“I’m not having sex with you.” I blurt out and immediately blush. I didn’t intend to say that aloud.

“Who said anything about sex?” He smirks.

“No one. No one said anything about sex.”

“Hmmm.” He steps closer, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You think I want to have sex with you?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”

He smiles. “You should, actually...Because I do.” He trails his finger against my lips. “But I would never push you into that, and that’s not why I want you to come over.”

He’s saying more words, but my brain stopped working the moment he said, “Because I do” and I haven’t been able to focus on anything that came out after that.

By the time I come to my senses, he’s walking upstairs searching for my room. I stand still, watching as he comes back with my canvas and takes it to the car.

When he returns, he heads toward the steps again. “Where’s all your paint?”

“Green box. Under my bed.”

“Okay.” He goes upstairs to get it and slips his arm around my waist when he returns. He walks me out to his car and as usual, acts like the perfect gentleman.

“Where are your football friends?” I finally manage to get words out of my mouth when we’re down the street.

“They all went to Michael Easton’s place. He’s having a huge party today.”

“Why didn’t you want to go?”

“You know why I didn’t want to go.” He looks over at me—grinning, and I swear to God he has me right then and there.

I send a quick text to my mom—Out with Dean. I don’t have to read her immediate response to know that she doesn’t mind, that she’s probably more excited than I am.

As Dean drives way past the last subdivision on Main Street, I look over at him. “I thought you said we were going to your house? You told me you only lived ten minutes away from me.”

“I do,” he says. “Ten minutes plus thirty.”

“What?” I sit there in shock. If that’s the case, it means that all those times he’s taken me home and picked me up from school, have been way out of his route. “Why would you lie about that?”

“Because I knew if I told you the truth, you’d make it ten times more difficult than it needed to be.” His hand clasps mine behind the gearshift. “Besides, I was willing to work however hard and do whatever it took to get you.”

I take back what I said earlier. He has me right here. Right here.

He turns up the radio and we let our conversation go silent until we make it to a colossal black gate that stretches for blocks.

He pulls out a key-card and holds it against a small, metal machine and the gate slowly opens—exposing me to a world of grand, immaculate houses and freshly manicured lawns.

Driving past a golf course, a lake, and what appears to be the makings of a small ice skating rink, he pulls into the driveway of a blond-bricked house that’s three stories tall.

I stare at the house in awe. It’s literally five times bigger than my own house, and I’m pretty sure my bedroom could fit inside one of the windows. I’m still staring at it when he opens my door and walks me inside.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, when we step into the massive, all-white kitchen.

“A little. You know how to cook?”

“I do, but I was referring to the microwave.” He takes out a few containers of Tupperware from the fridge. “I made Spaghetti earlier. Would you like some?”

I nod, taking a seat on a barstool.

“Do you want to paint downstairs or in my room?”

“Where’s your room?”

“Upstairs.”

“Okay, I’ll paint downstairs.”

He laughs, sliding me a plate of food. “I meant what I said, Mia. I’m not going to come onto you while you’re here.

“And I’m just going to make sure it’s next to impossible for you to do.”

“Fair enough. I’ll be right back.” He disappears for a few minutes and returns with my canvas and my paint. He sets it up in the living room and opens all the blinds. “Is this going to be enough light for you?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He gives me a quick kiss, and leaves the room once more. This time he returns with an acoustic guitar and looks at me, softly saying, “Thank you for coming over.” Then he sits on the couch and holds his pic against the strings, strumming the first few notes of one of my favorite songs.

I put away my plate and step in front of my canvas, using his melodies and inspiration to paint as he plays.

For hours, we exist in our own artistic worlds, not speaking to each other, even though we’re steps away. I even manage to start a new sketch as the first draft of my panting dries, all without talking to him or looking his way.

After he’s played through all the songs from the album of one of our shared bands, I set down my pencil and walk over to the couch, sitting right next to him.

His fingers stop strumming and the music comes to an abrupt end. “What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you keep surprising me,” I say. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I really think you’re short-selling your reputation and talents at school. Maybe if you kept your shirt on more and kept your abs to yourself, I would’ve taken you a lot more seriously before.”

He smiles at that.

“You’re now making better grades than me, and you also play the guitar really well. Why aren’t you in Jazz band? They win awards all the time.”

“A football player in the Jazz band. Yeah, okay. I can think of about twenty reasons why that won’t be happening senior year.”

