I step out of my doorway and let him inside. We were never huggers. I think he hugged me once at high school graduation, but he never even hugged me when I got my diagnosis. Daniel Grady is a man of few words, but he’s the best father. I’m a shithead for being the kind of son I am.
“I’m here because your mother doesn’t know. I caught on before she did. I was expecting the tuition bill, and it never came.”
“I took a leave of absence.” I’m not sure why I lie. Probably the same reason why I lied about buying that jacket I stole from the mall when I was fourteen. I hate letting this man down. He’s worked his ass off so Quinn and I could have a good future.
“Bullshit. Try again.”
I close the door and lean against it. I might be taller, but I’ve never believed I’d win in a fist fight. Dad or not, he’d still take me down.
“I don’t want to go back.”
My old man sighs. “We talked about this. You should graduate. This is a shitty situation. I get it.”
Except he doesn’t. No one does. My father is bent over from years of foresting, some nights barely able to walk straight, but he can still walk. He had a life. He lived. What do I have? I have nothing but uncertainty. I never know when or if I’m going to relapse. I never know if the day may come where I won’t be able to walk again or swallow down my food or even see. I don’t know if I’ll be completely fine or end up stuck in a wheelchair soon.
“What do you want me to say?” I roll my shoulders and sidestep him to draw up my shades. I don’t want him to think what my mother instantly would have. I was warned about it plenty, but I’m not depressed. I’ve just had a shit hand dealt to me, and I like to sleep.
“I called the registrar’s office. You filed paperwork to drop out.”
I sink down onto my bed and flop backward, staring up at the ceiling. I’m in for it now.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you. I just drove six hours to kick you in the ass.”
When I sit up, I’m met with a smug smirk on my father’s leathery face. “Get it out of your system, then,” I say. “Do your worst, old man.”
“I’m finished.” He sits beside me and picks at the knee of his worn jeans. Old habits die hard. “You can’t fuck up your student visa. I’m not letting you throw everything away because… Well, I’m not. In time, I think you’ll understand, too.”
I spin around to face him, eying the few bottles of vodka and bourbon I have lying around after a night with a redhead. Her name, I do remember. I said it over and over for most of the night. I kicked Shelby out earlier, but I have her number. I wouldn’t mind hooking up with her again—except it’s the again that worries me.
“Want a drink?” I ask. My dad glares back with parental disapproval. I try my best to push past it, still uncomfortable that he gave up on lecturing me so quickly. What’s wrong with me? I’ve been dreading this, and now that my secret is out, I’m looking for more trouble?
“You seeing that girl?”
Mati? I shake my head too fast, in a big hurry to deny it.
“She seems nice.”
Subject needs to change. “Want to get dinner or something, Pops?”
“Is Reagan around?”
“I don’t know. We haven’t been together for almost a year now. Anything else you want to know? My schedule? Am I taking my medication?”
“You get your mouth from your mother,” he grumbles. “And if I find out you’re not taking your medication, you won’t be running it much longer.” For all his gruffness, he’s the one who’s like my mother—they’re worriers. “Fine, dinner’s good. Then I need to hit the road.”
“You’re driving back today?” Guilt slams into me. He drove six hours to hear me mouth off.
My father stands and groans, his body creaking like an old oak in a windstorm. “I know I don’t say this much, but I’m here.” He pats my shoulder. “Your mother would be crushed if she found out. I’ve talked to the dean, and he’s not processing the papers yet. You’re still on a leave of absence, but think about next semester. Go back and finish.”
Anger bites away at the corners of my vision, my room blurring around me. He skipped the lecture and went straight for guilt, straight to setting my life on a course I don’t want. Without my permission.
“I’m twenty-two,” I snap. “I can make my own fucking decisions.”
“You’re a kid,” he says, even-keeled. “Life sucks, and then you die. All I’m asking is that you don’t break your mother’s heart. Think about school. Think about something. And for fuck’s sake, take a shower before we leave.”
