by Mariah Dietz
Rose is silent as she stares pensively at the blank canvas. “Why’d you choose to focus on football rather than art?”
“Have you ever heard the term starving artist?”
She snickers. “Yeah, but I’ve already found the answer for that. You just have to paint shirtless and create a couple of live streaming channels, and people will pay to watch you paint and then buy your art.”
“It’s not your worst idea,” I tell her. “Could I draw stick figures and knock out like forty pictures in a day?”
“Depends on how much you plan on charging. You might need to add some dirty talking to your live feed if you’re going to be charging more than fifty bucks.”
“If we’re adding that to the table, the price just went up to three-hundred.”
Rose flashes a smile. “Own it.”
I chuckle, dropping a hand to the small of her back.
She leans against me. “Are they all landscapes?”
I nod. “Landscapes are more forgiving.” I guide her to the art rack that houses multiple pieces and takes up a significant portion of the room. I reach for a picture I’d painted last year of the Pacific Ocean after we’d done the beach cleanup, another of the campus after it had snowed a couple of inches. Another of a tree that I used to climb.
“They’re incredible,” she says. “How long do they take you?”
“This one’s taken me six months,” I tell her, pointing at the bridge.
“Wow. Okay, stick figures it is.”
I chuckle, grabbing her waist and leading her back out of the living room. I close the door and the fumes inside. “Are you hungry? I have a vegetable lasagna that I thought we could heat up for lunch.”
Surprise, or maybe it’s uncertainty that draws her eyebrows up. I understand her reaction. Things have gone so fast, but there’s an ease about being around here that makes it feel natural and normal, and so I push through the whisper of hesitance.
“You won’t taste the vegetables. I swear.”
She smirks. “Promise?” She follows me into the small kitchen, leaving the kitchen island between us.
I pull out the glass dish covered in aluminum foil that Stevie brought over, along with numerous other dishes, which are all individually portioned. This one, however, he knows is one of my favorites and made enough to give me leftovers. I set it on the counter and quickly scan over the brief directions he left on the foil. “When you interview Banks, be sure to ask him how to say aluminum,” I tell her.
“Aluminum?”
I nod.
“Why?”
“Trust me; it’s worth it.”
Her smirk returns. “Worth it? That implies he won’t like the question.”
I shake my head. “He’s a good guy, and he likes you because Chloe adores you.”
“I like Chloe. She seems really nice.” She stares at me for a moment as though mulling over my words or possibly her reply. “Did you make the lasagna?”
“If I told you yes, would you be impressed?”
Her smile travels to her eyes. “Definitely. I prefer savory over sweet. A man who can cook is definitely sexy.”
“I’ll let Stevie know,” I tell her.
She chuckles. “If it’s good, I might even leave my phone number.”
“This is the best lasagna in the world,” I tell her. “But Stevie’s married and has three children and two Pomeranians who he talks about more than his kids.”
“I can exchange stories about Juliet.”
“Stevie’s not a cat person.”
Rose gives me her best shocked expression. “And just like that, the affair is over.”
While the oven preheats, I grab the salad and bottle of Italian dressing from inside of the fridge.
“How do you think the rumor site found out about Dustin?”
I set the loaf of French bread Stevie left on the counter beside the lasagna and consider my answer for a solid minute before shaking my head. “I have no idea. I mean, his accident wasn’t a secret. It was all over the news, and everyone who went to our school knew.” I fish out the box of aluminum foil to wrap the bread in. “I don’t know where they’re getting any of their information from. I mean, they have shit from out of state.”
“Do you think it’s one person?”
I’ve contemplated this question a dozen times but quickly realized my dwelling on the site doesn’t do anything but cause frustration. “Your sister is all bought into the idea of your articles. Your dad’s still a little reluctant. He wants us just to ignore it.”
“Oh yeah?”
“He wasn’t what I expected.”
Rose’s eyes dance with amusement. “What did you expect?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, but not him.”
“What? Someone who’s good at talking themselves up? Someone who has a keen sense of reading a room and knowing how to bullshit people? He’s a lifetime politician—trust me. You have no idea who my dad is because he changes based upon his audience at the drop of a hat. It’s what he does, and the more attention and accolades he receives, the more time he gives someone.”
“Is that why you don’t get along with him? Because you don’t feel like you know him?”
Her brow furrows. I know I’ve crossed the threshold of information she’s comfortable with divulging, but for the first time, she’s in my house without a campus filled with fellow students or a restaurant with other diners to change the subject, and so for the first time, I push past that barrier she’s set up.
“It plays a role.” She sits down at one of the stools, though I can see her discomfort as she scans over the kitchen to avoid meeting my gaze. “My dad’s going to be a great asset to your father’s campaign. I don’t want you to think that just because I don’t get along with him, it means he’s incompetent or anything.”
