by Grey, R. S.
“Hello Derek, good to see you.”
It’s formal and discreet. He should be proud.
Instead he shakes his head, smiling before taking my hand and using it to tug me in his direction, right through the middle of the circle.
So much for discretion.
“You’re absolutely insane,” he says before bending down to kiss my cheek, just above the edge of my beard.
“Do you know who I’m supposed to be?” I ask.
“Do you really have to ask?”
“I did a good job, though, didn’t I?”
I hold up my watch. It’s the twin to Derek’s. We clink them together like we’re middle schoolers fitting together two halves of a friendship necklace.
“It’s eerie,” he says, tugging on one of the tails of my neck scarf. “You’re a miniature version of him.”
“And what’s your costume?” I ask, teasing.
“Overworked asshole?” he says with a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry I’ve been so hard to get ahold of these last few weeks.”
“It hasn’t been so bad,” I say, shrugging. He arches a brow and I look away, sheepishly admitting, “Okay, it’s been a little bad.”
“I’d kiss you right now, but I’m not sure I know where your lips are underneath that beard. Can you take it off?”
“It’s glued to my skin. Permanently, I’m afraid.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Carrie and I tried to rip it off a few minutes ago because it’s getting itchy and it won’t budge. What if I look like this forever?”
He narrows one eye, thinking it over. “I’d get used to it.”
“Yeah?”
“Not worth breaking up over.”
“Breaking up?”
My voice comes out squeaky high.
He likes my reaction. He’s grinning with the confidence of a warlord. “Unless you want to take things slow?”
Slow? No. I want to speed things up. If I had a car, I’d stuff him in the trunk and drive us to a drive-thru chapel in Vegas. Elvis would really be in that building.
“So it’s officially official?” I ask.
“Officially,” he confirms, like we’ve just executed a contract.
We shake on it.
Then our hands linger, and we have quite the audience watching us at this point. I think they’re genuinely confused about our interaction. I mean…I’m wearing a beard and Derek Knightley is staring down at me with sappy eyes.
“Are you guys done being weird? Because I want to play another game of beer pong. Whiterek versus Thomarrie,” Thomas says, ushering us toward the table set up near the back windows.
“Whiterek actually sounds like the name of a real athlete,” I point out, as if this alone proves we’ll be the victors. Derek seems to agree.
“Are you sure about this? I’m completely sober,” he says to Thomas. “We’re going to win handily.”
Thomas points directly at me. “You might want to hold off on making claims like that until you see your partner play.”
“Oh come on! That’s uncalled for! Derek, as my boyfriend, I think you should beat him up.”
Isn’t that the number one perk of being in a relationship? Having a lackey to fight all your battles?
During my first turn, I take careful aim and then let that sucker fly. The ping pong ball bounces off the table, hits the window, and then smacks into the back of Dracula’s head. It’s the same guy I hit in the face with the Ouija board.
He whips around, fangs bared. “Seriously? Again?”
To be fair, he should probably just avoid me.
When I’m up again, Derek slides up behind me and attempts to direct my toss. I’m immediately distracted by the feel of his body pressed fully against mine.
Thomas calls foul. “Cheating! No. Don’t touch her.”
“She’s my girlfriend,” Derek points out. “I’m just hugging her.”
“You’re aiming the ball for her!” Carrie says in outrage, pointing to where Derek’s hand cradles mine.
“We’re just holding hands,” I say with an innocent voice.
Leave us alone! We’re in love!
Then Derek flicks my wrist for me, and the ball flies and lands in one of their cups with a satisfying plunk.
Thomas tells Derek he can go screw himself before scooping out the ping pong ball and shooting back the punch from inside the cup.
Sadly, even with us cheating, we still lose.
Derek thinks I should make an appointment to get my eyes checked because he’s unsure how someone can be that bad at beer pong. I tell him it’s an art.
We mingle for a little bit, pilfer some snacks that look like they’ve had the least amount of hands dipped into them, and then Derek nods toward the door.
“Want to get out of here?”
“Really? Because I was hoping we could hang out here for another hour, maybe eat some more stale chips and—”
My sarcasm is cut off when he tugs me over to say bye to Carrie and Thomas. They’re still dominating at the beer pong table. I think they might try to go pro. They don’t even care that we’re leaving early. Carrie waves, not realizing I’m standing right beside her because she’s too busy lining up her shot. She ends up brushing her hand down my beard and remains wholly unfazed. It’s like she always fondles my beard when we say goodbye to each other.
“Have a good night!”
Out in the hall, Derek leads me toward the bank of elevators.
“So am I spending the night?” I ask, playing the cool girl.
“I thought that was obvious.”
“Nothing’s obvious when you’ve had as many drinks as I have.”
He smiles and presses his hand to the small of my back. “Let’s go, champ.”
Inside the elevator, I tug on my beard. It stays fused to my face. I recall my parents’ old reprimand: “If you keep making that face, it’ll stick like that.” It appears that lesson is finally hitting home. I will forever look like an 80-year-old man. I must whimper in distress because Derek chuckles and loops his arms around my shoulders as we arrive on his floor.
