First Love: A Superbundle Boxed Set of Seven New Adult Romances

by Kent, Julia

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re so ugly,” he whispers. “They look like they’re totally disgusting.”

  “Then why...”

  “Yeah... look so disgusting,” he babbles quietly. He’s getting loopier and loopier as the Vicodin kicks in.

  He opens his eyes and sits upright again.

  “But then... you go and open one,” he says, and he stares at me as if waiting for me to do something.

  I stare right back at him, completely confused, until he finally points to the pomegranate.

  “Go on. Open it.”

  With two quick slices of a butter knife, I cut through the soft husk of the pomegranate and pull it apart into four quarters.

  “When you break one open, it’s beautiful and delicious,” whispers Owen. “It’s absolutely perfect, but not until you break it.”

  I stare at the glistening red fruit—each deep red pip glowing in the dim light of the apartment—and the pool of juice forming beneath it on the dish. I’m not one for poetry, but I’m stunned to silence.

  He lies back down on the couch and closes his eyes. The Vicodin is knocking him out cold.

  “Maria?” he whispers, his voice soft and his breathing slow as he begins to fall asleep.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re just like me, aren’t you?”

  I look back at the pomegranate, not sure how to answer him. He’s right—it really is beautiful now that it’s been ripped apart.

  “I guess I am,” I finally answer, but it’s too late. He’s already fast asleep.

  I run my hand gently through his hair again. He looks so peaceful now that he’s asleep, but once he wakes up, he’ll be weak and scared again just like me.

  He rolls in his sleep, and as he turns his head, I see the scar running along his jaw. I nervously reach out and run a finger softly along it. It’s a fine, white line against his already pale skin. Now that I’m close to him, I see more and more scars just like it under his chin, on his neck, and even one running along his eyelid.

  I look down at his crossed arms, and now that I know what to look for, I see the scars there too. He has more of them than I can count—some older and nearly invisible, some newer and more obvious—and they’re everywhere.

  “He really hurt you, didn’t he?” I whisper, and I gently touch his cheek.

  He stirs in his sleep and I yank my hand away in fear. He doesn’t wake, though, and my nervousness settles quickly.

  Owen’s sister is dead, and he clearly can’t turn to his parents for help. I have Tina to protect me, but who does he have? He’s completely alone.

  No, he's not alone at all. Not anymore.

  He has me.

  Saturday, March 2 – 10:30 AM

  Owen

  When I wake up the next morning, I feel as if I’ve been run over by a truck. My hand hurts, my neck hurts, everything hurts. I try to sit up and nausea hits me like a hammer. I feel like I’m going to vomit, but I’m too dizzy to get up and race to the bathroom.

  “Take it easy, dude,” says Craig from somewhere nearby. I could figure out where he was if my head would stop spinning.

  “What the hell’s wrong with me?” I groan.

  “It’s called Vicodin on an empty stomach,” he answers calmly.

  My vision starts to settle out and my eyes finally focus on him. He’s sitting in the armchair across from me, flipping through one of his textbooks. I struggle to my feet and catch myself on the arm of the sofa as I lose my balance and nearly fall over again.

  “God, I feel like shit.”

  “You look like it too, buddy,” he tells me, shaking his head. “Seriously, go eat something. There’s yogurt in the fridge, or leftover pizza if you think your stomach can handle it.”

  It feels like someone’s hitting me in the head with a crowbar as the harsh fluorescent lights flickers to life overhead. I shield my eyes from the glare of the refrigerator’s light bulb and then wobble back to the couch with a slice of cold pepperoni pizza.

  “Hey Craig, what time is it?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just relax,” he answers, and I shake my head at him.

  “Professor Meador needs me to grade some homework and he wants me to pick it up at noon.”

  “I’ve already called him,” Craig tells me, his voice calm and peaceful. “He knows you’re not coming.”

  “Craig, that’s my only paycheck.”

  I try to get up from the sofa but immediately fall back down.

  “I said relax! Just sit down and get some food in your belly, okay?”

