BETWEEN EVERYTHING AND US
Copyright © 2015 by Rebecca Paula. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.
For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher, Rebecca Paula.
Excerpt from Anything More Than Now copyright 2014 by Rebecca Paula
Cover design by Maggie Hall
ISBN: 9780990739517
Between Everything and Us is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For information about the author, visit www.RebeccaPaula.com.
BETWEEN EVERYTHING AND US
By Rebecca Paula
CHAPTER ONE
Beau
I’m pretty sure I’m bleeding out on my mattress. Whoever is pounding on my door is basically taking a pickaxe to my head and prying apart my skull.
Damn.
Quiet wins for a few seconds, enough for me to get my shit together and not puke all over the floor. The bed dips next to me before a hand slowly skates across my waist, then slides lower over my hips. I open one eye and tilt my head over the pillowcase, trying to bring last night’s hookup into focus. It’s usually good to know who you’re in bed with, not that I’m complaining about the present course of things. Except for all the noise.
“I’ll use the air horn,” a voice threatens from the other side of my bedroom door.
Not a pickaxe, then. Just my roommate Matisse, the human wrecking ball.
The hand that was seconds away from a great idea freezes, then falls away. The girl’s cheap perfume rolls over my jersey sheets, and suddenly I’m stuck on a roller coaster, trying to keep the contents of my stomach down while I’m assaulted with the overwhelming smell of cotton candy and stale cigarettes.
“Beau! I’ll get the air horn.”
I swear my roommate’s found a battering ram.
“You use that air horn, sweetheart,” I yell back, clearing my throat, “and I’ll piss in your precious paints.” Apparently bourbon has the magical ability of transforming my voice into sandpaper.
I remain still, but the world gives a chaotic swirl anyway. Everything’s blurry, even the blonde and pink head beside me, hair tangled and wild.
Fuck. What’s her name?
“I’ll key your bike,” Mati shouts back, not missing a beat. Before I can say she won’t lay a hand on it, my door swings open and crashes back into the wall. “You promised, Beau.” I hear her trip over my crutches. “Shit, I’m sorry.” My door slams shut again. “I didn’t think you were…” Her voices dies off one the other side again.
I snort, pawing for the sheets to cover up. Mati might have guessed I had company—I usually do—but judging by the sound of her colliding into the wall before her hasty exit, I don’t think she counted on me being naked.
The blonde next to me makes an angry hiss. The fact that she hates me now instead of in a few hours really doesn’t make much of a difference. In fact, this is easier. I won’t go as far as to thank Mati, but having her barge in might be helpful in the future. Speeds along the unpleasant goodbyes.
“That’s what you get for barging in.” I should sit up or something, maybe find out the girl’s name since I can’t remember. “Stop yelling and come back in.”
“No, stay out!” the blonde yells. Her voice is rough, like she’s been smoking for eighty-five years.
Seriously, what’s her name? Jules? Britney? Cammy? No, definitely J-something. I think.
“Will everyone stop with the fucking yelling?” I groan and prop myself up bit, searching for my center of gravity, which never arrives.
“You promised,” Mati repeats, opening my door again. Light from the living room spills into my dark room, and I regret this, too. I regret so much about this morning already.
I rub my eyes to push my roommate into focus. The red on her cheeks stands out the most.
“Get out,” my guest shouts. Again. Her voice drowns out whatever comeback Mati makes. I peek over my shoulder as the girl hikes the sheets up the rest of the way to her chest. Her face is all but running away, with makeup smudged and smeared like some sad out-of-work clown.
“Well?” Mati pops her hip to the side, then flails her arms in the air with an exaggerated sigh. “You need to leave.”
“Can someone tell me why she’s here?”
This is the problem with hookups. They can be good, but when they go bad…they go south quick. I wish she’d get the clue and get out of my bed. Too much noise, and that perfume is gagging me.
I smile, even if Mati is ruining my morning. “I paid rent.”