I ignore the way my eyes suddenly feel scratchy and head for the door instead. “Yeah, sure.”
“Good. And you’ll think about it?”
I grab my towel off the back of my desk chair and whip it over my shoulder. “Living room is out here, Pops. You can watch TV.”
He follows me out and plops down onto the crappy secondhand couch I scored the other day. “Beau?”
“Yes, heard you. Fine.”
My father might be a man of few words, but I have plenty rattling off in my head. Mainly that I hate everything and am tired of being shepherded around by people who only mean well. It makes it harder to hate them.
Matisse
I hop from one leg to another, folding my right foot to rest against my left knee like a flamingo. Perched like this, I’m still as clueless about where this painting is going, but after three hours, I need to stretch or I’m going to be a ball of spasming muscles. When you paint as much I do, it’s as much of an endurance sport as running.
Good thing I was a track star in high school. Was being the pivotal word there. Come senior year, that activity was dropped. My parents thought it would show better career focus if I kept my extracurriculars to art. Even my volunteering position was teaching painting to the leaf peepers who flocked to the local inn where I grew up. Maine in the fall is the holy grail of colors.
I swirl my brush over my thigh, frowning that the umber isn’t the shade I want. I glance back up to the color chart taped to my wall, then at the clock. Shit. For a Saturday, I have zero time. I had to block out my days. My tasks are scheduled for every few hours so I can get schoolwork done between work and my art assignments. My art professor isn’t exactly demanding, but my focus is on putting together a killer portfolio for the internship with artist Aiden McKenna. I’m not going to lose sight of January 1. I’m making that deadline or this year will be as much a failure as my freshman year in Chicago.
“Matisse!”
I jump—not from hearing my name screamed, but from the air horn booming over the music flooding through my earbuds. I spin around, paint flying off the brush to color my rug, again. Great.
“I’ve been calling your name,” Reagan says, filling up my doorway, still clutching the air horn. She’s glaring at me from behind her thick-framed glasses, a knowing smirk on her face.
“I could have done without the air horn,” I say.
“You forgot to include utilities with your rent check. I need a new one.”
Ethan’s called Reagan Smaug before. I’m beginning to understand why. I don’t think I’ve seen her smile once. I don’t see her much at all, actually. She stays upstairs. That’s her floor. I’m more than happy to leave it off-limits.
“Sorry, I didn’t think—”
She pops her hip to the left, waiting.
“Sure thing,” I say, ignoring my attempt at an apology. Reagan seems like the type who thinks they’re useless, anyway. I wipe my hands over my boxers and sidestep through the disastrous heap of things on the floor to reach my desk.
“Bring it up when you’re ready.”
“Okay,” I mouth, my back turned to her. It’s been a while since I’ve done the whole roommate thing, but generally I’d like to think I’m easygoing. I do my dishes and take my laundry out of the dryer. I don’t eat her food. I pitch in and clean common spaces of the house.
Those are the rules—five bullet p
oints written boldly in black marker across poster board and taped to the wall, covering cleaning, rent, and roommate drama. They’re in shouty caps, as if Reagan thinks we need to be yelled at all the time. At least I haven’t broken any. I’m too afraid for what would happen if I ever did.
I check my phone—another five minutes before I have to get ready and leave for my shift at the coffee house. I sprint upstairs, eying the closed bathroom door as I do. The boys are going to have to share. I’ve got places to be.
Reagan’s door opens at the top of the stairs. She holds out her hand as if she always expects life to fall into her palm. With the permanent scowl on her face, maybe it always does.
I slap the check into her hand, feeling a pinch between my shoulders. It’s going to feel great to ride my bike to work. I can’t stand feeling so stiff.
“Okay, well, if that’s all…”
She steps out of the doorway and motions for me to come in. “That paint isn’t wet, is it?” she asks, pointing to my legs smeared in colors.
I run my hands down my thighs on purpose, watching her eyes widen, almost as if she’s aghast I’d get my hands covered in paint. When it comes to Reagan, aghast seems like a word that’s regularly in her vocabulary. “Nope,” I say, holding my hands up for proof.
