by James, Ella
As soon as I can sit up, I grab his arms and tug him toward me. “Kellan. Look at me.”
He does, and I can see his eyes are red.
“Did you smoke?” Maybe that’s it. I discard that almost as quickly as I think of it. He’s not high. He’s upset. Something. “What happened?” He rests his gaze on mine, then slowly tugs it away. He’s looking over at my painting on the wall: Thomas.
I open my mouth to ask if I did something wrong, but I have a gut feeling it’s not that.
I reach up and frame his face with my hands, tilting his head down gently. His eyes fall to my chin, to my throat. “Talk to me—please.”
I watch his jaw clench. I watch his lips as they move uncertainly around whatever they will say.
I don’t know what happened, but I can feel him wrestling with something.
I stroke up and down his back and press my cheek against his warm, hard chest. It rises with a long breath. His chin comes down atop my head, settling there slowly, like he isn’t sure, he doesn’t want to... but he does. He wraps his arms around me too and we are intertwined.
I can feel his heart beat—fast.
“There was a wreck... My Uncle Pace.” He draws away from me, and finally, he gives me his gaze. I can see the pain in it. My throat knots.
“I’ve gotta go to Atlanta,” he says thickly. “It’s going to be a big thing... for my family.”
Questions rise in me like bubbles, simmering and popping. I push them down and stroke his arm. “What happened? Is he going to be okay?”
“I don’t know.” He stares at something over my shoulder. He looks anesthetized.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.” His voice sounds ragged. His skin is so, so pale.
I wrap my arms around him. “Kellan, I’m not going home. For one, I can’t. Remember? I’m sort of banned from the Tri Gam house for now. I want to drive up with you. Please let me.” I look up at him. “I’ll do anything you ask.”
His eyes find mine. “You can’t. I can’t...” He shakes his head. “My family.”
“I’ll wait in the car. I’ve got homework I can do. I just want to ride with you—so you don’t have to be by yourself. Pretty please?”
He nods, the movement so subtle I almost miss it. “Okay.” I stroke his hair. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “What can I do to help get ready?”
“Just get dressed,” he says.
He’s off the bed and out the door without another glance at me. I quickly check my phone: 3:38 AM.
I find him in the kitchen twenty minutes later, looking red-eyed, looking pale, and mostly looking lost.
I pack some food for us as he leans on the counter, hovering over his phone. I take his hand, and we walk to the door. When Truman pitches a dog fit, I look at Kellan and he nods. “Whatever.”
He lets go of my hand to lock the door, and after that, he props an arm against the outside wall.
“Are you okay?”
“Worried,” he murmurs, tilting his head to the side so he can see me. His mouth is vulnerable and soft. I think of kissing it, but decide he may not want that, so I just take his hand in mine again.
He unlocks the Escalade and opens my door. After I’ve climbed into the passenger’s seat, I look down at him and see his eyes are closed.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Nothing.” His eyes open to slits.
I slide down and take the keys from his pocket.
“Let me drive you, okay? You just ride.” I open the back door. Truman bounds up. When I climb behind the wheel, I find Kellan is leaned back in his seat.
Chapter Sixteen
Cleo
He sits his chair up after a while and bends over his phone. He’s got his shoulders hunched, his forearms drawn in close against his hips. His big hands curve around the phone. He looks ill—as if it was he who had the wreck.
I ask him where I’m going.
“Emory,” he murmurs.
I drive for what feels like years, setting my attention on the traffic. When I look over at him, I find his eyes on me. His face is grim.
A few minutes later, he plugs his phone into the iPhone cord and the car fills with... The Beatles. “Helter Skelter.”
I sneak a peek at Kellan and find him looking at the road. His lips are drawn into a line. His brows are tense. He doesn’t move at all to the music. I don’t even see him blink.
I weave in and out of traffic, which is starting to thicken with commuters, northbound toward Atlanta.
“Kell?”