My dad showed me some of his old yearbooks and photo albums last weekend, and my mom had managed to produce a picture of my dad at your parent’s wedding. I have a copy of the picture sitting on my bookshelf. The pictures led to stories about their time in college together and the many things Rose’s dad accomplished. He fought for voter rights and land use cases before interning for a senator and then working for the president and eventually becoming his Chief of Staff. That’s where my dad’s general information ended until he returned nearly a decade later, and Rose’s mom passed away.
Behind me, the oven beeps, notifying me it’s done preheating. I tear off the instructions and put the lasagna into the warmed oven.
“I have a few more questions for our interview,” Rose says, reaching for her phone. “These ones aren’t as personal.” She sets the recorder on the counter. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
23
Rose
“Hey, stranger,” Amita says as she walks by the printer, which is still next to my desk in the newsroom. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’m still making it a habit to avoid this place,” I tell her.
Amita laughs. “I don’t blame you.”
“How are you doing?” I ask.
She nods. “Currently, I’m taking advantage of using the printer because I’m out of ink at my apartment. Don’t tell Anthony.”
I grin. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“What are you working on?”
“More of that personal interest series I’ve been working on,” I tell her.
Amita’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “Really? I thought you were only publishing a single week’s worth?”
“I was, but I’m doing this as a…” The word “favor” balances on my tongue, but it feels wrong because while this might help the football team and save them from more embarrassment and investigations, that isn’t what has me interested in doing this short series. “It’s my way to try and set justice in journalism.”
“Color me intrigued.”
I shrug. “You remember our discussion about the website that was posting pictures of the football team?”
; She nods.
“Since people are so interested in learning about the team, I did the legwork and digging and wrote actual stories about numerous players. Rather than spreading lies and inappropriate pictures like some rag, I’m going to give people what they actually want.”
“Which is?”
“The truth. Insight on who these guys actually are.”
Amita winces. “Is either portrayal accurate?”
“Absolutely. Attacking people over their sexual preferences and history is gross and offensive unless it was a violation to someone else.”
Amita nods. “I understand, and I get that you’re passionate about this. I’d just be careful defending them. I mean, maybe some of those stories may hold more truth than we know.”
“Except I know several that have been blatant lies. This person or persons is publishing these rumors in an attempt to maim and embarrass these guys, and that’s tabloid bullshit.”
“I blame reality TV,” she says.
“There’s probably truth in that,” I tell her, thinking of my conversation yesterday with Ian. “Anyways, I’m not hanging my hat on these stories. It’s the beginning of the year. I’m going to do this short series in an attempt to offer another perspective, and then return to writing about sports until Anthony gets bored and gives me national news again.” I shoot an accusatory glare at his office.
“Well, I hope that happens. I’ve missed hearing your voice in the paper.” Amita parts with a kind smile, returning to her seat on the opposite side of the room.
I sit down and try to resume my focus on the article.
Ian and I have been dating for nine full days, and for me, the girl who hated dating, I’m counting each one of them. I’m kind of glad I didn’t date anyone else in college because I have no doubt it would have been a waste of my time. These past nine days have redefined so many of my conceptions—ideas that had already started transforming months ago when Arlo started hanging around us. Even before he began dating Olivia, Arlo had started to change my opinions, and I owe him a large piece of my newly found happiness.
These nine days have felt significant, not only because it feels so damn good to be making time for someone and to have that reciprocated, but Bree has been working with me at the studio, where she’s been making suggestions that are helping me far more than I had anticipated. I also made two new offers on some spaces, and the design duo I met has come back with four of my designs, and I love each of them. My cherry on top has been that between the articles and Cooper’s expert computer skills or hacking skills or whatever magic he’s been doing, fewer people have been discussing and sharing the rumors.
I glance at a copy of the article published last week about Ian. My thoughts stray to memories that date back to last year. Back when he was a random hot guy in the Statistics study group who was quiet and serious, with a stern disposition that made me often think too much about him, to being the hot guy who threw really great parties who I tried to sneak looks at and understand better, to then being the hot guy who turned out to not only have intelligence in spades but a conscience. Now, he’s the hot guy who gives me mind-blowing orgasms and reads over my shoulder when I find an interesting article that catches my attention so he can discuss it with me.
My mind wanders to Arlo, who went from being seemingly allergic to relationships to being fully invested with Olivia. I watched it all happen first-hand—from the initial sparks of interest to the reciprocation to the progression of their relationship. I had wondered what made him change his mind, and now I’m wondering if romance books weren’t lying. Maybe there really is a single person made for each of us.
A drink is placed on my desk, startling me from my wandering thoughts. I look up and find Ian smiling at me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Picking you up to take you to the park cleanup.”
My jaw falls. “The park cleanup,” I cry, placing both hands on my head. “I completely forgot.” I scoot my chair back and start gathering things I’ll need to work on tonight and things I don’t want to leave here.
“We have plenty of time,” he says though the clock says we only have fifteen minutes to make it there on time, and it’s almost a fifteen-minute drive from here.