“C’mon, I’ll help you get it off.”
In the end, he props me on his bathroom counter and stands between my legs, rubbing an alcohol-soaked cotton swab carefully beneath the edges of the beard.
He concentrates as if he’s performing open-heart surgery. He’s so gentle, working slowly so he doesn’t rip my skin off by accident. I was very clear with him that I like my skin.
“Where did you get this glue?” he asks.
“Someone from Costuming brought it over.”
“Ah. Right. I guess that makes sense. They want these beards to stay put on people who are In Character all day.”
He works another piece of the beard off as I hold still, watching him.
It should be boring, but it’s not. I have unhindered access to his face. Up close and personal. I study his nose (straight, cute if noses can be considered so) and his forehead (seemingly an appropriate size, currently wrinkled in concentration), his eyebrows (brown, thick enough to offset his strong features) and the little freckles that are barely visible on his nose. He has a tiny scar on his left cheek I never noticed before.
“You’re so beautiful,” I say.
He chuckles but keeps his attention on his work. “You’re swaying.”
Am I? I thought I was holding perfectly still.
I go back to studying his face.
“I didn’t like these last two weeks,” I admit quietly.
“Me neither.”
“I missed you.”
“You never said so,” he says, eyes flitting to mine.
“I was trying to play it cool.”
He hums and tugs a little more of the beard off my face, and I wonder if someone donning a costume like mine can ever really be considered cool.
“And I knew you were busy, so I kept myself busy too,” I confess.
“Once, I drove by your dorm and nearly de
manded you get in my car even though it was midnight.”
My heart soars. “You should have!”
He grins.
I wrap my legs around his waist and he keeps working. FINALLY, my beard is tugged off and I’m a free woman. I turn back to look in the mirror and am greeted by splotchy red skin. Specks of the glue still hang from my face. In other words, I am a vision.
Since there’s no way in hell we’re about to get it on—I wouldn’t even kiss me right now—I decide to use this opportunity for something equally as important.
I turn back around. “Let’s have a state of the union address.”
His brow quirks. “Meaning?”
“We make sure you and I are on the same page. Relationship-wise.”
He tugs off his tie and walks into his closet to hang it up. “Shouldn’t we do this in the morning?”
“I won’t be able to sleep otherwise.” Wrong. I could lie down on this counter and be out in five seconds flat, but I’m worried I’ll chicken out if I wait until the morning, when I’m stone-cold sober.
“All right, then,” he says, walking back into the bathroom a few moments later, after having changed. He’s bare-chested above a pair of gray pajama bottoms, and my heart stumbles over itself, trying to keep up.
As if I’m ogling when I shouldn’t be, my eyes shoot to the ceiling as blood rushes up my neck and cheeks. Oh good, my face wasn’t red enough.
Derek chuckles.
My embarrassment only amuses him.
He sits on the lip of the tub, facing me, legs crossed at the ankles.
He is smooth confidence and refinement. I’m the previously bearded lady. The gap between us has never felt quite so obvious.
I wait for him to begin, to take the helm and explain in detail what exactly we’re doing, but he stays silent. Watching me. Waiting.
I clear my throat dramatically before starting. “So…we’re in a relationship?”
I leave it hanging like a question.
“Yes.”
“If I call you my boyfriend in public, you won’t deny it.”
“Why would—”
“Just agree or disagree.”
“Agreed.”
“Wow.”
If I wanted to, I could stick my head out the window of his bathroom right now and tell everyone outside I’m dating Derek Knightley. What a time to be alive.
“That’s it for me.”
He laughs and stays put on the tub. Apparently, we aren’t quite done. “There are other things to discuss.”
My gaze is caught on his chest when I ask, “Like what?”
“With Cal back in the office next week, I won’t be as busy, but it’s still going to be hard to find time for each other if you’re working two jobs.”
My eyebrows scrunch together. “What do you mean?”
“You might have to retire your post as a residence hall manager.”
“Really? But I like that job.”
It’s so fun. Kind of. Lately, I suppose it has been more of a chore than anything else, one more thing keeping me from Derek.
“Okay, so if you enjoy that job, maybe you can cut back your hours at the park.”
“Never!”
“So then we’ll see each other next year sometime?” he asks flatly. “Maybe I can pencil you in for some time in May.”
“Point taken.”
“Where do you see yourself in five years?” he prods.
“In your bed. You’re drizzling chocolate sauce down my body.”
“Whitney.” He tries to level me with a Be serious glare, but I have rug burn on my face, I’m still dressed up like his grandfather, and there’s enough alcohol in my system to sedate a bull.
“Fine.” I close my eyes as if really trying to imagine it now. “I’m not working as Princess Elena anymore. Now, I’m running the park. You work for me. You call me Master—”
With my eyes closed, I don’t see him move until he suddenly hauls me up off the counter, and I burst into laughter as he carries me into his bedroom.
I spank his butt like I’m playing conga drums.