“My parents are coming. You can’t be here, Beau.”
The hot mess next to me waves her hand. “The door was closed. For a reason. Can you give us some privacy?”
I apparently thought it’d be a good life decision to bring home a concrete wall.
She throws her thumb in the air at me like she’s hitchhiking and declares, “We were in the middle of something.”
I push up further onto my elbows, ignoring her, and wave for my roommate to step closer instead. Mati doesn’t budge from the foot of my bed. “Come here,” I say again.
Lisa? Well, whoever she is rolls away, prepared to make a welcome escape. Yeah, I think it is Lisa. Lisa with blond and pink hair. The eighty-five-year-old raccoon who washed up in my bed. The hand that was so gloriously close to paying me a bit of attention this morning.
I shake my head at Mati, trying to hide my frustration through an exaggerated yawn. “What time is it?”
“Eleven. And it’s Friday, if you’re wondering. You need the weather forecast, too?”
“That would be very accommodating of you.”
“You’re pathetic,” says Maybe-Lisa, gracelessly tumbling out of bed. She curses under her breath. “A waste of my time,” she mumbles. “You couldn’t even get it up, whiskey dick.”
I shrug and wink at Mati. Play it off like the insult doesn’t bother me. “Catch you next time, Lisa.”
“It’s Jessica, asshole.” She tugs on her jeans in an awkward one-legged jump as though my floor’s on fire.
The bedroom door slams shut when she storms out. Expected. And apparently required this morning.
“You were saying something, sweetheart?”
My roommate bends down and flings a dirty sock at my face. “Oh my God, get out! Please. They’re going to be here in—” She glances down at her beloved phone. “—ten minutes.” The thing’s her keeper. I haven’t seen her without it since I moved in three weeks ago. “I’ll pay for your coffee. You just have to leave.”
Bribing me with coffee is all well and good, but the fact remains—I need pants. “You need me to save the day?”
“It’s not like you have anything else to do.”
Not at the moment. Nothing much except working at the Vietnamese food cart downtown now that I’ve dropped out of school. No senior year for me. My parents are going to shit a brick when they find out.
It hurts like a bitch to move, so I wait Mati out, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth. Her decision sets a line to her brows, so determined to make me move that she’s staring at me as if she’s about to run through a minefield. She’s like this, fearless with the unknown. I reach forward and grab a fistful of her flowery skirt when she’s close enough and yank her down beside me.
Mati doesn’t smell like overspun sugar. She smells all fresh, like she’s stepped out of the shower. She reminds me of hiking Mount Rainer, with her evergreen eyes and black hair. Like she belongs lost in the woods, stuck
between the infinite layers.
“Beau! You’re such a pain in the ass.”
I like how her New England accent cuts through her words, too. Mati reinvents the alphabet when she’s mad.
I nudge her shoulder, fighting back a grin when I catch her eying up my sleeves. I haven’t met a girl yet who doesn’t like my tattoos.
The feel of her skin against mine sends her bolting. She shies away, scooting over the mattress, far from me. “I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.”
I might throw up, too, if she keeps moving as though my mattress is a bouncy house. “Only a little? I must be growing on you.”
“Will you get dressed? And leave?” She sucks in another deep breath. “Please?”
I’m waiting for her to collapse onto the floor from being lightheaded. The girl needs to slow down or she’s going to suffer from life whiplash.
Another quick glance at her phone. “You have five minutes.”
Teasing aside, I don’t like the way she says please, as though she relies on me to do something and, if I don’t, her world will shatter. I’d rather not be responsible for that. “Fine, throw me my jeans.”
“I wouldn’t touch those with a ten-foot pole.” She rushes for the door, her skirt swishing behind her. “They’ll be here soon and I can’t—”
I sit up a bit straighter and roll my sore neck. I guess today’s going to be a shitty, painful day. “Can’t what?”