I cross the threshold, more than a little surprised because, for her tough exterior, Reagan’s room is pretty girly. It’s more than a room, actually; it’s a whole loft. Everything is neatly in place, her bed perfectly made. There are books everywhere, all shelved by height and color of course. OCD much? She has a sitting area with nice furniture and framed pictures on the walls…curtains, even.
She obviously adults better than me.
“It’s nice up here.” I search for something else to say, to fill up the awkward pause between us. I sense she wants to say something. She keeps drumming her fingertips over her lips. “And you have a rabbit.”
I walk closer to the small cage. It looks as though the rabbit bounced into a cobweb—all dusty brown and gray and white. Its ears are comically big, flopped over to the side.
“That’s Cecily.” She edges closer, my check still clutched in her hand. I’m not sure why I’m making her so uncomfortable. She’s the one who invited me in.
“That’s a fancy name for a bunny.” I curl my fingers into the cage.
“Beatrix Potter,” Reagan says matter-of-factly.
The blank look I give in response earns me an eye roll. “Never mind.” She steps over to her desk and places my check on top of her closed laptop.
“We haven’t talked much,” she starts. I stand, facing her, noticing the bathroom behind her. A new bathroom, one that’s been renovated. I guess she leaves the 1950s time warp for us peasants downstairs. “Anyway, I want to know if you like it here.”
That’s a small question with a big answer, but my phone alarm peeps and I’m saved for now. “Sure. It’s great.”
“And you like Ethan and Beau?”
Well, that’s a bit of a leading question. It doesn’t sit with me too well.
“Beau isn’t bothering you, is he?” she continues.
“They’re fine. Annoying, but…”
Reagan crosses her arms, waiting.
“They’re fine,” I repeat. I don’t want to start talking boys with my roommate. Especially when I can’t figure out why I’m in her room when she just used an air horn to grab my attention. Communication skills aren’t a strength of hers. “Anyway, I have to go to work.” I hold up my phone, awkwardly trying to break whatever forced moment is slowly unwrapping here.
She flicks her hand, as if dismissing me. I laugh. I can’t help it, even when she glares back. “Next month make the check out for the right amount.”
“Absolutely,” I say over my shoulder, racing down the stairs. The door shuts behind me.
I sprint into my room and grab a pair of jeans off the floor, a shirt that’s draped over my desk chair, and change. My phone rings again. I should be leaving by now. Crap.
I bang on the bathroom door. “I really need to get to work. Can whoever you are, hurry up?”
Beau yanks the door open, a toothbrush in his mouth, a smirk peeking around it. He waves his arm out, gesturing for me to come in.
It’s steamy inside and smells like a lumberjack took a bath in some spicy cologne. I sort of hate admitting that I like it. I skirt by him, peeking over my shoulder, meeting his teasing gaze. Those dark eyes of his are full of mischief.
I tug at my shirt, a little warmer than I was a moment ago. I smear toothpaste over my toothbrush, catching his stare in the mirror. He arches his eyebrow, then leans in next to me, pushing me out of the way. I stuff my toothbrush in my mouth and shove him back, laughing when he almost topples over. Beau holds his hands up, not saying a word.
But his eyes, that smile…
We don’t need words for what we’re doing, not for the way I smile back at him around my toothbrush, the way I keep meeting his glance and then dart mine away in some flirty form of tag.
He bends down and turns on the faucet, spitting the toothpaste out. Something funny happens inside me, the warmth of recognition that I’m checking out his shoulders, his tattooed biceps, his ass. When he stands and laughs, my chest feels as if its grown cobwebs inside. I’ve just been watching Beau brush his teeth, checking him out, not even bothering to brush my teeth. Not even trying to hide the fact that I’m ogling him.
Focus, Evans. Focus.
I shrug my shoulders, turning back to the steamy mirror.
He reaches out, wiping the condensation away with the back of his hand. “Might help to see there, hurricane.”
