Why am I even thinking this? Dave’s life is groupies and gigs. He doesn’t seem to care much for school. School is what I do best. I pull another section of hair and wind it around my brush. School and straightening. My specialties. What do Dave and I even have in common? There’s no way this could work between us. Last night though…I could get addicted to him.
I’m still in a trance when suddenly a shadow appears in the mirror behind me. I jump about ten feet, fumbling the dryer and dropping the brush, which gets tangled in my hair.
Winston’s standing behind me.
I can’t hear him, but his eyes are wide as he catches the dryer and turns it off. “I’m sorry! You didn’t hear me knock.”
Catching my breath, I slap him on the shoulder. The brush, still stuck in my hair, swings around and hits me in the face. “Dammit, Winston! What are you doing here?” I look in the mirror, carefully unwinding my hair from the brush. “You scared me to death.”
“I wanted to walk to class together.”
“You never go to bio.” He hates biology. The timing of our break up was horrible. We’d picked classes together for second semester, and then a few weeks in on Valentine’s Day, he dumped me. Since we broke up, Winston doesn’t go to many classes, which suits me fine.
“I’m going to fail the final if I don’t figure out what’s going on.”
He adjusts his glasses and replaces them high on his nose. His dark hair is brushed off his face, but his glasses are crooked. Part of my attraction to Winston is the fact that he always looks like a little boy to me. That same little boy I crushed on at summer camp.
“Walk with me?” he asks.
He won’t fail the final. He’s the type of person who never has to study and can pull off a decent grade. Unlike me. I have to work my ass off. Of course, I only settle for A’s.
I shake my head and find his eyes in the mirror. “No, thanks. I have to do some stuff before class.”
His face drops. I can’t muster any sympathy. Not yet. Not after the night I just had.
“I’ll see you there?” he asks.
I shrug and wait for him to leave, still trying to untangle my giant brush from my hair. When he doesn’t, I raise my eyebrows. “What?”
“You look pretty, that’s all,” he says. “I’m not sure I told you enough…you know, when we were together.”
His words are hard to believe: first, since there’s a hairbrush stuck in my head, and second, since he broke my heart. Still, I can’t hate him. I wish I could, but I can’t.
My phone rings as he’s leaving. He walks back in and grabs it off Meg’s desk for me. I let the brush dangle as he hands it to me.
I squeal when I see the area code. “It’s Olympia! It’s like five a.m. there.”
“Answer it!” He waves his hands and points to the phone. “Mags!”
I shake my head to clear my mind, and the brush bangs my nose again. “Ouch. Okay.”
I touch “answer” and clear my throat. “Hello?”
My heart beats a million times a second. I focus on Winston’s face as the woman begins to talk.
Dave
I wake up alone and rush down the hall into the shower. I don’t want to wash Maggie off me yet, but I’m late for practice and smell like a girl. A fucking awesome girl. I miss her already.
As the water heats up, I text her.
I had this great dream last night you were in my bed….
I hop in the shower and wash all the important parts in less than five minutes, and then I wrap my towel around my waist. After I dart back to my room, I throw on a new pair of shorts and a clean T-shirt.
Maggie’s text chimes.
OMG! I had a similar dream! Go figure.
I text back a smiley face—Maggie added the emoji keyboard to my phone—and tell her I’m on my way to rehearsal. She suggests meeting at the dining hall later, and I agree. I grab my guitar case and rush out the door toward the train.
I’m only twenty minutes late by the time I arrive at Bryce’s townhouse in the city. Tommy, Chip, and Tucker are in the garage, drinking and messing around on their instruments. Tucker looks ridiculous sitting behind the drums with a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip.
I walk straight to my cousin and smack him in the back of the head. “Why didn’t you wake me up, fuck face? You could have driven me.”
Tucker starts a little drum roll. He squints and murmurs while the cigarette clings to his bottom lip. “You had a date last night. You told me to stay away, and I didn’t want to bother you. I thought you’d be indisposed.”