  “But...”

  “Maria’s picking up the homework for you,” he blurts out.

  I stare blankly at him, and then suddenly, last night comes rushing back to me.

  Maria took me to the hospital. How did I forget that so quickly? She was here with me. She sat next to me on the couch until I fell asleep.

  She took care of me all night. I remember it now.

  A wave of embarrassment washes over me as I remember telling her about the pomegranate, and then my heart drops into my stomach as I remember the rest.

  I told her about Dad and Samantha.

  I can’t believe it. I seriously went and told her about my disaster of a family. I close my eyes and sigh as I lean back on the couch. There goes whatever chance I might have had.

  I should have known that it was hopeless in the first place; why would a girl as perfect as her want anything to do with a mess like me? I have more baggage than most airlines, and unlike them, I can’t seem to lose any of it.

  “Did Maria say anything to you?” I ask quietly, dreading Craig’s response.

  “She told me about the Vicodin and the trip to the hospital last night,” he answers. “Sorry I wasn’t around, dude. I had no idea you were hurt. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because I didn’t want your help. I didn’t want anyone’s help.”

  “You just let yourself sit there with a broken hand? Seriously?”

  “Yeah...”

  “And here I was thinking Maria was the nutcase.”

  I nod sheepishly and pick at the unappetizing slice of pizza.

  He’s right; I’m totally crazy. I don’t even know why I hurt myself like this in the first place, and it’s a part of why I’m scared of letting Maria in. If I get close to her—even if she can handle my problems—what happens if I turn into my father someday? I don’t want to hurt her.

  “So if you didn’t want help, why’d you go with Maria?” asks Craig, thankfully interrupting my thoughts before they went too far into the dark.

  “She convinced me,” I whisper, looking down at the pomegranate still sitting out on the table. Someone popped out a handful of pips and left them sitting in a pile beside it.

  I bolt upright as someone bangs on the front door and cringe as my head starts throbbing painfully. Vicodin is supposed to be a painkiller, but it sure isn’t acting like one.

  “Hey, I’m back,” chimes Maria from the kitchen. Her voice is light and carefree today, and even without looking, I know she’s smiling.

  I gaze at her over the back of the sofa as she carries over a giant pile of papers—a present from Professor Meador—and joins me on the couch.

  “Jesus, Owen!” exclaims Craig as he stares slack-jawed at the enormous stack of homework. “You have to grade all of that?”

  “The title ‘Teaching Assistant,’ is just a fancy term for cheap labor,” I answer as I eye the tower of paper. This is a lot of work even for me, though, and I have no idea how I’m going to finish it all.

  “Can you even do this?” asks Maria, thumbing through the papers. “Aren’t you right-handed?”

  “I can probably do it with my left. Let me try.”

  It’s a struggle even to grip the pen correctly, and what comes out on the paper is illegible even to me.

  “Oh wow... no, that’s pretty awful,” I admit, shaking my head. There’s no way I can do this. I don’t recognize a single word on the
page, and I’m the guy who wrote them.

  “Well, how about this: I have class all afternoon, but what if I come back tonight and help do the writing?” offers Maria with a caring smile.

  Her eyes are warm and friendly, and an incompatible mix of remorse and excitement bursts to life inside me. I feel terrible wasting her time grading my assignments, but I’m ecstatic that she didn’t run for the hills after last night.

  “No way,” I protest, shaking my head as vigorously as my addled, aching brain will let me. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “Hey, it’s not a problem,” she says, still smiling at me. “If you feel bad about it, pay me in cocoa and I’ll do it with you all night if you want.”

  Craig bursts out laughing and Maria looks up at him confused. I groan and press my face into my good hand. Even in college, we’re still just a bunch of children sometimes.

  “What’s so... eew!” gasps Maria as she finally gets it. Her face turns red as she covers her mouth with her hands to stifle her giggling.

  “If you’re up for grading papers,” I say, turning and glaring at Craig as I annunciate clearly, “then I am absolutely up for making cocoa.”