I hear his laugh in the hallway as I notice the yellow paint smeared across my forehead.
CHAPTER THREE
Beau
The only thing five o’clock in the morning is good for is to question your life choices. Mine landed me here at the kitchen island, still awake from yesterday. It’s been a long haul.
So my life choices. Right. Well, I had a hockey scholarship, but that’s gone. I had a girlfriend, but that’s over. I was going to graduate this year, but dropped out. I had some money, but blew through that, too.
I’d go to bed right now, but I don’t think I’ll wake up in time for my shift at the food cart. Nothing like hawking Asian fusion all day, hungover and sleep-deprived. I really shouldn’t have gone over to Hunter’s last night. I really shouldn’t have gone for a ride to Washington, either, just because I could.
I smile to myself when her door opens right on schedule, those determined steps of hers marching forward. I think she’s forgotten what it is to walk.
She doesn’t know it, but I’ve been listening to her obscene morning ritual over the past few weeks. It amazes me that, while I’m stuck, Mati barrels forward in life. I bet she has carpe diem tattooed to her ass.
She shuffles in behind me, then stumbles to a halt. I feel her eyes burn up my back, hear her mumbled curse. It sounds funny coming out of a pert mouth like hers. She looks more like the type of girl who mumbles things like oh geez or oh my stars. I like this unexpected side of her.
“Look at you, pickle, up and ready to start the day.”
She glances at me as if I’m that annoying busker trying to earn a bit of change, then avoids further eye contact to search for coffee mugs in the cupboard. She freezes, bracing her hands on the counter when she realizes I have two out already, while the slowest coffeemaker in the world percolates.
She keeps her back to me even as the bathroom door closes in the hallway. Ethan’s up, and that means she only has a few minutes to spare before she has to head out to do whatever it is she does.
Mati taps her fingers over the counter in a flurried wave, striking with force. “Hi.”
“She speaks.” I slide my arms onto the counter and lean forward on the stool.
Everything about her this morning is rushed. Even her pin-straight hair pokes up on the back of her head. When she spins around with narrowed eyes, she ha
s to grab onto the island so she doesn’t knock herself over. “I need coffee first before we start this.”
I raise my eyebrows and yawn, scratching the back of my neck.
Her thumb toys at her bottom lip while she studies me. “No guest this morning?”
So that’s what we’re not starting? We’re still not going to be friends. For some torturous reason, I’m drawn to her. She’s hard to keep up with—maybe that’s why.
Or maybe it’s the way her blunt bangs cut across her forehead and draw out all the harsh angles of her face. All except for those lips, of course. Those are lush and plump, begging-to-be-kissed lips. They sit on her face like a target, and I can never seem to look away.
I laugh in spite of myself and stare down at the island counter. I don’t answer at first, mainly because I catch her watching me again. I take in the way the apples of her cheeks turn pink.
“Just got home,” I say, clearing my throat.
She fusses her hair, her lips toying with a question. It goes unspoken. She grabs the coffeepot instead, pours two, then sets mine on the edge of the island as though she’s afraid our fingers might touch.
I raise my eyebrow, reaching for my coffee mug. “Jealous, pumpkin?”
Mati takes two large steps from the counter, stopping short of the island. The coffee sloshes over the brim and spills over her hand. She winces, sucking on the curve between her thumb and index finger. I fight back the urge to get her some ice.
Her green eyes are hard as she glares back. “Why do you keep calling me these stupid names?”
I prop my chin up on my hand, my mind slow to form a sentence that she’ll understand without her throwing what’s left of that coffee in my face. “I’m trying to find one that fits.”
Mati grabs the dishtowel draped over the oven handle and wipes away the spilled coffee. “Stop.” She attacks the counter again, the cloth clutched so tight that her knuckles whiten. “I’m not a bug or produce or dessert.” She looks up, then grimaces when I smile back. The towel flies at my face. “I’m definitely not your sweetheart, and if you call me princess again, I’ll punch you in the face.”
Between Everything and Us Page 3