"Drew." I shift back and press my legs together.
His eyes find mine. "Oh, shit. I forgot."
I smooth my skirt over my thighs. "It's nothing personal."
He takes a step back. His demeanor changes, so it's tense and awkward. "So, what... we can keep going as long as I don't touch you?"
I swallow hard. "Please."
He takes another step back. His eyes turn down, like he's confused by his own reaction. "I can't, Kara. I have to touch you. I've been going out of my fucking mind thinking about touching you."
The oven beeps. The preheat is done. What perfect timing. Drew's eyes are on the floor. It's like he's suddenly lost all interest in me.
I take a deep breath and push myself off the counter. "I understand." I reach for my top, but it's too mortifying standing here half-naked and mid rejection. I turn and make my way for the stairs.
"Kara."
"I'll see you later."
"At least tell me why."
I run up the stairs like I didn't hear him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I try devoting my energy to peer editing an essay. Most days, I can spend hours fixing grammar and offering constructive comments. Today, everything about my classmate's writing stands out as wrong. I tear apart her argument with angry red comments. It's all filler. It's all pointless. It's all a distraction from her total lack of a thesis.
When I finish, my head is aching and my neck is sore. I power down my computer and resolve to bullshit my way through the rest of my homework in the morning. The bed is this wonderful supportive foam—it must have cost Drew a fortune. It beckons me, so I flip the lights off and belly flop onto my comforter.
The solitude is soothing. No way anyone can pick apart my expression. Or stare at me with this confused look in his eyes asking for an explanation with his inhale, and rejecting the whole thing outright with his exhale.
It's not his fault.
He was always clear. He was joking, but he was clear. I find my phone and pore over my text messages in search of evidence. The muscles in my chest, neck, and back tense. He's so demanding and playful and arrogant and sweet at the same time. I want to scream and cry and laugh at the same time.
There. Only a week ago, but that feels like an eternity.
Kara: Fuck you.
Drew: Not with your silly rules about how I can't rub you until you scream.
I play with the hem of my skirt the way Drew did. I drag my fingers over my thighs the way Drew did. Over my quads and up my inner thighs. Up, up, up, until they trail over my first set of scars.
If he'd felt them...
These stupid things change everything. I managed to keep them from my ex-boyfriend by insisting on fucking in the dark and keeping my skirt on. I had to take the lead, to take care of the condom, to move things forward before he even tried to touch me.
To tell him I came even if I didn't.
We were together a year and I managed to deter all his advances. Then, one night, we were drinking. I was relaxed and fucking him wasn't getting me there. I thought it might be okay. He was so excited until he saw them. Until he touched them. His eyes went dark and his dick went soft. He stared at me like I was this awful damaged freak.
One minute I was irresistible. The next I was broken.
He dumped me the morning after. That usual it's not you, it's me bullshit.
Then it was like I didn't exist. Like he'd never said he loved me. Like he'd never even met me.
That can't happen with Drew.
I can't be the damaged, unlovable girl. Not to him.
***
There's a soft knock on my door. I throw the comforter over my head and will the sound to go away. I can't explain this and I can't bear to take another second of the awful look in Drew's eyes.
There are footsteps in the hallway. He's leaving. Another door, must be the one to his bedroom, opens and closes.
It's like he's playing some weird grown up version of ding dong ditch.
I climb out of bed and check the hallway. It's empty except for a plate on the ground—the pasta he was making for dinner. It's still steaming and it smells like garlic and lemon.
It smells like heaven.
There's a napkin-wrapped fork lying next to it. I bring both into my room and set them on my desk. My chest pangs. This was supposed to be a celebration dinner. This was supposed to be ours.
My bad mood can't overpower my appetite. I unwrap the fork. It tumbles onto my desk with a clang.
There's something written on the napkin in a black marker. Drew keeps the damn thing in his pants in case he's asked to sign something.