He tosses me onto the bed and stands over me.
“You’re drunk.”
I hold up my fingers so they’re pinched together, only separated by a millimeter. “Only this much.”
He takes off my shoes and drops them on the floor.
My socks go next.
“Seductive,” I tease, rolling my tongue like I’m speaking Spanish.
My jeans are tugged off along with Cal’s vest.
“Wait, if we’re going to have sex, will you make me some coffee first? I want to remember our first time and my head is spinning.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Derek
Whitney is still disappointed we aren’t having sex tonight.
We’re standing side by side, brushing our teeth in the bathroom. She’s drowning in one of my t-shirts, cheeks still inflamed from that stupid glue.
“C’mon, just a quickie?” she asks, toothpaste spilling out of her mouth.
It’s ridiculous that she’s still attractive.
“Spit,” I tell her, and she does before rinsing out her mouth.
“How about a hand job?”
I level her with a glare and she throws up her hands.
“This relationship is dead already. Look at us—day one and we’re already going to sleep like two old people. No kissing. Just proper dental hygiene followed by lights out.”
She crawls under the covers on my bed and brings them up to her chin. She’s a floating head, encased in white sheets. Her red hair fans out wildly around her.
“What’s next—are you going to read me a bedtime story?” It’s said in jest, but then her eyes light up. “Wait! Yes.”
I leave to go get her some water and an Advil for the morning. I half-expect her to be asleep when I return, but she’s right where I left her, smiling, patting the bed where I’m supposed to sit.
Apparently, she was serious about the bedtime story.
“I’m reading a Stephen King book.”
“Ooooh spooky. Perfect for Halloween.”
“I’m two-thirds of the way through. You won’t understand what’s going on,” I say as I sit down beside her, propped up by pillows as I open my paperback to where I last left off.
“Yes I will,” she insists.
One page in, she turns, curls up against my side, and closes her eyes. I stay up reading until she’s fast asleep. I should be glad she’s sleeping off some of the alcohol, but I’m not. I kind of…miss her.
In the morning, I cook us breakfast with what I have on hand. After a busy few weeks, my fridge and pantry are all but empty. I peel an orange, toast some bread, and shake out enough cereal from the bottom of the box to make us each a small bowl of mostly crumbs. Whitney walks right out of my bedroom, darts around the island, and comes straight to me, wrapping her arms around my waist.
“Sorry about last night.”
“There’s no need to apologize.”
“I keep having flashbacks of our conversation, and yes…I definitely need to apologize.”
I chuckle and turn around, lifting her chin. Her face is back to normal, and I tell her so.
She brushes her cheek with her palm, relief evident in her gaze.
“Can I help?” she asks, glancing down at the counter. “Here, let me take over and you go sit at the table and don’t lift a finger. It’s the least I can do.”
“Breakfast is already done. Coffee’s on the table. Juice too. Well, some juice. We’ll have to share a glass.”
“What about silverware?”
“Beside the plates.”
“Okay, well, sign me up for dish duty, at least.”
It’s nice sitting across from her, eating toast, sipping coffee. It’s the most normal activity in the world, but there’s more emphasis on it now that we’re doing it together.
Whitney’s quiet, and I assume she’s probably tackling quite the hangover, so I d
on’t bother her.
When my plate is clean, I stand and her hand shoots out to stop me.
“I need to ask you for a favor.”
* * *
Whitney wants me to go with her to New York in a week.
It seems all but impossible with everything I have going on right now. I should be working in my sleep, especially with Cal still on sick leave, but I don’t say any of this to Whitney. I know why she’s asking, and I know she never would have brought it up if she didn’t really need me.
Besides, when she broached the subject, she made me a promise.
“After New York, I’ll decide what I want to do about my future. Okay? I’ll give you a five-year plan, and I promise to be serious about it, too.”
I bring it up to Heather and Cal the next day and Heather’s eyes go wide.
“Are you crazy? Are you both crazy?”
“Make it work. I’ll fly up on Friday, be there in time for her sister’s show, and return Saturday. With Whitney.”
Cal is fully on board. He won’t hear of Whitney going to New York without me.
“I told you those trips are always so difficult for her. She’ll do better with you by her side.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Whitney
My plane plops me down in New York City at 9:00 PM the following Wednesday. My parents originally booked my flight for 6:20 AM. I changed it last minute. I told them I had to because I couldn’t take another day off work, but really, I’m trying to cut down on the length of the trip out of self-preservation.
My dad is waiting for me at baggage claim, impatiently looking over and around other passengers to find me. He’s wearing a Yankees hat and a matching t-shirt. His face is hard, unsmiling, even when he finally spots me.
He’s always been good at complaining. It’s the first thing he does. No, Hey, how are you? Just, “Can you believe this airport? Jesus, it’s the middle of the night and it’s still this crowded. Did you check a bag? No? Good. Come on.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“Asleep.”
Outside, he flags down a cab. Then, with his hand still in the air, he gives me a once-over. “You look skinny. You eating down there in Georgia?”