My smile grows into a full-ass grin. “So, you’ve been asking around about me, huh?”
Her cheeks turn red, and she rolls her eyes. “No.”
I nudge her a little and lean closer. “Come on, you can tell me. It’s flattering, really. Is it my eyes that you like? I’ve been told they can see into a girl’s soul.” I bat them at her, too buzzed and high on her smile to care how ridiculous I’m being. “Or is it my rugged exterior—I work out, you know? This throwing arm doesn’t just happen on its own.” I flex my bicep, laughing when I earn another eye roll.
“You’re so full of yourself and ridiculous,” she says through her laughter. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Yeah, but making you laugh is worth it.”
Her eyes shift up from her hands to my face, and I hold her dusty gaze. I like the way she looks at me. I like the curiosity and the uncertainty. It mirrors mine. My mom always told me there’s a lot to learn about someone by looking into their eyes, and Bethany’s eyes are like storm clouds that are bursting with emotions I can’t even grasp.
“I wanted tonight to be epic,” she whispers, like she’s confessing or maybe reminding herself. I don’t know what she’s talking about, but her eyes don’t leave mine. Her chest is heaving. She licks her lips. Everything is charged between us.
Then suddenly, her lips are on mine, and I freeze.
They’re soft and glossy, and they taste like beer and berries as I inhale her. I hadn’t expected this, but I welcome it. She kisses me more deeply, and in a blissful blur, I reach for her side, wanting to pull her closer to me, to feel her warmth, when she grabs hold of my hand and breaks away.
“I’m—uh,” she says, breathing heavily against my mouth.
I lick my lips and my eyes shift over her, taking in her every look and movement. I have no idea what just happened.
She stands up. “I’m—uh—going to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Sure.” But she’s already walking out the doorway and disappears around the corner. Did I do something wrong?
Taking a deep breath, I glance around the room. Whatever that was, it was strangely liberating and horrifying at the same time. The girls are still huddled on the couch across the room. They glance over at me but when I catch their eyes they glance away again, like the little gossip queens that they are.
Leaning back against the couch, I let out a deep breath and hope to God I didn’t just fuck everything up somehow. Bethany barely knows me, and whatever that was that just happened, I’d like it to happen again sometime.
“There he is!” Slinsky appears in the doorway. I groan inwardly. He looks around the room, totally overlooking the girls on the couch to my annoyance. Something to keep him occupied would be nice right about now. “Where’s that cute blonde you disappeared with? She was smokin’.”
“She’s in the bathroom,” I say, wondering if I should make sure she’s okay.
“Dude, you’re the mac! First Brenda and Rachel, now the hot freshman? And those are only the girls I know about. My man gets around.” Slinsky laughs, but I stop listening to him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Rachel is Mac’s friend, and I was doing her a solid by posing as her date at the beach. Brenda’s cool, but we only made out a couple times before I found out she likes Reilly, and he’s not even into her.
“ . . . can tell The Rodster all about it.”
“Yeah, sure, later,” I tell him, standing up. “I’m busy.” I walk past Slinsky and head for the door. The last thing I want is to be is trapped in a room with him while Bethany’s having a panic attack or whatever.
I glance down the hall in search of the bathroom, and find the door’s open. Knowing there’s probably a private one somewhere else, I head back toward the living room so that Anna Marie might point me in the right direction. That’s when I spot Bethany’s purple tank top and long blonde hair among a group of people. At first, I think she’s been pulled into an unwanted conversation, but then she pulls some guy’s mouth down onto hers. Her kiss is more needy, more eager than the kiss I shared with her only minutes ago, and my blood burns in my chest.
What. The. Fuck.
When she finally pulls away, she licks her lips. The moment she sees me, I swear, a glint of something shimmers in her eyes, and her mouth sets in a firm line. She said she wanted tonight to be epic, maybe mind-fucking me and making out with multiple dudes is what she meant.