His handwriting is neat and emotionless. The cake is cooling on the counter. That's it.
It's not like I expected a love letter, and it's good that he managed to take the cake out of the oven in time, but I don't need this message. I certainly don't need the taste of sugar and chocolate in my mouth.
I stab a piece of penne with my fork and take a bite. The pasta is amazing—fresh vegetables and shrimp in some white wine sauce way beyond my cooking skills—and I'm positively starving. I try to take my time to savor every bite, but I finish quickly.
Music turns on in Drew's room. He's occupied. Good.
I creep downstairs and wash my plate in the sink. The cake is sitting on the counter, already cool. I cut a tiny sliver to check if it's done. It's perfect; not too soft or too hard or too dry. And it tastes like chocolate and sugar.
Like Drew's lips tasted.
All those muscles in my neck tense again. It was barely an hour ago. We were on the counter. If I hadn't stopped him, if I didn't have these stupid scars...
I fix a cup of tea, English breakfast to keep me awake while I tackle my reading. Caffeine is supposed to help with concentration. It should help me focus on work and not on how good Drew's lips tasted.
They were so soft.
And he was so hard.
The kettle's whistle snaps me out of my daydream. I fill my cup with hot water, cut a slice of cake, and trudge upstairs.
Drew's door is open a tiny sliver. There are no sounds coming out of it except angry heavy metal.
My stomach twists. He's hurting all alone and I'm hurting all alone. I need to explain it's not his fault, that I still want him badly enough to scream, that he's still my best friend, whatever happens.
But I can't bring myself to knock.
I step into my room, slam the door shut, and drown myself in Rage Against the Machine and cake.
***
My morning drags. Instead of going home between school and work, I change in my car, arrive half an hour early, and eat lunch at my desk.
I have an email from my mom. A question about spring break. She'd missed me over the holidays, when I stayed in LA for winter quarter. It was the only way to make my double major work, and it meant I wasn't there to make Christmas dinner or put up the tree or call Grandma. It meant there was nothing in the house but crushing silence.
I shake my head. It's not that I doubt my mother loves me. She does, in her way, but she doesn't see me. Not really. She doesn't have a clue how much I hate finance, how little I want to work at her company, how hard it was being the one who kept everything together after Dad died.
I do my best to concentrate on today's work. It's very basic finance stuff, 201 at most. A slightly more advanced version of this will be my life if I take a job at my mom's company.
By six, the office is empty and the sun is setting. And no doubt Drew is at home, eating dinner on the couch with that same disappointed look in his eyes.
I check the Sinful Serenade Twitter for a clue. There's a new picture of Drew posing with a fan. They're outside in the sun. She's wearing a sports bra and tiny little shorts. Her thighs are scar free, and they're tan and toned to boot.
He has his arm around her shoulder. No flirting. Just a friendly guy fulfilling his duties as a celebrity.
There are no other hints on Twitter. In all likelihood, Drew is at h
ome.
After another hour of work, I change in the bathroom, drive to the gym, and run until my legs are aching.
***
It's the same thing for two weeks. I leave for school early, kill time at my internship, and take the latest cardio dance class the gym offers. If that isn't late enough, I run until I'm too tired to think. I arrive home no earlier than ten.
There is no contact between us except for the Post-it notes Drew leaves on the counter. It's always something about what he made for dinner and then there is a Post-it note marked "Kara" on some neat piece of Tupperware.
I eat the food he cooked for me in my room and I try to avoid wondering what it means that he's still making me dinner.
***
On screen, guns blaze. Except for the loud movie, it's been a mercifully quiet morning. Nothing but screen and cereal.
Meg finishes her can of green tea and gets up to toss it in the trash. Her gaze darts to the curling staircase. "We missed two brunches in a row."
"I know."
She plops back on the couch. "I shouldn't have let you get away with that after that party."
"But I'm glad you did."
