This Book Will Change Your Life

by Amanda Weaver

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ben

  I don’t know what I was expecting Hannah’s father to be like. She’s been beating herself up about disappointing him, which I get, but I guess I imagined someone more imposing like my father, someone with a wrath you don’t want to incur. He’s not at all like that.

  Hannah greets me on the porch of their modest little, white, wood-framed house in the Cleveland suburbs. We have a minute alone to say hello properly, but it’s freezing and her dad is waiting, so she tugs my hand and leads me inside.

  It’s warm and comfortable in her house with nothing remotely flashy— The polar opposite of my parents’ house. Hannah looks just like her dad. He’s on the short side, and they share light brown hair, which he wears a little long and unkempt. His round, wire-rimmed glasses make him look like a shorter, less gaunt, later-era John Lennon.

  When Hannah shyly introduces me to him—she calls me her “friend” and blushes the whole time—he extends his hand and smiles broadly.

  “Welcome to Cleveland, Ben. How was your drive? Can I get you a drink? Soda or… Oh, Hannah said you’re a senior, so I suppose I should offer you a beer, too, huh?”

  He winks at Hannah.

  “Dad.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, so this must be how they are with each other. He teases her, she pretends to be embarrassed, but she secretly loves it.

  “Thanks, but I’m okay,” I say. “Thanks for having me, Mr. Gregory.”

  He waves a hand. “Just Dale is fine. Hannah, why don’t you get Ben settled in, and then we go grab some dinner?”

  “Sure, where do you want to go?”

  “How about Finnegan’s?”

  Hannah lifts her eyebrows. “Okay. Come on, Ben. The guest bedroom is upstairs.”

  I follow her up the wood staircase. The wall is lined with framed family photos, with Hannah’s face at various ages peering back from most of them. My mother doesn’t display family photos in our house. She says it’s “low class.”

  Scattered amongst the pictures are other mementos from Hannah’s childhood, every one of them related to science in some way. Certificates from prestigious science camps, statewide awards, blue ribbons for science fair entries. She’s had quite a career already and she’s only eighteen. My mother never hung this kind of stuff up, either. Our refrigerator was always fingerprint-free stainless steel, unblemished by a single childish drawing or excellent report card.

  “He likes you,” she whispers over her shoulder.

  “I just got here. How can you tell?”

  After she reaches the landing, she turns and grabs the pocket of my hoodie, then tugs me closer. “Because Finnegan’s is like our place, his and mine.”

  My eyes widen. “Shit. Do you not want to go there? We can go—”

  She laughs. “No, it’s great. It’s his way of saying, ‘Welcome to the family.’ Hope that doesn’t weird you out too much.”

  I loop my free arm around her waist. “It’s not weird at all. It’s actually pretty nice.”

  She kisses me, but we keep it short and chaste because… Yeah, I’m sure Dale Gregory’s hospitality doesn’t extend to molesting his daughter on the stairs. Or anywhere else in his house. Dammit.

  An hour later and we’re tucked into a booth at Finnegan’s, sharing a plate of the best chili cheese fries I’ve ever eaten while Hannah’s dad subtly checks me out. My dad would be grandstanding, asserting his own success to make sure that anyone we brought home understood our family’s superiority. He’d be asking pointed and rude questions, trying to shake loose a person’s weaknesses and ugly secrets.

  Dale Gregory just asks me what I’m into. And when we discover a shared love of baseball, the conversation takes a twenty-minute detour into a dissection of our mutual favorite team, the Cleveland Giants. Hannah watches with a bemused exasperation.

  “Hannah tells me you’re an English major,” Dale says when we’ve bored Hannah with all the sports talk.

  And here we go. “Yeah, graduating in June.” Out of habit, I brace for subtle and not so subtle digs about my shitty choice of major. After all, he’s a scientist, which is a long way from literature. And if my own dad has proven anything, it’s that dads have a hard time approving of anything they wouldn’t do themselves.

  He dunks a fry in a mountain of cheesy chili. “Eliot was always my favorite.”