  “Sure,” she agrees happily, sounding almost excited at the prospect, and she hops up from the couch. “I’ll call you after I get out of lab, okay?”

  “Works for me,” I answer happily, and I catch Craig making faces at me out of the corner of my eye.

  “Hey Maria?” I call after her just as she’s about to leave.

  “Yeah?”

  She looks over her shoulder at me from the doorway. Her eyes glow with life today, and the winter wind blows her long black hair out around her as it rushes into the kitchen. I wish I had the balls to get up and kiss her right here and now.

  “Thanks,” I stammer awkwardly. “I really mean it. Thank you so much.”

  Her smile is warm and intimate, and for a brief second, I’m nervous as I wonder what she’s thinking.

  “You’re welcome, but it’s really no problem at all. I’m looking forward to it.”

  The door closes and she’s gone.

  Saturday, March 2 – 7:00 PM

  Maria

  The sky is black and the air freezing cold by the time I get out of lab and start the long journey from the far eastern edge of campus to my apartment back across the west bridge. It’s a forty-minute walk at its easiest, and the ice on the dark sidewalk isn’t doing me any favors tonight. My hands and toes are numb within fifteen minutes, and I haven’t even made it to the steep hill down to west campus yet.

  Freezing cold or not, I’m excited about tonight. I’m going to Owen’s apartment tonight to help him grade homework. It might not sound very exciting—Tina certainly didn’t think it was—but it’s safe and relaxing. I’ll be comfortable and be able to talk to him without getting too nervous. ‘Safe’ is exactly what I need right now.

  I take tiny, cautious steps down the slick sheet of ice coating the west campus hill and then trudge back up the opposite side to the bridge. The thick pines give way to the gorge, and the wind howls through the open air, chilling me to the bone. By the time I make it across, my nose feels as brittle as an icicle.

  I can’t wait to see Owen. I imagine the warmth of his apartment as I trudge down the steep slope to our apartment complex, getting out of these soaking wet shoes, and taking off this uncomfortable, scratchy hat. I hope he remembered to make cocoa.

  Maybe I’ll be brave enough to touch him again.

  The porch light is on when I get to his apartment, and I hardly have to wait at all for Owen to open the door after I ring the bell. I really like that he was waiting for me.

  “Hi Maria,” he gushes happily as he invites me in. “Thanks so much for helping me grade all this crap.”

  “Hey, no problem,” I answer, a wide smile spreading across my face as I take off my shoes and coat.

  Owen plops down on the couch in the living room and stares at the impressive stack of homework assignments looming before him. Even with two of us, it’s going to be a long night.

  My eyes light up when I see the two steaming cups of cocoa, and I hop onto the sofa and sit cross-legged to his left. I’ll put up with an awful lot for a cup of cocoa on a cold night like tonight, even grading statistics homework.

  “Let me know if you see anything wrong, okay?” I tell Owen, and I grab a red pen and get to work.

  Page after page flies by in silence, and the questions are so easy that I don’t even need Owen’s help for any of them.

  “What is this? Stats 101? Algebra?” I ask, scribbling away with my red pen. “I can grade most of this stuff on my own and I’m a biologist.”

  “Yeah, it’s a basic stats course for people who just need a course to graduate,” he answers, and he points at an incorrect answer for me to mark. “It’s a stupid course, but at least it’s easy to grade. I think the professor put all the tougher courses on the bottom of the pile.”

  I feel warm and content as I sit next to him, but if I moved even an inch closer, our shoulders would touch. Three weeks ago, I’d have been a nervous wreck to sit so close to a guy and now I’m really enjoying being with him. I wonder what changed inside me.

  “Jeez, how many of these do you have to grade each week?” I ask as I flip through the enormous pile of papers. I can’t imagine having to do this regularly and still having time to make it to class.

  “I have a lot of late nights,” he replies, not quite answering my question. “The stipend pays my bills, at least.”

