Easy Love: A Modern Romance

by Piper Lawson

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been waiting on a job talk. Now, it might not happen until next semester. Or ever. They think I’m too focused on research. Too theoretical.

  “But,” I go on, dropping bottles in the recycling can, “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  I straighten to see Rena leaning over the island, her elbows on the marble surface. “You’re too good for them.”

  “Don’t make fun of me,” I mutter, my chest tightening. “Not about this.”

  “I’m not. You’re too good for all of us, Wes. You’re always three steps ahead. It must be hard. And lonely.”

  I lean over the table, tapping my fingers on the edge as I try to find a smile and come up short. “How do you get lonely from that?” I ask at last.

  She shrugs. “Being the most anything is lonely. People judge. They don’t understand you. If you want to be the best, it means hanging out on a limb.”

  I’d never thought of it that way. “Maybe that’s the price you pay to be good—being alone.”

  “Or maybe you need someone to keep you connected.” She holds up her pinkie, reminding me of our promise in the hallway.

  My neck gets hot because fuck me if that wasn’t the cheesiest thing I’ve done in a long time, but I couldn’t help it. I’ve been doing a lot of things I never thought I’d do.

  Now, I’m saved from hiding whatever’s on my face when she goes to her purse and pulls out a bag. “And maybe once in a while, you need to relax.”

  I study the brightly colored candies.

  “Gummy bears? You think a sugar coma’s going to help?”

  “The active ingredient in these is not sugar.” I raise a brow. “No pressure. They’re my mom’s,” she adds. “I forgot they were still in my bag. She only got them because they’d be less bad than painkillers if Beck took them to numb out.” I take the bag from her. “You’ve had a hell of a few weeks. Few months, really. And you’re pretty much the most responsible person I know. My parents included.”

  The thing is, I’m not upset right now. If I was, I’d have pushed the bag away already, because I know better than to use anything as a crutch.

  “If you’re worried about being responsible, you can do it. I won’t,” she says.

  Hell. This girl’s even kind about getting high.

  “No way,” I say. She reaches for the bag, but I hold them out of reach. “If I’m getting high tonight? I’m not doing it alone.”

  “Do you feel it?” Rena asks.

  “Not yet. You?”

  We’re sitting on the balcony. The concrete should be cold, but I barely notice it.

  She shakes her head. “But I do feel very smart after that whole debate thing.” I laugh and she turns to me. “Tell me about your research.”

  “That’s what you want to do right now?” I snort.

  “Yes. Science me.”

  My smirk is gone. Because holy hell, if a woman’s ever said two hotter words in the English language, I don’t know what they are.

  I go to the kitchen and come back with a plate. I set it on the concrete between us and hold out a hand. “Pass ‘em over.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  I take the bag of gummies from Rena, open the seal, and grab a handful. Then I get to work laying the gummies in two straight lines.

  “I’m a genetic epidemiologist. All that means is that I look at what explains diseases across a big number of people.”

  “Like cancer.”

  “Exactly. Traditional approaches have helped identify monogenic disorders and locating which genes are responsible.” I take one gummy from the first line and turn it ninety degrees on the plate so it sticks out from the others. “But now, we’re realizing that a lot of diseases aren’t explained by a single gene. They’re explained by lots of genes making smaller contributions.” I take the knife I brought with me, cut two gummies from the second line in half, and turn each of those halves ninety degrees.

  “That sounds complicated.”

  “Before the Human Genome Project, it was pretty much impossible. Technology, data management, new approaches—they’ve paved the way for all of it. And it’s incredible what we can do now.”

  Her expression is a mix of engrossed and incredulous. “You do that all for your dad?”

  “I do it because thousands of people go through what I went through.”

  I stare out over the city, taking a deep breath. I feel invigorated, either from the gummies or the evening or the company of the woman sitting inches away.

  “Incoming compliment.”

  Her voice is teasing, and I swallow the laugh. “Proceed.”