  I blink. Eliot? “What?”

  “George Eliot. Read them all in college and loved them.”

  I clear my throat and glance at Hannah, who looks just as surprised as I am. “Eliot’s great. I think I’ve read Middlemarch half a dozen times.”

  He nods. “And you work at a bookstore?” Somehow his questions don’t feel like an interrogation. Is he genuinely interested?

  “Prometheus Books. It’s a used bookstore—”

  He breaks into a grin. “I remember Prometheus. Wow, that place has been there since I was at Arlington. Your mother loved that store,” he says to Hannah.

  She stares. “She did?”

  “Sure. I tried telling her that checking out books at the campus library was way easier on her student wallet, but she said there was something romantic about used books. Said they told more than one story.”

  Hannah swallows and she grips my hand under the table. “Yeah, I get that.”

  On one hand, I don’t know how Hannah could ever be afraid of telling her dad anything. This guy is great. And it’s so clear in their every interaction that they adore each other.

  But on the other hand, I get her fear of letting people down, even the one not here. Even though she’s been gone for eight years, Hannah’s mom is always present. And considering how they lost her, how she and Dale joined forces to make sure no one else lost someone that way… Yeah, that’s a hell of a thing to turn your back on.

  I squeeze her fingers in return. She’s got to handle this her own way, but I want her to know I’m here for her however she decides to do it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hannah

  After dinner, I suggest taking a drive through downtown Cleveland, past the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It’s a pretty transparent attempt to get some time alone, but Dad just smirks and tells us to drive safely.

  As I direct Ben through town, we talk about school stuff—Jasmine’s trip to Pasadena later this week with Sean while Arlington State plays in the Rose Bowl, poor Ralph stuck actually interacting with customers while Ben is here with me, Ben’s roommate, John, doing some kind of mind-blowing research at a satellite array in Arizona over the holidays. We drive past the sports stadiums and Hall of Fame, and I navigate us toward Voinovich Park, where it’s quiet and dark this time of night.

  I point to a tiny parking lot right off the road. “So you haven’t said a word about Christmas with your family.”

  Ben pulls over and kills the engine. His car always surprises me, nicer and newer than I’d expect for a college student. It’s one of those subtle reminders of his family’s money that pops up every now and then.

  “That’s because there wasn’t much to tell.” Ben runs his thumb along the top of the steering wheel as he stares out the windshield. Cleveland’s lights are bright and clear in the cold night air.

  I take his hand and weave our fingers together. “No fights?”

  “I said as little as humanly possible to avoid one.”

  “Is your dad still hassling you about law school?”

  He smirks and shakes his head sadly. “Steve Fisher never gives up when he knows he’s right.”

  “Ben…” I hesitate. “You wouldn’t go, would you? To law school?”

  He keeps his face turned toward the view, the glow from the city reflecting off his glasses. “He’s not wrong about everything. It would mean a decent paycheck one day.”

  I frown. Is he…actually considering it? “It would mean you’d be miserable forever.”

  He shrugs absently. “Who ever said we were guaranteed happiness?”

  “You deserve to try to
be happy.”

  “Do I? Sometimes I wonder if I’m just being selfish.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Do you think I’d be selfish if I didn’t become a drug researcher like my dad?”

  “Of course not. We’ve talked about this.”

  “And we’ve talked about law school, too. Come on, Ben. You know it’s not right for you. Quit humoring your dad by pretending to consider it.”

  “Sorry.” He reaches under his glasses to rub his eyes. “I’ve just gotten into the habit of agreeing with whatever he says when I go home. It’s easier that way.”

  I smile and squeeze his hand. “Well, cut it out. You’re with me now, and I know you better than he does.”

  He releases my hand and cups my face. “Yeah, you do.”

  I want to press him further, resolve this once and for all. His diffidence scares me. If he can bend on something so important to him, will he be just as quick to bend when it comes to me?