  Four more papers flit by and the silence is interrupted only by the turning of pages and Owen occasionally pointing out a wrong answer. My wrist is cramping up from writing already, and I’ve barely scratched the surface of the daunting pile.

  “Need a break?” he asks as I toss aside the finished assignment and stretch out my aching fingers.

  “I’ve got a few more in me,” I answer, smiling at him. Even though my hand hurts, I like sitting with him. Something about being around him is very comforting. I feel content and safe with him in a way that I’ve never felt around anyone before.

  It’s like being with Tina, but... different. Really different. The feeling is so strange and foreign to me that I can’t even describe it to myself.

  “I’m cozy,” I think, still smiling to myself. “Warm and cozy.”

  I instinctively reach out for the next paper at the same time as does Owen, and his hand lands directly on top of mine.

  A feeling of shock and a wave of vague, incomprehensible dread shoot through my body at his touch. His hand is warm and soft against my skin, and I swallow nervously and resist the urge to pull away from him. I don’t want to run away from him, but every nerve in my body is screaming for me to race for the door.

  As if finally realizing what he was doing, Owen quickly yanks his hand back and lets it flop awkwardly down at his side. I can still feel the warmth of his touch, though, and now I suddenly want it back.

  “Sorry about that,” he stammers.

  “It’s okay,” I answer, and I quickly grab the next paper before it happens again.

  Owen stares silently down at the paper, but he’s clearly not reading it at all. His eyes are wide and confused, his face is pink, and he looks just as flustered as I feel right now. His hand still hangs limply at his side as if he doesn’t know what to do with it anymore.

  I stare at the paper—also not paying any attention to it—and let my right arm drop to my side. I glance down and watch as my hand inches toward his as if in slow motion. My pulse pounds so loudly in my head that it’s nearly deafening as my fingers wrap slowly around his.

  For a second, I think that he’s going to pull away from me, but then his fingers close around mine.

  “You okay?” he asks, his voice full of concern and uncertainty. I nod and smile weakly.

  “I’m trying,” I whisper.

  Owen is just as scared as I am, and I know that he won’t hurt me. I feel safer because of his awkwardness, b
ut I wish it didn’t have to be like that. I want so badly to be able to trust him not just because he makes me feel safe, but because he’s Owen. I hate that I can’t take that last step.

  “We can stop if you’re not comfortable,” he says, but I grab his hand tightly as he tries to pull it away from me.

  “No... I don’t want to let go.”

  My voice comes out as a faint squeak, so quiet that I’m not certain if I’m telling him or if I’m pleading, and he squeezes my hand softly.

  “Me neither,” he whispers back.

  His gray eyes are friendly and caring, and as he smiles at me, I feel like I could just melt into him. I squeeze his hand back and my nervousness falls away. Something strange and wonderful—but still scary and unfamiliar—takes hold inside me. I don’t know what I’m feeling, but I think I like it. I like it when he touches me.

  “So... um... where were we?” he suddenly asks, ripping his gaze away from me and turning back to the homework.

  “Oh. Right,” I answer awkwardly. “Um... we were on question three.”

  We simultaneously look down at our hands, still happily entwined, and then back up at each other again.

  “I can’t write with my left hand either,” I say. “We’re going to have to let go if we’re going to get anywhere.”

  “Later?” he suddenly blurts out, and I stare confusedly back at him. I have no idea what he means.

  “Huh?”

  “Wow, that was awkward,” he stammers in embarrassment. “I... well, when we’re done with grading this shit, can we... you know...”

  Now I get it.

  My head nods enthusiastically and a wide smile crosses my face long before my brain figures out the words it’s looking for. I lean in against him and feel the warmth of his body against my shoulder as I release his hand and reluctantly return to the homework.

  As hard as I try, I still can’t focus my attention on the assignment. What is that smell? Is that cologne? Is this what guys’ deodorant smells like that? I’ve kept my distance for so many years, been scared of guys for so long, that I have no idea. Whatever it is, I know that from now on, I’m going to think about tonight whenever I smell it—about us sitting together and sinking into the warm, soft cushions of the couch.