She reaches into the paper bag sitting on the table, pulls out a bottle of black tea, and hands it to me. "Are you though?" She looks me in the eye. "You dragged me out of bed every Sunday after Rosie died."
"You were despondent." I twist the cap. "Your sister overdosed. You needed emotional support. This is nothing... I was busy with homework."
She pops open a can of green tea. "Right."
I take a swig of my drink. Perfect excuse not to respond. Meg isn't as perceptive as Drew is, and she hasn't known me as long as he has, but she does see through me.
She follows suit. Her attention returns to the action on screen.
"I'm out of my element here," she says. "I'm so used to you being the one dragging shit out of me. How do you do that? It's annoying at first, but I always appreciate it." She sits up straight and looks me in the eyes. "You're going to tell me what's going on with Drew."
"Very convincing."
"Thank you." She puts her hand on her hip and turns her head like she's posing. "More importantly, you're going to swear to me that you're okay. You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to, but if you're not okay, I'm going to drag you to the damn clubs and fill you with drinks until you feel okay."
I shift back into the couch. "It's eleven a.m."
She laughs. "Valid point."
I look Meg in the eyes. "I'm okay enough."
She accepts my answer and turns back to the action movie. It's some cheesy thing from the eighties. There's a built guy running around in a ripped shirt and tight pants. He has a mullet and a giant gun. Somehow, he always manages to hold it so it's jutting from his hip.
Meg finishes her can of tea, tosses it back in the bag, and pops another top. "Drew has been in a funk all week."
"Yeah?"
"Oh, yeah. I've got all the gossip. I was at practice Friday."
Fantastic. Drew is gossip. Drew and I are gossip.
"It's no big deal. You know those guys. They're like brothers the way they talk."
I nod.
"What happened after the party?" she asks.
"You don't have that gossip?"
"Only what Miles said the next time I saw him."
"Before or after he made sweet, sweet love to you?"
She smiles. "Before. We do need to eat."
The girl is beaming. Still out-of-this-world, over-the-moon in love.
Meg turns to me. She rests her head on her hand and lowers her voice to a whisper. "It's kind of gross."
"Not as gross as hearing the two of you come."
Her cheeks go red. She drops her voice an octave as if imitating Miles. "If the guy is so good with his hands, why doesn't he use one and spare us from his blue balls?"
My drink slips from my hands, landing on the hardwood with a thud. My cheeks burn. "Was that in front of everyone?"
"Just me."
Thank God. I pick up my drink. The cap is on. Not a horrible spill. "Will you hate me if I slap your boyfriend?"
"Go ahead." She looks at me. "Did he end up taking the dare?"
"Kind of."
Her eyes light up. "Drew kissed you?"
"We kissed, yes."
"What the hell do you mean 'we kissed, yes?' You've been crushing on Drew for ages."
"Yes, okay. Drew kissed me and it was the best kiss of my entire life. I thought I was going to stop breathing. But we stopped before—" I clear my throat. "At second base."
Her voice softens. "What happened?"
What happened? There's no way to explain it without telling her the whole story. And that's off the table. I come up with an acceptable half-truth. "He stopped things."
"Did he say why?"
Yes. He was crystal clear. I rack my brain for another half-truth. Screw it. I'll lie. "Said it was a mistake."
"Are you okay with that?"
I don't have a choice. "I'll get over it eventually."
"You shouldn't live with him. You can stay with me while you're looking for a place. Stay at my place even. I can stay with Miles for a week or two."
"He's still my friend. We just have to get past the sexual tension."
She shakes her head. "You can lie to me if you want, but don't lie to yourself. It's more than sexual tension."
"I will get over it."
She studies my expression. I must look miserable because she pulls me off the couch and into the kitchen. We scan the pantry for proper discussing-how-shit-goes-wrong-with-guys snacks. There's nothing except chocolate.
Even the smell of it makes me dizzy.
Back at the couch, I keep my eyes on the movie. She doesn't pry. Thank goodness the girl respects my privacy. Unlike some people.