Chipper strums his guitar. “How’d it go with Squirrel Girl?”
Tucker’s drum roll increases in intensity and volume. I smile. Then he hits a cymbal.
“Finally?” Chipper asks.
Tucker laughs and takes a deep puff of his nicotine. “Thank God.”
Tommy strums a chord. “Leave him alone. He’s in love.”
The guys laugh, and I roll my eyes. “Are we practicing or what?”
Tommy lifts his pick and points it at me. “Use that love to write more songs, Romeo. That’s all good energy.”
“Until she dumps him,” Chipper says.
I give him a dirty look as I hum scales to warm my vocal chords.
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Sorry. You don’t usually stick with one girl.”
Chip’s not wrong. In an attempt to get them to focus on music instead of me, I ask, “Settle down, assholes. What are we working on today?”
Tucker stands and stretches behind the drums, his fat belly covered in a vintage Knicks T-shirt. “New stuff, loverboy. We decided we want to play your originals. And we want to hear all of it. We know you have more than three songs and that you’re holding out on us.”
“We decided?” I can’t play new stuff on stage. It’s not good enough. I’m an amateur. “I don’t remember deciding that.”
“We outvoted you,” Chipper says. “It’s time, man. Your songs are solid. We want to impress the studio reps at the charity gala thing.”
I’d forgotten about the charity event Juliet’s hosting in Frank’s honor. She’d asked The Randoms to play a set. Supposedly Poppy, one of the absent basement dwellers, has connections in the music industry, who will be in attendance.
I wish she didn’t tell me. Ever since then, the guys are all hyped up. Bryce found out that Poppy’s record people are looking to sign a band to go on a tour this summer.
My heart pumps faster as I search my pockets for my guitar pic. “There’s not enough time until the event for you to learn the songs. They aren’t ready. They’re not that good.”
Tucker walks to me and flicks my shoulder. “They’re good, D-bag. Don’t be an asshole. We’re all affected here, not just you. Get over it.”
I shove him. “Get over what? I’m not going to embarrass myself, or us, by singing a bunch of shit songs. I don’t know enough about composition. I was just fucking around with those tunes.” I ignore their disappointed stares as they scatter around the garage, moving into their places. “Let’s start with something fast.”
Tucker shakes his head and turns his back to me. “Time to grow up, cuz.”
After a few songs, I let it go. The guys lighten up, and we end up having a great rehearsal. Our set list is in place. I can tell the guys are disappointed, even though we love the songs we’re going to play.
Later, as I make my way back to the dorm, I try not to think too hard about it. The songs aren’t ready. I’m not ready. With the songs I’ve chosen, we have a chance. I’m comfortable singing and performing them. The new songs are a crapshoot.
There’s no way the fate of this gig should rest on my songs. It’s too much pressure. Safe is definitely the way to go.
Chapter 14
Maggie
I end up skipping biology for the first time all semester and hide in my room all day. One thought goes through my mind over and over: I can’t believe I didn’t get it.
Frustrated, and
fearing the wrath of my mother, I call the Intern Coordinator back, tell her I was in shock earlier that morning, and beg for an explanation.
“But I don’t understand. How could I be waitlisted?”
The Intern Coordinator sounds as upset as I do. “Our program is very competitive. I pushed for you. I did. Your credentials and references are outstanding. Dr. Cranford is one of our most honored alumni. I’m sorry. Even being on the waitlist is an honor.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course it is.” Waitlists blow. To me, all that being on the waitlist means is that I didn’t get the internship. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Well. I probably shouldn’t tell you this. But since you’re a friend of Dr. Cranford—”
Her tone gives me hope. I reach for a pencil to take notes. “Yes?”
“It’s no guarantee, but it probably wouldn’t hurt you to have another writing sample in your file. It may move you closer to the top of the list. Could you send us more of your work?”
After a soft knock on our door, the knob turns. Winston peeks in around the door.
I wave him in. “More work? Like what?” I say into the phone.