The last thing I’d expect to happen, happens.
Her shoulders drop, and she tugs at the short hair hanging by her chin, avoiding my stare. “My parents think I room with three girls.”
Ah, so Miss Perfect is a bit of a liar. “We could have used Amanda for that show.”
“Her name was Jessica.”
I pretend to be interested in my phone while I’m propped up against the headboard duct-taped to the wall. “I know that.” For a minute we’re both quiet, then the two of us break out laughing. The kind that tumbles out and goes on until you forget why you started in the first place. “I really thought it was Lisa.”
The doorbell buzzes. Her green eyes pop open, dark and endless. That blush I caused disappears. Her face pales.
“Are you going to get that or hop into bed with me?”
Mati and all her elfin mightiness appear seconds away from charging over and wiping the smug smile off my face. I like her a bit more for it. I could use a good smack.
She stomps out of my room instead.
I catch her peeking in while I shuffle around to get dressed, piece by piece. She crosses her arms, then glances away when our eyes meet. I kick my shitty forearm crutches out of the way and shut the door after that, pretending I’m offended she looked. I’m not.
The battle bludgeon to the front door continues because the world hates me. Apparently it’s a family trait—her parents have the same determined rap. I want them all to step on Legos and go the hell away.
Mati doesn’t answer.
I crack my door open to find her frozen in the middle of the living room, frantically snapping the rubber bracelets circling her wrists. She’s tall, even taller in those ridiculous heels she’s wearing. I didn’t notice it before, but she’s dressed as though she’s about to march into a hostile boardroom takeover. All except for those bracelets and the way her features are stretched wide, terrified. It’s strange to see her falter.
“C-coming,” she calls out to her parents. The knocking dies out.
“What’s the hold up?” I wave for her to go answer the damn door before my head explodes. Before I go out there and show her that, contrary to everyone’s opinion, I’m not an asshole. “I’ll slip out when you show them your room.”
She reaches up and shakes her hands in the air, jazz hands-style. If she’s not careful, she might catch some air and fly away.
As I expect, when I step out into the living room, she rushes up to me, her hands cool over my worn T-shirt. I stumble back a step, letting her think she’s won at talking herself into opening the front door. Except it’s the threat of me that does it, like I’m a big, bad secret.
Forget hungover, I must still be drunk. At least with her hands on me, it feels that way. The room spins. I shouldn’t notice this. I told myself I wouldn’t let it happen again. And the last thing I need is to get kicked out of the apartment.
I grin, my eyes glued to the sight of her lips. They’re shiny and red and full. As much as I want to lick them and kiss her up against my door, I shake it off. Terrible idea.
I bend down, my nose brushing against her hair as I whisper, “Answer the damn door.”
Her eyes meet mine when I pull back and tilt my head toward hers. Mati’s lips part, her tongue darting out to wet them. She sways closer, resting more of her weight against me. I don’t know what’s running through her head. I shouldn’t care. For a hot minute, though, I indulge myself in wanting to know. She must have the same realization because her fingers suddenly stiffen over my chest, her arms straighten, and then Mati shoves me backward into my room and shuts the door in my face.
Matisse
His dimple is unnecessary. Completely.
I mean who has one dimple? Charming shits, that’s who.
My heart hammers against my chest as I wrench the front door open and force on a smile.
“We were waiting forever,” my mother says, pushing her way inside. I can’t help but glance back over my shoulder to make sure Beau’s stayed put. I don’t put it past him to stroll out and announce to my parents that we’ve hooked up or are engaged—married, even.
I rub at my eyes to try to erase the image of him strutting across his room, naked.
“Where did you go?” my mother asks, bracing her hands on my shoulder to give me the once-over. You’d think I’d turned into an ogre by the way her eyes narrow to examine me. “You cut your hair. And it looks like you’ve lost weight. Have you? Are you taking care of yourself?”