He shifts his eyes to me. They’re slightly wide in thought, but as soon as they touch mine, they turn wary. He looks down at his phone. A few seconds later, “Helter Skelter” stops abruptly, leaving only road noise in my ears.
I’m at a loss for what to say. I wish I could help him, but I don’t know how. I don’t want to pry, though at the same time, I want details. I force myself to swallow.
He shuts his eyes, even as I see his knee vibrate from the bouncing of his foot. He peeks down at his phone again. As I move from the left lane to the middle, a different tune fills the car. The music is redolent and rich, beautiful and simple. The lyrics swell in my throat.
As I try to decipher their meaning, Kellan says, “Can you drive faster?”
He clutches his phone and I glance down at the screen. I expect a text. Instead I see the song title. “Your Protector’s Coming Home.” I can’t see who sings it, but I’m going to Google the lyrics while I wait for him.
* * *
Kellan
“Are you sure you don’t want me to go in with you?”
I shake my head. My gaze is hung between my knees.
“I’ll just park as close as I can, then,” she says in her soothing voice. “I can call and tell you where. Or you can call me and I can pick you up at the entrance when you’re done?”
I nod.
“Okay. Is here okay to drop you off?” I don’t even look out the window, just nod and push my door open. I take a step and—“Fuck.” I turn around—the parking lot careens around me—and grab onto the side of my car. It’s still here. Because Cleo has the window down and is holding my phone out for me.
“Thanks,” I murmur as I snatch it from her hand.
“Kellan—”
I turn and walk quickly toward the front of Emory University Hospital at Midtown, my eyes on the row of doors along the front of the tall, brick building. The morning light offers no warmth. I’m fucking freezing. I shove my hands into my pockets and fix my gaze on the grass under my feet. A few more steps, and I’m walking across a narrow throughway—the drop-off area for patients.
I shoulder through the door and stand in the lobby with my arms folded over my chest.
I watch a clock on the wall until fifteen long minutes have passed. Then I go back outside and start walking, across the throughway, across the small lawn, across a wider street and past the parking deck where Cleo will be, toward a smaller building as I murmur, “Glenn” repeatedly.
I reach the door and push it open with my forearm. As soon as I’m in the lobby, a pretty blonde woman appears at the mouth of a hall.
“Right this way, Mr. Walsh.”
I follow her into a dimly lit room where piano music drifts through ceiling speakers. I’m offered a seat in a plush armchair, near an oversized house plant.
I give the woman a hard look. “How long should it be until Marlowe gives the okay to get things moving?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes,” the blonde says, in a pleasant tone. “She’s expecting you of course.”
I’m there for almost five hours. The entire time, I wish I had sent Cleo home. Thinking she could comfort me was stupid. Wishful thinking of the worst kind.
I feel like shit when Pace texts me. ‘I’m sorry, Kellan. Sorta stuck in the middle. Want a re-do of that shipment next week?’
I turn my phone off, feeling like the biggest asshole in Atlanta.
* * *
C
leo
“Cleo, damn girl. That is cray.”
“I know, right? I hate to talk to anyone about his personal issues, but I don’t know what to do.”
“It sounds like you’re doing everything right to me. I mean, for one you’re having awesome sex. He ties you up, that is so crazy kinky sexy. It’s a once in a life time experience. And you guys are becoming close and stuff. I think it sounds like he likes you, girl. That hot chocolate thing? The vodka? I’m not surprised,” Lora says. “You’re easy to like, Cle. You’re braver than I am, riding up there with him. I’d be too scared. Serious shit stresses me out. Sounds like he’s being a little douchemonkey too.”
“He’s upset.”
“An upset douchemonkey,” Lora corrects. “But Cleo, what more can you do? There is literally no reason to worry, chica.”
“Maybe I should have left his house when he asked.”
I hear her chewing brownie. “Maybe,” she says around the food. “But I wouldn’tof.” She pauses. “Sorry.” I hear a soft glug, like she’s swallowing, then she enunciates her words. “I wouldn’t have. You’re trying to be nice. How much longer are you going to wait?”