“It’s okay. Let me just…” I tap the papers on the desk to straighten them and put them into a file that I close and stack on top of my laptop.
“That’s a lot of papers,” he says.
I wince. “I know, don’t tell Raegan.” She’s all about saving the planet and living green.
He laughs. “Need me to get anything?” he asks as I swing my bag over my shoulder and grab the coffee he’d brought me.
“I think I’ve got it all…” I glance back at my desk and catch Amita’s gaze. She’s watching me with mixed interest or maybe accusation because I didn’t mention to her that the series has become increasingly personal to me. “Have a good afternoon,” I tell her.
“Yeah, you too,” she says.
Ian holds the door open for me and links our fingers as I step outside.
It’s chilly today, officially feeling like summer has ended. The leaves are beginning to turn shades of yellow, orange, and brown. We don’t get many of the bright reds like we did during my short duration in DC. Early leaves have begun to fall, covering the grass that’s appearing more tired with every cool night. I step closer to Ian, and he drops my hand and wraps his arm around my shoulders as he comes to a stop. He leans close, and my heart races, and my belly expands with butterflies. I tip my head back, drunk on the instant hit of lust and desire that Ian unleashes. He kisses me softly but thoroughly. Thoughts of ditching the park and heading back to my apartment tickle my thoughts.
“Once we’re done with the park, I think we should spend Monday afternoons trying all those restaurants with reviews that you like,” he says.
“That could be fun. Or, we could spend them naked…”
“Plan B, it is.”
I chuckle as we continue toward the parking lot, his arm still wrapped around my shoulders.
“Did you look at the rumor site?”
Ian releases a harsh breath. “I hate that I’m following the damn site,” he says. “But, I also hate the idea of being blindsided again.”
Today’s rumor included an old photo of Tyler Banks, with the rumor that he’d slept with a married woman in London and had to move to America because of it. I’d texted Chloe when I saw the rumor to ensure she was okay, and aside from the bitterness behind another rumor, she said it was hilarious and also wrong.
“I feel bad for Banks, but I’m sure as shit relieved it wasn’t Pax.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird that he hadn’t been on the site again? I know I saw people taking pictures or videos of him.”
“I don’t try to pretend that I understand what they were trying to accomplish,” he tells me. “I’m just hoping Pax can figure his shit out before he doesn’t get to make the choice.”
Dustin.
I hadn’t considered the parallel until this moment, and now it feels so significant that it’s impossible not to see it.
“Do his actions remind you of Dustin’s?”
Ian’s steps falter, but he quickly resumes his pace. “Probably more than it should. Pax is older and smarter, and he has a good support system. But, I used to think Dustin was too smart and driven to let anything come between him and his dreams...” He shrugs. Disappointment flashes across his face, but his hand tightens around my shoulder.
“What are you doing tonight?” I ask.
“Practice, and then hopefully, seeing you.”
I grin. “I just need to work on my articles.”
“I can come over, or you can finally stay over at my place and get over your fear of my parents. They know we’re dating.”
“Sure. And I am all about owning my sexual appetite, but I’d prefer they not actively think I’m sleeping with you until we graduate a couple of levels.”
“Graduate?
Do I get a hat? A ceremony?”
“A naked one,” I tell him.
He laughs and leans in, kissing me. “In that case, we had two ceremonies yesterday.”
I elbow him, but he catches my arm, always fast and always anticipating. We stop at his truck, and he towers close, forcing me to back up against the passenger door.
“Prepare yourself,” he says, taking my coffee and setting it inside the bed of the truck.
“Prepare myself?”
“Take a deep breath or count to five or whatever you need to do to hear a truth bomb.”
His steel-colored eyes are intense and focused, not a hint of nerves like the ones I’m currently swimming in. “I spent two months trying to pretend my feelings for you were purely superficial, another thirty days trying to catch your attention, and then two months working to convince you to date me. I didn’t kiss you or touch you during that entire process to prove my level of commitment was far beyond how fucking sexy you are. I spent the next couple of months trying to forget about you, but your memory followed me all through Italy, and now you’re finally mine. We can pass whatever arbitrary anniversaries, but they won’t matter because nothing is going to change—not my feelings or my desire for you—because you’re mine, and I’ve been yours since the first damn day I saw you.”
I lean forward and seal my lips over his as my heart explodes in my chest because it’s so full. His tongue sweeps across my lips, and I tilt my head back and part my lips as I accept him with a soft moan. I thread my arms around his shoulders, the warmth and strength of him feeling so safe and comforting. I lose time and sense in the kiss that starts urgent and turns languid and then possessive as we ravish each other.
“The very last thing I want to do is go work on the park,” Ian says, placing his forehead on mine, the cadence of his breaths matching my racing heart.
“I know, but I promised Bree that I’d be there.”
Ian pulls away slowly, a smile teasing his lips. “Tonight, your mine.” He kisses my temple and reaches for the passenger door to open it for me.