She takes the dude by the hand and I stand there dumbly, watching as they disappear into the throng of people.
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt used by a girl before, but I think I just got played.
Crushing my empty cup in my hand, I head for the keg.
Fuck this.
Four Months After New Year’s
One
Bethany
Present Day
“Come on, Jesse! I’m so serious right now. We cannot be late,” I call up the stairs. My professor is going to drop me from his class if he doesn’t think I’m taking it seriously. Another late arrival or absence might throw him over the edge, and I’m so close to graduating, I can almost taste the effervescent splendor of freedom.
I plop down on the overstuffed couch in the living room and pull on my black leather boots. Just as I finish zipping them up my calf, there’s a crash upstairs. “Jesse?” I hold my breath a moment. “Shit.”
Jumping to my feet, I take the stairs two at a time to the landing and hurry two doors past mine, into his bedroom. “Are you al—”
“I spilled the water,” he says, frantically wiping at the floor. A glass rolls on its side over the hardwood. “I just—I can’t find my shirt—it’s my favorite one,” he reminds me. “It was on the chair, where I always leave it, but I can’t find it—”
“Hey,” I say calmly and crouch down beside him. I place one hand on his shoulder and hand him one of his dirty socks to wipe up the spill. “It’s okay. I put your Jurassic Park shirt in the dryer last night. I’ll go get it, all right? No need to panic.”
His agitation with himself disallows him to think of anything other than the droplets of water beaded up on the floor, and my chest tightens a little. This is when it’s the hardest, when he’s so riled up. I worry he might lash out and hurt himself.
“Jesse,” I say softly and reach for his hand to ground him. He stares at our fingers and I squeeze a little in reassurance. “It’s okay. I know exactly where your shirt is, and the floor will be fine. See—” I motion to the bare wood between his organized piles of laundry and toy figurines. “They’re cleaner now than they were a minute ago.” Standing, I nod to the doorway. “Come on, let’s get your shirt out of the dryer and get you to school in time for that field trip. The Exploratorium is super cool, you’re going to love it. Aren’t you excited?”
He taps his fingers on the floor, finally pausing long enough to nod.
“Then, let’s go. Your lunch is on the countertop. Grab your jacket, and I’ll bring you your shirt.”
Jesse climbs to his feet, which is all the answer I need. I rumple his hair and nod toward the bedroom door. “Your breakfast is in the toaster, okay?”
“Kay,” he mutters and reaches for his backpack.
Exhaling, I try to will the tension twisted in my neck and shoulders away, and I hurry back down the stairs, toward the laundry room. I pull his shirt out of the dryer and give it a once-over. Knowing how upset Jesse is when he can’t find his favorite shirt, I worry what will happen when it becomes threadbare after another ten washes.
“Focus, Beth,” I tell myself. The shirt is a worry for another day.
Walking into the kitchen, I nearly run into my mom. “Careful,” she says, almost regal in her skirt suit, in an ice queen sort of way. She walks over to the coffee pot to pour herself a cup.
I ignore her and hand Jesse his shirt. His anxiety dissolves the instant it’s in his hands, and his red cheeks twitch in an almost-smile as he pulls his shirt over his head.
&nbs
p; “That thing is still around, I see,” my mom says, and though I know she understands why and accepts Jesse for how he is—unlike my dad—sometimes she sounds too much like him, and it scares me.
I push the prickly words that itch on my tongue away, sparing Jesse from having to listen to us bicker. Hurrying over to my bag, I ensure I have the books I need for my classes today.
“Have you had breakfast yet, Jesse?” my mom asks. They are the words of a doting mother, but it’s more of a pleasantry—a routine request—than an actual question.
“It’s in the toaster,” he tells her, smoothing his hands over his shirt.
She smiles at him, if a little stiffly, and wraps his strawberry Pop-Tart in a paper towel and hands it to him. When was the last time she made breakfast, or even put his Pop-Tart in for him? I’m not even sure how long it’s been since she’s stopped to have an actual conversation with either one of us. Conference calls and meetings with her design clients are in the forefront of her mind, most of the time.