  “You’re incredible, Wes Robinson.”

  Her words work through me, sending blood flowing through my veins.

  “You wouldn’t have thought so once.” I take the plate of gummies and tip them back into the baggie. One sticks, and I flick it with a finger. “It took me an extra year to finish my undergrad.”

  Rena’s eyes go wide. “You’re kidding.”

  I shake my head. “I screwed around. Mostly because I saw other kids on free rides not care, and I figured, why should I work that hard? My dad paid for it.”

  “How did he feel about that?”

  “We fought. One year it was especially bad, like he reached a breaking point. He told me to stop acting like I had the right to ignore my responsibilities, turn my back on what was right in front of me. All he wanted was for me to finish school. I got back on track, did my master’s. Then he got cancer.

  “He got better, or we thought he did. So, I didn’t come home. Kept doing school.” Pain washes over me, but I laugh. I guess the gummies are kicking in. “Then last year, the doctors said it was getting worse. I thought I could squeeze out just a little more time. I wanted to defend my dissertation, so I did. I stayed a couple months. A couple months more. Doing my research, applying to jobs. Got one. Then I found out he had less than a year.

  “I moved back here. Asked University of Washington if I could defer the job.”

  “They said yes?”

  “They said there were no guarantees. The thing is I don’t regret taking a pass on the job offer. But I regret not doing it sooner.”

  I can’t see her face in the darkness, but I hear her soft sigh. “You came back.”

  “What kind of a son would I be if I didn’t?” Instead of getting cold, I’m hot. I unbutton the sleeves of my shirt, shove them up to my elbows. “What kind of a son am I anyway?”

  “Why would you think that?” she asks, her voice barely audible.

  “Because I’m selfish. I spent my whole life resenting people who had what I wanted”—I can’t bring myself to say “people like you”—“because I thought I was less than them. Everything I had I worked for. But I realized something.” I swallow. “Part of me thought I was better than them because I had to work for everything. And that’s even worse.”

  I’ve never said those words out loud.

  I expect Rena to look at me with new eyes, like the closeness we have has evaporated.

  Instead, I feel her shift closer. “You miss him.”

  My head falls back against the building. I feel the slide of her hair against mine. “He was the best man I know. It seemed as if he worked all the time, but we watched a movie once a week. I told him I wanted to be a doctor. He said, ‘Of course you will.’” Bitterness rises in my throat. “But when I went to school, I had these ideas about what it would be like. My classmates weren’t there for the same reasons. They wanted to get ahead. I got jaded, fought with my dad, pissed away a year’s tuition. After that, he told me to pay for my own school.”

  “Which you did.” Her voice is fierce, as if she’s defending me.

  “And now I have my father’s bills—and his funeral—which I’m not letting my mom pay for. I thought I’d find a way out, but when I look at my teaching salary, or even what I’d make as a professor, it won’t add up for a long time
. Until my kids graduate.” I frown. “Assuming kids are free to raise. They’re free, right? Otherwise, I’m screwed.”

  Rena’s laugh tinkles like the stars overhead.

  Or is that twinkles?

  I’m pretty sure I’m feeling the gummies.

  “Have you told your mom about your debt?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  “You should tell her. You don’t need that burden on yourself.”

  “You’re probably right.” But whether she is or not, what I know for sure is that I don’t ever talk to someone like this.

  “Wow. Wes Robinson admitted I’m probably right? I’m getting that tattooed. And you’ll have to sign it,” she tosses.

  “Never.”

  Rena laughs in the dark. “Is your dad the one who got you into genetics?” she asks.

  “Not really. I used to read his National Geographic, you know, with the yellow covers? But I always liked biology in school.”

  “I bet you did.” She turns her face toward me, whispering in my ear, “I bet all the girls went crazy for that ‘I’m too smart and important’ vibe. You probably made panties drop all over Jersey.”