A bob is not the end of the world—a whole generation survived that haircut. And a month into classes and work, my life hasn’t imploded yet. I’d like to think of that as a relative success.
I kiss her cheek, ignoring her questions, then get trapped into a tight bear hug by my father. They’ve brought a box of Voodoo Donuts as if they’ve forgotten I live in Portland and can go whenever I want. I’m proud of myself when I hold back that Blue Star is better and graciously accept the doughnuts.
I’ve made it a month before the privilege of this parental visit. The three thousand miles I’ve placed between us don’t matter apparently or the seven-hour flight. If there’s a will, there’s a way to helicopter your daughter well into her twenties.
I set the box down on the coffee table, brushing my hand over my hair, ignoring my growling stomach. I’ve been up since six, scrubbing this place clean so it doesn’t look like I’ve moved into a rundown bungalow days away from being condemned. As long as they don’t start poking around in the hall closet where I stashed anything that hinted of male roommates, I’ll be set. I think. There’s still a possibility my mother is going to whip out some bubble wrap from her purse, bundle me up, and ship me back home to Maine. The threat plays out from behind her rimless glasses.
“Glad you could make it this weekend,” I say. If they notice my lack of enthusiasm, they don’t mention anything.
I peek down at my hands, expecting to find them on fire. My palms are so warm, it feels like the rolling heat of a campfire licks them as I roast marshmallows.
My parents are discussing their flight and their hotel, complaining about the inundation of hipsters in Portland. Complaining about everything and anything because I’m convinced they’re never happy. It’s easier to let them talk sometimes. They like the sound of their own voices, anyway.
I brush off their comments and grab the small rolling suitcase my mom is dragging behind her. I’m sure it has all sorts of art books for me to study. Since I was born, they’ve believed I’m not living up to my full potential. It’s always been expected tha
t I can do better. I’m not sure where that success threshold is, but judging by the weight of this bag, it’s not in my near future.
They’ve flown in to visit for Parent’s Weekend. I’m happy to see them—I am. I only wish they would believe me when I tell them I’m going to my classes this semester. My mom doesn’t believe that I’ve secured two part-time jobs so I can afford rent, either.
I didn’t slip up once when I was home last year. Not once. I spent what was supposed to be my sophomore year locked away in my childhood bedroom, painting. But oil paints and canvases won’t fix my mistakes.
I nervously dance around on my feet, waiting for Beau, waiting for him to spite me. I swear the small bungalow is shrinking around me by the minute. “I’ll show you my room before we head out.”
“What about the rest of the…house?” my dad asks. He’s combing the place over, recording every fault, no doubt, by the way his lips are pressed into a tight line. I’ve cleaned, but I wasn’t going to bust out the ladder this morning so I could paint over the water stains on the ceiling or remodel the kitchen that’s a time capsule from the fifties.
“You’re not missing anything. Living room,” I say, waving my hand. “Bedroom, hallway, kitchen, bathroom.” I shuffle forward as fast as I can toward my room. My cheeks are hot from even mentioning Beau’s bedroom.
Him, naked—in that bedroom. His muddy motorcycle boots beside his door, those crutches I nearly killed myself over by his bureau. What the hell were those even for? His hair—messy and shiny from whatever he puts in it to brush the longer hair back to reveal the closely shaved sides of his head. Those arms, his tattooed sleeves. That damn dimple when he grinned at me.
I stop by my room in the back of the house and quickly point to the other bedroom on this floor. “More bedrooms, and tour finished.”
The thing is the small fib I told my parents about the having all-girl roommates is more of a lie now that Beau’s moved in. Originally I had two female roommates, plus Ethan, before one of the girls ditched to move in with her boyfriend last minute. Forget the fact that I’m in college and mostly on my own, my parents still want me locked away like Rapunzel or, better yet, shipped off to a nunnery. To them, relationships are bad, and boys are worse. Unless I have a paintbrush in my hand, everything is considered a distraction.
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