“As long as I have to, I guess.”
“I wouldn’t sit there at all. Not in downtown Atlanta.”
“It’s daylight and stuff. I feel completely safe.”
“If you don’t, you should leave. Lover Boy can catch a cab.”
We talk for a few more minutes, during which Lora reiterates the apology she gave me at the start of the conversation, and tells me she’ll keep working on Milasy. Apparently Lora talked to her last night and told her she should let me come back to the house. She said Milasy clinked her—my—boots together and said “maybe,” then smirked.
Another hour crawls by, during which rain starts to stream down from the upper level of the parking deck. I’m engrossed in homework when there’s a knock on my window. I jump, and am surprised to see a girl wearing a pale blue rain coat. The first thing I notice is how pretty her face is. The second thing: her eyes. One is blue and one is hazel-green. She taps on my window.
Just as I’m about to roll the window down, my phone rings. KELLAN, the screen says. I hold up a finger at her and answer on the second ring.
“Hey, you.”
“Cleo?” My stomach jumps at the sound of his voice, which sounds reassuringly casual. “You still around?”
“Of course I am, silly. Are you out?”
“I’m walking to the parking deck.”
He definitely sounds better. Less... encumbered. More like regular Kellan. His uncle must be doing okay. I smile. “Cool. I’m on the first floor.”
“See ya soon.”
I belatedly turn down the Band of Horses song I’m listening to and roll the window down.
The girl leans slightly forward, then slightly back. “Is this Kellan’s car?”
“Um... Who’s asking?”
“Where is he?” the girl asks.
I feel my Spidey sense prickle. “Who are you?”
She looks around, as if she’s worried someone might hear her. “Whitney,” she says softly.
“Are you related to him?”
Truman leans up between the front seats, pressing his head against my arm, as if he wants to hear her answer, too.
She shakes her head, catching her lip between her teeth. But she must be with his family’s entourage. “If you want to talk to him, he’s almost back to the car. Should be here any second,” I say.
She nods slowly. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Cleo,” I say, a little fiercer than I need to.
“Hi, Cleo. And thank you. I’ll just... maybe I’ll see him down in Chattahoochee soon. Could you do me a favor and please don’t let him know you saw me?”
“Um, okay I guess.”
Psyyyyyych. I’m telling Kellan I saw this bitch as soon as I get the chance.
She says, “thank you,” tucks her chin, and wanders off into the sea of cars. I’m closing my books up, sliding them into my bag, when Kellan raps on my window. I push the door open.
“Get out,” he says. He gives me a relaxed smile and closes his hand around my knee. I can tell immediately he’s in better spirits, which makes me smile as well.
“Okay, Mr. Bossy.”
He smirks. “I thought I was Mr. Perfect.”
“What? Huh?”
He winks as I slide out of the car. “I saw a text from Lora. It was on your screen. Don’t worry.” He catches my forearm in his gentle fingers. “All I saw was her inquire about me, and you told her I was ‘Mr. Perfect.’”
I scoff. “That’s wasn’t you I was talking about. Trust me, I refer to you as Mr. Bossy. Actually, just Bossy. Kind of like Big on Sex and The City.” I smirk, and Kellan elbows me out of his way, as if he’s going to climb into the driver’s seat. Then he doubles back, catches my hand, and tugs me around the front of the Escalade. He gets my door for me and slaps my ass as I get in.
“You hungry?” he asks as he backs the car out.
“Starving. You?”
“I could eat something.”
After evaluating the next few exits, we decide on Steak & Shake. I get a cheeseburger with light mayo only, and a small strawberry shake. Kellan gets a double cheeseburger but says he doesn’t like to eat in the car.
“Why not?” I ask.
“I don’t like being watched, I guess.”
“No one is watching you.”
He lifts his brows. “You are.”
I smile and lean my cheek against his shoulder. “I am. I’ve been worried about you today. You seem a little better.”