  I go to grab her, laughing, but she twists away. I’m a step slow and end up dragging my knuckles down her bare arm.

  She falls back onto her elbows, and I’m bracing a hand next to her head as I stare down into her mischievous face.

  “I was not that guy in high school.” Our faces are inches apart. “I’m still not.”

  “I love that about you.”

  Her gaze works over mine.

  I push back an inch to get a better look at her face even though what I really want is to get closer. I start to push off her, shifting upright so I’m straddling her but holding myself up, when her voice stops me.

  “Have you ever been in love, Wes?”

  The question catches me off guard. “When I was a kid, I thought so a couple of times. When it was all hormones and infatuation. But lately? Just with my work.”

  “Me too. Not the work part. But it feels like I’m always… with guys.” I pretend her easy admission doesn’t have my abs tightening. “I like the attention. The company. But I don’t think that’s the same as love. I see my friend Haley and what she and her fiancé have, and it’s otherworldly.”

  I’m staring at her, the outline of her face just visible in the lights of the city. “What about your parents?”

  “I don’t know if they loved each other ever. They still give to the right charities, show up at the right events. They didn’t want to get married. They did because of me. It wasn’t planned. I think if they could take it back, they would.”

  Some pieces click into place.

  “How do you even know that?”

  Rena cocks her head. “I’m not you, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Of course you’re not.” I stare at her.

  “Some people thought I was. My parents got me extra tutoring. Pretty sure my dad would’ve bribed the dean of admissions to let me in if my SAT scores hadn’t come through. But I get it. I’m not the same kind of smart you are.”

  “I envy you.”

  “Me?” Her brows shoot up in surprise. “Why?”

  I think of her talking with Ben at the party and of what Jake told me about her at the club. Both feel like months ago. ”I might understand the building blocks of life. But you understand how to live it. You get how the world works, in all its twisted glory.”

  My fingers are playing with a piece of her hair but she doesn’t stop me. Rena’s face turns toward the balcony’s edge, her little nose and parted lips silhouetted as she rubs her arms. “It’s cold. Let’s go inside.”

  I stand first, holding out a hand to help her up.

  “Hey, Rena?”

  “Yeah.” She puts her hand in mine, and a current of electricity buzzes through my skin as I tug her to standing.

  I lean in and sniff her neck. “You smell good. You should bottle that and sell it.”

  She snorts, her slim shoulders rocking. “Pizza would smell good to you right now.”

  “That’s not it,” I argue. “And you can’t bottle pizza.” But I crack up too. “It’s really fucking romantic, standing out here, talking about our parents.”

  That makes it worse.

  We’re holding our sides, and each other, more than a little high.

  Everything I know, everything I built, is crumbling around me.

  Somehow, I can’t remember being happier in my life.

  “Wes?” she says when I finally reach for the sliding door. “You did fuck me though.”

  My fingers freeze on the handle. “I remember.”

  “I don’t blame you for leaving. I was a mess.”

  “That’s not why.” She looks up at me, questioning. “I left because that would’ve been something I could never come back from.”

  “I thought you were trying to forget it.” Her half smile is undermined by the embarrassment in her eyes.

  I trace a finger along the scratch, nearly healed, on her cheek. “Fuck, no. I’ll never forget how you taste.”

  The expression on her face, soft and a little needy, is nothing compared to the way her lashes lower and she sways toward me.

  I feel it too, the pull that’s wearing me down every day.

  With an effort that nearly kills me, I force myself to think of all the men who paid to date her at Jake’s party. The men who’ll want to date her in real life. The ones who’ll get to.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure there’s a line of jacked mouth-breather types waiting for their chance to impress you,” I murmur. “You won’t lose sleep over me, babe.”

  “Did you just call me ‘babe’?”

  I flush in the dark. “No.”

  “You did too.”

  “It was the gummies.”

  “Don’t take it back,” she says quickly. “You can call me anything you want.”