“Another research project would help. Most applicants sent two papers, and you only sent one. That may have been a factor.” I hadn’t known to send two. “A thesis and supporting sources, analysis, and discussion, you know the drill.”
The Coordinator says this like it’s no big deal for a college freshman to handle exams and a research paper at the same time. “When do you need it by?”
“Two weeks at the latest. We’ll turn to the waitlist if we end up with an opening. It has happened—someone can’t make it for the summer. The higher you are on the list, the better.”
Two weeks! I shake my head. Winston cringes. “Sure. I’ll get it to you and hopefully move up that waitlist.” We discuss possible topics, and I hang up.
I throw the phone on my bed and sigh. Winston’s known me for a long time. He knows my faces, and I can’t hide my disappointment.
He moves closer and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Did you say ‘waitlisted’?”
He tries to pull me into a hug, a hug I sorely need, but I step out of his reach. “I can move up on the list, if I do another research paper in the next two weeks.”
He scoffs, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “You’re not going to do be able to do that.”
I stare up at him. “I’m not?”
“No. How could you? We have the charity gala coming up. Finals. When are you going to write a paper? You have New York anyway. You don’t need to go to Olympia.”
He looks at me like he’s explaining to a kid why they can’t have ice cream before bed. “I don’t need to go to Olympia, but it’s everything I’ve wanted since I came to NJU. Can you at least act like you care that my dream won’t become a reality?”
“Hey.” He lifts his hands in surrender, his eyes go wide. “I’m just being realistic.”
I walk past him and open the door, tilting my chin toward the hallway. “Maybe that’s your problem, Win. You’re always being ‘realistic.’” It’s the same word he used when we broke up. It’s not realistic for us to spend the rest of our lives together. We’re only in college. Jerk. “Sometimes I have no idea what I ever saw in you. Thanks for your support.”
He stops in the doorway and turns to face me. “I know how you get. You can’t do anything that’s less than perfect, and you don’t have time to write a perfect paper. I’m being supportive by being truthful.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, thanks.”
When he leaves, I slam the door behind him. I fight the tears that threaten to fall as I plop onto my bed.
I can’t believe I didn’t get the internship. All year I’ve worked for it. All the hours in the library. All the papers and extra credit. Through November. Through Frank’s death. Even through Winston. I thought I could do it. Maybe Winston’s right. I need to give up this dream.
A minute into my pity party, a knock startles me. I drag myself to the door and fling it open, cursing out Winston. “I told you to go away—”
But it’s not Winston. It’s Dave. A guitar case hangs over his shoulder, and he twirls a little purple flower.
He holds his free hand up. “Whoa. Expecting someone else?” He presents the flower.
I don’t take it. Instead, I turn away and go back to my bed, dramatically throwing myself face first onto my pillow. I want to hide forever.
The door shuts. I peek under my arm to see if he stayed or ran.
He stayed, of course he did, and in a flash, he’s sitting on the bed, stroking my hair away from my face. “What’s wrong, beautiful?”
I flip onto my back and look up at him. “I have a thing. This summer. Well, a thing I wanted to do.”
His eyes search mine. His smile turns serious. “Tell me.”
I sit up and pull myself together, and tell him about the internships—Olympia, New York. The pressure put on me by my mother and the pressure I put on myself. The waitlist. How Winston said I can’t do anything that’s not perfect and that I won’t be able to pull it off.
He listens, pushing my hair over my shoulder. When I’m finished, he takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way you planned.”
“Me too.” I hold his hand, tracing the callouses on his fingertips as my bottom lip quivers. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I may be leaving for the summer. I didn’t know how.”
He shrugs. “It’s okay. You don’t owe me any explanations. This is all happening fast with us. We’re still new to each other.”
I let a tear fall. He wipes it away and smiles. “I’m sorry about the waitlist.”
I pout, pursing my lips together to keep from full-fledged bawling. “I’m bummed I didn’t get it.”