  But I only have him for tonight, for a precious hour alone in his car, and I don’t want to waste it poking at him. Besides, I can’t imagine what Ben’s Christmas must’ve been like, everybody angry, Ben not speaking, nodding along with everything his jerk father says just to keep the peace.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It sounds like a really terrible Christmas.”

  He shrugs off his scowl and smiles at me. My stomach flips, just like it did the first time I saw him. “It was. But the day after is shaping up to be pretty terrific.”

  “I’m really glad you came. Dad likes you.”

  “I like him, too. He seems great. Not at all an ogre like my dad. He might be a lot more understanding—”

  “No.” I cut him off as my heart pounds and my hands go cold. “Of course he’ll understand. And he’ll do his best to hide how horribly disappointed he is. I just…”

  “Hey…” Ben takes my face, cradling my cheeks in his palms. “It’s okay. You have to deal with it in your own way. But keeping this from him is killing you, Hannah.”

  “I’ll tell him before I go back to school. I just have to figure out how to say it.”

  “Okay, let’s walk through it. You have to tell him you’ve changed your mind about being a drug researcher.”

  My heart thuds heavily at the words. “Yeah.”

  “And you want to major in…”

  “That’s just it— I have no idea. I’m throwing it away for something I haven’t even figured out.”

  “Well, what do you want to do?”

  I curl my hand around his wrist. “Can’t we just hide in Prometheus? We’ll put the closed sign up, lock the door, camp up in the loft, and spend all day reading. Well, reading and making out.”

  He makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a chuckle. “That sounds like perfection, but sadly, it’s not terribly realistic.”

  “It’s a nice dream, though.”

  “The best dream.”

  “We could do half of it.”

  It’s dark in the parking lot, but his teeth glint as he grins. “Which part did you have in mind?”

  I lean into him and finally—finally—kiss him for real. His mouth opens over mine, our tongues touch, and we both moan slightly as we get what we’ve wanted for weeks. He keeps it sweet, slow, and gentle at first, but I’ve missed him so much— I reach for him, sliding my fingers into his hair, tugging him closer to me.

  Sitting side-by-side in the car with the center console digging into my ribs isn’t going to cut it, so I break the kiss and scramble into his lap. Ben gasps as I straddle his thighs, and when I take his glasses off, his eyes are wide, his expression lust-struck in a way I’ve never seen before.

  I’ve wanted Ben since the minute I met him, in ways I didn’t even understand at the time. Then, after waiting for so long, he was mine, and I still couldn’t get more than a few stolen moments with him.

  Now we’re here, and nobody’s around to stop us.

  I don’t wait for him to make the next move. I lean in and kiss him, sliding my hands around the back of his neck. He’s a little slow to kiss me back, and his hands rest tentatively on my hips, but when I stroke his tongue with mine, he finally angles his face to take it deeper. One hand comes up and tangles in my hair as we kiss endlessly.

  I inch forward until he’s wedged right between my legs. We’re both wearing jeans, but it’s impossible to miss what this is doing to him. I’ve never felt this way making out with someone. I always stayed detached before, wondering if I was doing it right, nervous about how far it would go.

  Tonight, none of that matters. All I want is Ben, and the way he sets my body on fire. My heart races, and every shift of his fingers sends shocks through my system. I want more of him— I need more of him. I roll my hips against his and he groans, low and guttural.

  “Hannah,” he whispers before kissing me again. I take his hand, still gripping my hip, and slide it up to my breast. He groans again.

  “We could get into the backseat,” I murmur, kissing down the side of his neck. He squeezes my breast once, like he’s not sure he should. I arch into him in encouragement.

  “No, we can’t.”

  “Why not?” I nip at his earlobe, and his head falls back onto the headrest.

  “Hannah, somebody could see.”

  I start to tell him he’s being ridiculous, but then a car passes us in the parking lot, its headlights briefly illuminating us, as if to underscore his point.

  I sigh and slump against him. “Okay, maybe you’re right.”

  He chuckles, kisses my temple, and runs his fingers through my hair and down my back. I probably should climb off his lap. Grinding on him isn’t helping to dial this back.