Upstairs, a door opens.
Speak of the fucking devil.
It's Drew. He moves down the stairs slowly. He's in jeans, Converse, and a tight, v-neck band shirt. My gaze goes right to that chest piece peeking out of his neckline. Such a perfect chest. Such a horrible thing to cover.
He nods to us. "Nice to see you again Meg." He makes eye contact for a split second. "I'll see you later."
I'm cold all over. He's got such an icy look in his eyes, like I've hurt him so much he can't stand it. It's like I've been punched in the gut. I can barely breathe. All the muscles in my stomach clench.
He turns his back to me, walks out the door, and slams it shut.
I'm trying so hard not to hurt him and I'm failing miserably.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Meg stays through the movie. She asks if I'm okay a dozen times, then goes home to study.
I soak in my time in the living room—lounging with a cup of tea in the kitchen, lying on the couch with my Kindle, spreading my shit out on the table to write an essay. Every hour feels like a gift. Soon, Drew will come home and I'll have to rush back to my room or brave that awful look in his eyes.
Afternoon turns to night. My stomach rumbles and it won't tolerate any more dry cereal or black tea. There's another little Tupperware container in the fridge marked "Kara." Delicious, I'm sure, but it makes my stomach twist in an awful way. My silence is hurting Drew. He's making me dinner and I'm hurting him.
I make a sandwich. Grilled cheese and tomato. Nothing special—my cooking skills haven't evolved much since high school.
The smell is comforting but the sandwich holds no appeal.
This isn't me. I've never been one to lose my appetite. No matter how awful I feel, I still get hungry.
I push my plate aside and turn my attention to my computer. I dive in to lecture notes and study them like my life depends on it. An hour passes. I eat three bites of my sandwich, pour myself a glass of water, and drift back to work.
The front door swings open. Drew steps inside. There's something off about him. It's like someone sucked every bit of happiness from his body.
I did this to him.
He glances at me but doesn't look me in the eyes. "There's stir fry in the fridge."
"I know."
He steps onto the staircase. "Living room is yours. I'm going for a run."
He turns his back to me and jogs up the stairs.
It's the same as this morning. The room goes cold. I pull my hoodie over my head, but I'm still freezing. I sip my tea, but it's lukewarm.
Drew jogs down the stairs, headphones around his ears, gaze averted. He throws his hand up as if to wave goodbye and then he's out the door.
Again.
***
I go straight to my room and put my music on max, so I won't hear Drew slamming every door in his path.
My back and shoulders are tense. There's this crick in my neck and stretching does nothing to chase it away. My bed is hard and cold. Even my finance homework is better than this awful feeling in my gut.
I need my best friend back.
My stomach grumbles. Most of that sandwich is sitting on the kitchen table, mocking me with its blandness. It's almost ten. I need to eat something if I want to make it to midnight, and there's no way I'm going to finish reading Crime and Punishment before midnight.
There's light streaming from the hallway bathroom. Water running too. It sounds like the shower. So Drew is back from his run. Either my music was loud enough to drown him out or he's worked out enough tension he doesn't need to go slamming doors.
The sandwich is still sitting on the table. I finish it in four bites and wash it down with the remnants of my now-cold tea.
My stomach settles. That's got to be good enough. I trudge up the stairs with my eyes on the stark, white ceiling.
The water stops running. The bathroom door opens and Drew steps into the hallway.
In a towel.
In only a towel.
His hair sticks to his head. His lashes and lips are wet. Water drips off his chest, down his cut abs, all the way to that perfect V above his hips.
"You want me to drop the towel so you can get a good look?"
More than anything.
I clear my throat. "Excuse me."
My face and chest flush. It's not every day I get to see Drew like this. My body wants his. It's not like I control how the damn thing reacts to him. It's not like I want to be tied up in knots every second I'm home.
Strum Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #2) Page 9