“You care about what people think? Why?”

“No, and at the moment, I only care about what one particular person thinks.”

“Which person?”

He doesn’t get a chance to answer. At that moment, his dad walks through the front door.

The spitting image of Dean, his salt and pepper colored hair shows under the bright lighting, and he presses his lips into a firm line. He slowly looks between the two of us and throws his keys onto the counter.

“I thought you were going to Michael Easton’s party, Dean,” he says.

“I changed my mind.”

His dad crosses his arms, and the mood in the room begins to shift immediately. There’s now a palpable tension in the air, a tension so thick, I feel like I could cut it with a knife.

“The whole team and coaching staff are there right now discussing the upcoming game.” He glares at Dean. “And four hours ago, did you not call and tell me that you were on your way there?”

“Did you catch the part where I said, I. Changed. My. Mind?”

“So, you lied to me?”

“I didn’t lie.” Dean sets his guitar down and I can feel anger radiating off of him. “I just didn’t update you.”

“You’re starting to get worse and worse about that.” His father clenches his jaw. “You’re still a fucking teenager living under my fucking roof, and you still have to follow my goddamn rules, whether you like it or not.”

I look away from them both, wishing I could somehow disappear.

“Are you done pretending to be a parent now?” Dean stands up. “Don’t you have more women to fuck in the hotel up the street? Aren’t there more boosters you need to steal money from, in exchange for lies that I’ll be going to their programs?”

“What did you just fucking say to me, boy?”

“You heard me.” Dean’s jaw in clenched, too.  “I didn’t stutter.”

“Get the fuck out of my house. Go somewhere far where I won’t have to look at you tonight.”

“Gladly.” He grabs my hand and pulls me up with his guitar, leading me back toward the garage.

“And don’t come back through my doors until you’re ready to talk to me like I’m the adult and you’re the goddamn child!”

“I guess you’ll be waiting,” Dean says as he slams the door.

We get into his car and he speeds off at eighty miles an hour, whipping down a winding back-road that seems to lead to nowhere. I don’t dare say anything while he drives like this. I just grab his hand behind the gearshift and squeeze it so he knows he’s not driving alone.

It takes an hour before I start to see signs of civilization again—rental car companies, pay per day parking lots, and then I see signs for the airport.

Finally slowing down, Dean pulls the car under an overpass.

“Come on,” he says, unbuckling my seatbelt. He gets out of the car and lays back against the hood, motioning for me to do the same.

“I’ll be sure to bring you your canvas this week,” he says as a plane takes off above us. “I should’ve grabbed that, too...”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I just remain quiet.

He doesn’t say anything further until four more planes have taken off into the sky, until the sound of engines roaring against the air temporarily comes to a stop.

“I apologize for the asshole that is my father.” He sighs. “I didn’t think he’d come back home so early. He’s never there during that time.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.” I keep my gaze toward the sky. “Is he like that often?”

“Unfortunately. We argue all the time. You couldn’t pay us to get along.”

He gets quiet all over again, so we watch more planes take off on the runway ahead of us. As the sun begins to set, he rolls over to face me.

“I need to tell you something else personal,” he says, making me roll over on my side, too.

“I’m listening.”

“My dad is using me to live above his means. He’s been bleeding money from his retirement and savings ever since my mom left, so he wants me to play in college, and then the NFL for the pay check. He accepts gifts from recruiters and keeps them for himself...On days like this, I really miss my mom. She was nothing like him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His smile makes its first appearance in hours. “I’m sure you can relate.”

“Yeah, just in reverse. That’s how I feel about my dad,” I admit. “He actually supported me and my brother’s art dreams. My mom couldn’t care less.”

“You have a brother?” He raises his eyebrow.

“Yeah.” I shrug. “He’s four years older, but he ran away shortly after my father divorced my mom since he couldn’t take living with her anymore.”

“Do the two of you keep in contact?”

“Twice a month we talk on the phone, and we email each other from time to time. I’ve been trying to get him to come home for Christmas.”

“I take it that he said no?”

“He actually said  hell no.” I laugh and suddenly his lips are on mine and he’s running his fingers through my hair. I don’t even try to stop him—I kiss him back even harder, feeling his hands go around my waist.

I actually want him to take things further, for his hands to directly touch my skin, so I finally know what it feels like, but he doesn’t.  He simply kisses me until I can’t breathe anymore, until the sun goes down, until the two of us have had enough.