  He hisses slightly as I slide off him and back into the passenger seat. Then he sits still for a second with his eyes closed, trying to will away his erection, I guess. And maybe we’re not doing it tonight in the cold backseat of his car on the side of the highway, but we’re doing it soon.

  After a couple minutes, he restarts the car. “Come on. Your dad seems to like me so far. I don’t want to blow it by bringing you home past curfew.”

  I laugh. “Are you kidding? I’m way too responsible to have ever needed a curfew. But yeah, if you don’t want me to drag you into the backseat, we’d better get out of here.”

  He closes his eyes and sighs. “Stop tempting me.”

  “Stop being so temping.”

  He smirks. “Nobody’s ever called me ‘tempting’ before.”

  I lean in and kiss his cheek, lingering for just a second, letting the heat simmer between us. “You know I can’t get enough of your big…brain.”

  We erupt into laughter, because let’s be real, I’m a little ridiculous as a seductress. The laughter dispels the last of the tension and the heavy conversation that came before. Our futures are still hanging there, like black clouds over our heads. But all I want to think about is what we were doing five minutes ago in the driver’s seat. And what else we might do when we finally get back to Arlington and can get some time alone.

  I’ve never been so excited for Christmas break to be over.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ben

  “Did you even hear what I read?” Hannah arches an eyebrow at me. She came over hours ago. We ordered pizza and ate it while laughing at terrible reality shows, but now we’re wedged together on the couch, Hannah on her back and me on my side.

  I’m more on her than off, with my head on her chest and my leg thrown across hers while she reads Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas aloud and lazily strokes her fingers through my hair. I might pass out from pleasure.

  “Of course I heard. He took drugs and did something crazy.”

  “The whole book’s about that.”

  My hand is resting on her stomach, rubbing back and forth. Her hoodie—well, my hoodie—has ridden up a little. She stole it right before winter break, and while I miss it, I don’t miss it as much as I like seeing her wear it. Every time my fingers brush the bare skin beneath her belly
button, her voice wobbles. It’s been fun seeing how long she’s going to keep diligently working through the book until she cracks.

  We started reading Fear and Loathing right after winter break two weeks ago, but we’re still not very far into it. Mostly because reading starts like this—lying together on my couch or her bed—and ends with us wrapped around each other and the book forgotten on the floor.

  Hannah’s voice is hypnotic as she picks up where she left off reading. Out in the world when she’s speaking, she sounds like any ordinary girl. But when we’re together like this and she’s reading, she slips into this sleepy lower register that I can’t resist. I can’t believe I never noticed it before we were “us.” Or maybe I only hear her like this because we are “us.”

  My hand sweeps across her stomach again, and my fingertips skim the waistband of her jeans. She shudders.

  “Do you want me to stop reading?” she says haughtily.

  I chuckle. “No, keep going. I’m enjoying this.” Damn, am I ever.

  She might still be reading Fear and Loathing, or she might be reciting the periodic table for all I know. I kiss her just above the edge of her shirt, underneath her collarbone.

  Fear and Loathing topples to the floor beside us. Her freed hand joins the other in my hair, and she hauls my head up until she can kiss me. Her mouth is hot, and she must’ve been thinking about this kiss for a while because she devours me, her tongue slipping into my mouth to find mine. She tastes so good—soft, sweet, and warm—and her smooth curves pressed against me feels even better. I slide my hand up under the hoodie, and she shifts to let me. Then she hooks her leg around my hips, and I’m right there.

  I groan into her mouth. Fuck, I’m so hard already. I want her so badly. I grind against her, and her moan sends a jolt straight into my dick. I want so much more than this, but I won’t rush things, not with Hannah. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone, and I’m desperate for her, but her first time wasn’t going to happen with her drunk at that party, not in the backseat of my car on the side of the road. And it most definitely isn’t going to happen in the middle of a make out session on the couch, no matter how eager we are. Even though it’s the very last thing I want to do, I shift my weight off her and slow my kisses down, just soft and closed-mouth.