“We gotta go, like”—I glance up at the oversized, whitewashed wall clock, hanging in the living room—“crap, like now.” Donning my coat, I look at my mom. “Can you pour me a cup, please?” I ask her, nodding to my travel mug by the coffee pot.
She tops her cup off and then fills my mug. The sound of coffee being poured in the morning is like music to my ears. It’s calming and promises the energy I need to get through the day. I take my travel mug with a quick thanks and doctor it up into yummy, caffeinated goodness, since she has zero idea how I like it, nor did she bother to ask.
“Remind me, Jesse,” my mom says, “where is the school taking you today?”
“The Exploratorium,” he answers with a mouthful of food. He finishes eating the crust before he takes a bite of the gooey filling.
My mom gathers her shoulder bag from the counter stool. “Good.”
I hand Jesse a napkin and gesture to the corner of his mouth. “Strawberry filling,” I tell him.
“Bring him home straight from his after-school program, okay? No errands or ice cream stops today,” my mom says, and I heave my bag over my shoulder.
“Why not? He’s going to do homework at a friend’s today,” I remind her. “It’s been on the calendar since last week.”
She ties her coat over her suit and looks at Jesse. “I want to have a family dinner tonight, since your father will be back in town.”
I glower at her. “But socializing is good for him—”
“So is spending time with the family,” my mom scolds. “Don’t argue, Bethany. Just do it.” And just like that, she turns on her heels and disappears into the garage, the sound of the power door rattling open before the backdoor bangs shut behind her.
“God, parents suck,” I grind out. I have no idea why she cares about my dad being home, it’s not like he does. “Let’s go, J,” I say with a stifled curse and we step out the door.
I’m going to be late, again.
Two
Nick
After approximately 750 days of Construction Management and Architecture courses, nearly 240 project hours, and every elective I’ve thought to take in between, I sit in my Integrative Design class of my final semester at Benton University, wondering why graduation in two months’ time feels so goddamn depressing.
Benton U is a decent school, home of the Timber Wolves and the best college hockey team on the west coast. It’s not Yale or Princeton in the academia sense, not by a long shot, but its accreditation in the Arts and Architecture grad world is topnotch. In May, I’ll be graduating with above-average grades, even if it did take me longer to complete my certification than most, and I’ll be ready to work beside my dad at the firm. Someday, I think.
It’s what I’ve always wanted, at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
For months now, something’s been nagging at me, but I can’t quite put my finger on what. The closer I get to graduation, the more depressing it is because none of it feels right. Everything I’ve worked so hard for feels like a complete waste of time, making the idea of bartending at Lick’s the rest of my life sound more and more appealing. It’s fun, easy, and I’m really good at it.
“Good morning, pupils,” Professor Murray drawls, as he steps inside the lecture hall. It’s exactly 7:55, and I’d expect nothing less from him than to start class early.
“Being on time is average and expected, and in life, you can’t settle for less than anticipatory and extraordinary. Clearly, many of you have yet to embrace the notion of ‘quality’ in your work, much less extraordinary. That’s why I’m here, to raise the bar.” I’ve gotten that spiel from him exactly three times in my academic career, and it hasn’t grown on me yet.
Professor Murray walks over to his desk, opening his briefcase and pulling out a stack of papers, intent on ruining what remains of our weekend buzz. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he peers around the room at expectant, anxious faces. By the severity on his face, you’d think this was a rocket science class, instead of a mid-level survey class for architectural and design students, who definitely aren’t saving the world one pretty rug or dramatically arched window at a time.
“I hope you’re caught up on your reading,” he says, and I’m not sure how the promise of being rid of him seven weeks from now doesn’t elicit some sense of relief.