  I reach back to tug lightly on her ponytail, and fuck if that doesn’t give me a rush. “Even Josephine?”

  “Except that.” Rena reaches for my loosened tie, shoving it tight in one smooth stroke.

  She follows me inside, and we take in the screen, still holding the menu screen for the DVR.

  She dives past me onto the couch, laughing as she reaches for the remote. I’m starting to wonder what I did before that sound.

  “According to the DVR gods, there are”—she clicks away on the remote—“two more of these.” As I work the tie loose and then off, my gaze runs over her, from the white-blond hair that’s still up in its ponytail to her bright-purple toenails. She stares at me, a teasing smile on her face and her bare feet tucked up under her.

  Once in a few generations, there’s a mutation. A gene that changes due to outside influences or things we can’t explain. After generations of sameness, something changes. The result is someone who’s a little different from everyone who came before.

  I return to the couch, shoving my sleeves up to the elbows, and sit closer to her than I did last time. Because fuck it.

  Right now, it’s about how close I feel to her. Every inch of me is humming. I feel as though she’s inside me, and I don’t know how that’s possible when we’re barely touching.

  She shifts against me, leaning her shoulder into my chest and I huff out a breath against her hair.

  “I’d stay up all night with you.”

  19

  Rena

  I’m dreaming of chips.

  But they don’t taste like chips.

  And also, they’re turning me on.

  When I open my eyes, it’s dark, but the smell has me sighing. I take a deep breath, my fingers digging into the pillow to bring it closer, and heat shoots between my legs.

  Wes.

  Because my arms are clutching the sexiest pillow ever, and I don’t know if it’s down or synthetic, and I officially don’t care.

  I wake up more fully. I’m in a bed, alone. There’s a slit of light where the door’s cracked.
The bright-green numbers on the alarm clock say it’s after three o’clock in the morning.

  I shift out of bed, careful not to trip over anything. My eyes adjust as I open the door and walk down the short hallway into the living room, where the TV and the hallway light are still on.

  Back to the Future. We watched all three movies. Then Wes insisted I crash because even though I only had one gummy hours ago, he didn’t want me driving home.

  What I don’t remember was agreeing to take his bed, but I must have because he’s asleep on the couch.

  His hair’s darkened in the low lighting, with glints of copper from the TV screen. His lashes are long, his firm mouth just parted.

  Mouth breather. I laugh silently.

  He’s not wearing the school clothes anymore. Between the second and third movie, he’d finally changed into pajama pants and a T-shirt, and I feel like a criminal looking at him.

  The shirt clings to his biceps, his chest. The waistband rides low, and I wish it would slide down so I could sneak a glance at… something. Anything.

  God, he’s beautiful.

  Wes looks relaxed and at peace for the first time in… maybe ever.

  He makes a sound, and I jump, pressing a hand to my heart. But his slow, deep breathing resumes a moment later.

  I can’t remember having as good a time with a friend or boyfriend or anything in between as I had with Wes tonight. His calm presence, his seriousness. The way we talked about everything. How he told me about his relationship with his dad, the way he thought he’d let him down.

  Parents—including mine, probably—must dream of having kids like Wes. He’s smart and hardworking and fucking everything.

  I hate that he’s hurting and I wish I could take it away, but I know that’s part of him too.

  His lashes blink. “Rena?”

  I swallow as his eyes focus on me. “Hey, you. I woke up in bed.”

  “I put you in it.” His voice is thick with sleep, and it sends tingles down my spine. “You picked the clothes.”

  I glance down and realize I’m wearing boxers with Scooby-Doo on them, plus the tank top that was under my jacket earlier. Less the bra, which I’m assuming I wrestled my way out of. “Come on, let’s trade. I’ll take the couch. You take the bed.” He protests, but I reach for his arm, trying to ignore the heat of his skin and the feel of his muscles as I tug on him. “You’re heavy.”