His blue eyes flick from the road to my face. “What do you mean?”
“A little less worried I guess. Just feeling better.” I haven’t wanted to broach the subject of his uncle, but I hesitantly do so now. “Is Pace okay? Stable and stuff?”
He nods.
I lean away from his shoulder so I can see his face. “I’m really glad.”
He swallows and nods. I wait for more—a flicker of emotion on his face; details of what happened in the wreck—but Kellan just drives, perfectly still and quiet, as if he’s alone in the car. I polish off my burger and relax in the silence, looking out the window at the swaying pines.
“What music do you want to hear?” he finally asks.
“Oooh, how about that song from earlier?”
“Which one?”
“The protector coming home.”
He looks uncomfortable—irritated?—then says, “I don’t know what list that one is on. Other requests?”
“Do you ever listen to Broken Bells?”
He nods. “Good stuff.”
“Ooooh, no, I know what I want to hear! It’s such a good song. If you don’t think it’s too cheesy, you’ll like it. And you’ll see why I like it. Total optimist song. Hmm, let me see if I can find it.”
I pick up my phone, which is still plugged into Kellan’s iPhone cord, and flip around until I find one of my favorite folksy bands, a Portland group called Blitzen Trapper. I start the song I have in mind—called “The Tree”—and adjust the volume.
It’s a very uplifting song. Not blindly so, but with a kind of heaviness I appreciate. I’m disappointed to see Kellan looks more and more unhappy as it plays, until finally I turn it down.
“Not a fan?”
He shrugs. “It’s nice.”
“But you don’t like it.”
“I liked it.”
“Not like ‘Helter Skelter,’” I tease.
The corner of his mouth pulls up in a reluctant smile. “Can’t knock The Beatles, Cleo. Not unless you want to hitchhike home.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh yes.”
I thump his leg through the same worn jeans he had on yesterday, and think for a minute how weird it is to never see him in khakis anymore lately. The sun beams down in sheets of brilliant white as we near Chattahoochee.
“You can talk to me, you k
now,” I tell him as he slows to exit. “About Pace, about whatever. I’m a good listener.”
“Mm.” His blue eyes meet mine, then return to the windshield. “Thanks,” he says belatedly.
Whatever’s going on inside his head goes on until we reach the dirt road to his house. Then I feel a shift in his energy. No longer distracted, he seems edgy. Restless.
I’m almost expecting to be hauled up to the bed when we reach his house, but it doesn’t happen. Kellan dresses in khakis and a button-up, makes both of us a sandwich, and asks me if I want a ride to campus.
“You have a class?” I ask, leaning against the counter.
“Make-up lab,” he says. I wonder when he missed it, but he still seems moody and I don’t want to pry.
“Sure... I’ll go with you. I’ve got a two o’clock I shouldn’t miss. Stupid palliative counseling.” I grab my bag as Kellan shakes his head. “Those dying bastards.”
“Exactly.” I smile.
He smiles. He takes my hand for the short walk to the front door, and I get that butterflies-in-my-stomach feeling I remember so well from middle school. I steal a glance at him and find him looking at me. One of the butterflies swoops. I laugh. We smile at each other like two idiots as we step onto the porch and Kellan locks the door. He opens my car door for me, gets settled behind the wheel, and cranks the car... and I can’t hold it in any longer.
“I like you,” I blurt.
Kellan’s brows shoot up.
“Too much? Too soon?” I pucker my lips, caught between exuberance and embarrassment.
He surprises me by leaning in to kiss them. “Neither.” As he steers toward campus, his eyes move over me. “Hey, Cleo?”
“Hey.”
He brakes at a stop sign and looks full-on at me with those gorgeous blue eyes. “Thanks for going with me,” he says softly.
“No prob, Bob.” I squeeze his shoulder, but it’s not enough. I nuzzle the softness of his shirt sleeve with my cheek.
I feel embarrassed as I pull away. Where did these tender feelings come from? I feel so... needy around him. Not just for sex.