Listening to him, a retired, know-it-all architect who moved here from San Francisco eons ago, condescendingly droning on and on the way he does, is unbearably grating, especially first thing on a Monday morning. And yet, part of me finds his class dependable and familiar. I doubt it’s his winning personality, though. I glance at the empty seat in the front row. I hate noticing that she’s not here or that I care.
Having Bethany in this class seems more probable a reason to look forward to Monday mornings, even if I hate to admit it. I spend half the class unsuccessfully convincing myself that I don’t care she’s in here, and on days like this, when she’s late, I can’t help but wonder if she’ll show.
“Let’s get started, shall we,” the professor says with zero affect. He’s a tall, spindly man who addresses the class like our mere existence is an affliction he has to manage the best he can. There’s always one student that gets singled out each semester, and once he picks his victim, he’s like a rabid dog with a meat-covered bone. This semester, that person is Bethany, and part of me hopes she doesn’t make it to class today, for her own sake.
The room rustles with turning pages, and I shuffle through my notes from last week. Quickly, I scan my chicken scratch before deciding this test is going to be difficult, regardless of a few seconds of studying; it’s not worth an aneurysm so early in the week, so I resign myself to my fate and close my notebook. My eyes find the clock again. Professor Murray is no longer starting class early; Bethany is officially late.
Having her in one of my classes, during my final semester of my final year, especially after her ditching me on New Year’s at Denny’s, seems almost poetic in the cruelest sense of the word. The one girl that’s haunted me for ten-plus years is the one girl I can’t have, and is the one girl I’m forced to see two days a week and pretend that life isn’t pissing itself in laughter.
Bethany’s tardiness is not my problem, but that doesn’t matter, because I always care when she’s late. I always wonder why. Elbows resting on the desk, I scrub my hands over my face, on the brink of laughing out loud at my insanity. It’s a timeless question: why? Why do I care about any of it?
“Put your books away,” Professor Murray drawls, and he licks his fingers to separate the stack of quizzes. “Your results today will not be graded on a curve, and I will not be offering extra credit to bump up grades for those of you graduating this semester. And don’t think for a second that the rest of this semester is going to be a breeze, either. There will be a project announcement on Wednesday”—the class gasps—“so don’t be late. And do not—”
The door creaks open, echoing in the cavernous room. Bethany po
ps her blonde head in, then hurries inside. Her hair’s damp, her chest is heaving, and her cheeks are rosy. She’s not wearing any makeup today, which would be surprising if that wasn’t the case every time she’s late to class.
Professor Murray glares at her. “Ah, Miss Fairchild.” He crosses his arms over his chest, the remaining tests in his hands crumpling against his suit jacket. “How nice of you to attend class today and act like you even remotely care about graduating. Now, the forty-seven of us who were on time today are going to continue with class, if you don’t mind.”
“Sorry,” she utters quietly, and slips into a seat at the end of the front row.
“And yet, this keeps happening,” the professor mutters.
Bethany blushes and her mouth opens, like she’s going to say something in her defense, but she purses her lips closed instead and sets down her notebook.
Professor Murray lifts an eyebrow, and I want to request that, for once in his miserable existence, he shove his commentary up his ass.
I wouldn’t say I’m protective of Bethany, per se, but I’ve seen sides of her no one else has. No matter how complicated our non-friendship is, I know what it looks like when she’s scared and vulnerable, especially when it comes to Jesse. I also know he’s the most important person in her life, and I have a feeling that, whatever her morning routine might be, Jesse is crucial to it. The size of her heart when it comes to that kid melts the frustration and anger away, like it was never there.
“As I was saying,” the professor continues, and he walks to the other side of the room to finish handing out the exams. “Your final project is coming up, and I want you to start thinking about what you want it to be . . .”
I try and fail not to look at Bethany or notice her profile two rows below me, as I wait for the tests to reach my row. Tapping my pen on the table, I make myself think about what I’m going to do for my project in this class that I haven’t already done, especially given my final externship project I’m already working on for Sam.
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 70