“Well, technically you didn’t not get it.” He lifts his brows. “There’s still a chance.”
“How?”
He points at me. “Do the paper, nerdy farm girl.”
I let out a weird noise between a laugh and a groan. “Even if I do, it’s still a long shot.”
He shakes his head. “Not for you. You’re amazing. If anyone can do it, you can.”
I can’t help but smile. “What makes you think that?”
Dave stands and paces the room. “Well, first off, you’re freaking smart. Second, you study a lot. You practically live in the library anyway.” He runs his hand over the back of his neck. “Not that I’ve noticed.”
My cheeks warm with his compliments as I consider the possibility. “But two weeks?”
He grimaces. “Yeah, it’s not ideal. You may have to shed a bit of your perfection complex to get it done. It will be two weeks of torture, but maybe it’s worth it. I hate seeing you so upset. Hey! I’ll help you.”
I reach for him, wrapping my arms around his waist. “How? By distracting me with your you-ness?”
“My you-ness?” He sings the words and rests his hands on my shoulders. The touch instantly relaxes me.
“Yeah, your you-ness. It’s hard for me to be near you and not want to kiss you. Did you forget last night already?”
He sings something that sounds like a bunch of nuh-nuh-nuhs. His hands move down my shoulders to caress my arms. “I didn’t forget. In fact, it’s all I’ve thought about, all day. But I promise I won’t distract you. No me-ness. I will spend the next two weeks taking care of your basic needs.”
I hear his words, but he’s already distracting me with his touch. I lean in and inhale. My body touches his, my nose ends up near his collarbone. He smells like the train—like movement, city, and life.
“My basic needs?” I murmur, teasing his back with my fingertips. I weave my hands under his shirt to feel his skin. “What if you’re my basic need?”
His mouth finds my ear, and he whispers, “I’ll be whatever you want me to be, sexy smarty pants lady. Write your paper on your smart animal stuff, and I’ll make sure you are fed, caffeinated, and on task.”
His lips touch my neck, tickling me and causing a tremor through my body. I dig under his shirt, wrapping my hands around his bare waist, pulling him close. “On task? That sounds so boring. What if I ditch the paper, and we have sex all day instead? I’ll study you, you study me. We can make a whole spreadsheet of tasks for each other.”
He groans as his lips move down to my shoulder. “How about I dedicate my life to being at your beck and call?”
I lean into him, holding his head in my hands, as he bites my shoulder strap and maneuvers it down with his teeth. The way he looks, the way his lips feel on my skin, the way he wants me makes my brain stop worrying about internships and let my heart take over.
My breath quickens, and I reach for the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over his head. He lets me strip him and run my hands down his bare chest. “If I do this paper, I’ll be stuck in the library. You’d hang out with me?”
His gaze darts around my body, his hands rub my shoulders. “Sure.”
“Have you ever been in the library?”
Dave laughs then furrows his brow. “Is that the big institutional-looking building where hot girls sit outside and feed squirrels?”
I laugh. “That would be it.”
He pulls me closer. “I can’t say I’ve actually stepped foot inside. I should probably experience that at some point.”
“Uh-huh. Want to experience other things too?” My finger travels past his belly button to his shorts. I’m not sure what my plan is for this moment, and my actions are on autopilot. I pull his waistband toward me so his hips push into mine.
“Oh, Maggie,” he says, grabbing my ass and holding us together. “I want to experience everything with you.” Then he lets go and grabs my face in his hands. “But no. Kiss me. Then give me my shirt back. Then go write your paper. Do this because it means a lot to you.”
I exhale, and my shoulders drop. He’s right, I know. But I want to kiss him more than I want anything right now—even more than I want Olympia, more than I want world peace, more than I’ve ever wanted a Scot in a kilt. When his lips find mine, I devour him like it’s the last time I’ll ever kiss him. I want him to beg me to ditch the paper and get naked with him.
She Wants It All: Sheridan Hall Series, Book Three Page 14