Sweet Nothing

by Henry, Mia

  “It’s… mine, actually. I’ve been renovating it for the last few years.”

  “You did all this yourself?” Long, thin stained glass windows cast hazy rainbows over Luke’s chiseled jaw and defined chest.

  “It’s been fun,” he says lightly. “Treating the place like one giant piece of art. Hey. Speaking of, take a look at these.” He leads me to one side of the room, where canvases and photographs of various sizes are arranged on long wooden shelves.

  “Student art?”

  He nods. “This is the reason I teach this stuff. So much of the time, I think we go through the day just lecturing at our students. We don’t give them credit for being actual people, for having something real to say. If we just give them the space and materials, it’s crazy what they can express, you know? It’s cool just to be a part of the process.”

  I stare at him, wondering if he’s real, or the Universe’s idea of a sick joke. A smart, sensitive guy who looks this good in jeans doesn’t seem genetically possible.

  “I’m rambling. You probably don’t care about this stuff.”

  “No. Stop. I do.” I reach out to shove him playfully, and my hand lands on his chest. It’s rock solid, the kind of chest that makes me want to drop to my knees wherever the altar used to be and give thanks. I can feel his heart beating beneath his t-shirt. Neither of us pulls away.

  “I get kind of carried away sometimes.” His eyes find mine, and suddenly I’m not sure if he’s talking about art or work or the insane energy buzzing between us.

  “I love how much you love your job.”

  “It’s just that after… the accident, art was the thing that saved me. People get really uncomfortable when you tell them you’re sad, or pissed, or whatever. But with art, you can say what you need to and it’s okay.”

  A lump forms in my throat, and I nod. I want to take away the pain I see in his eyes. But I recognize that kind of pain; know it well. And I know that there’s nothing I can do to wrestle him from its grip.

  “What up, Mr. Poulos?” The door flies open, and Vi Miller prances in, followed by a gaggle of mini dress-clad girls. Who look less like girls and more like women on their way to a Real Housewives casting call. They teeter in on too-high stilettos. It’s stupid, but suddenly my flat Grecian sandals don’t feel like enough.

  Luke coughs and takes a giant step back. “Come on in, folks. There’s soda and snacks in the kitchen. What can I get you?” As he passes me he whispers sorry, his lips nearly grazing my ear, which does zero to ease the tension in my body.

  I hang by the art wall as small groups of students arrive, plus a few art teachers I haven’t met. Apparently, this isn’t a school-wide event. So Luke really did want me here, after all. In his house. My eyes follow the staircase to the lofted room above, where a king-size mattress rests beneath a huge mobile, probably six feet wide, made of colored glass and bits of broken pottery. I can picture Luke stretched out beneath it, diluted color rinsing his body. I can picture my mouth on him.

  “Care for a cocktail?” Suddenly, Luke is next to me, carrying a red solo cup splattered in pink paint. I inhale a sharp breath. “Ginger ale, with a twist of lime.”

  “Sure. Just one, though.” I smile and take a sip. It really is straight ginger ale, which makes me laugh. “More than one of these, and who knows what could happen.”

  “Ms. Sloane! Pretty cool for a party with no booze, right?” Vi Miller invades our space, followed by a few other girls from my first period class. Part of me is irritated, the other part grateful. As much as I want to be alone with Luke, I know it isn’t a good idea.

  “Inappropriate, Vi,” I say dryly, smiling at the girls. “By the way, I saw your dad’s latest listing in the paper this morning. Not bad.”

  “Right?” she grins.

  After what my roommates have come to call the Santiago Setback, I’ve made it my mission to know what each student’s parents do/own/govern, to avoid any more mishaps. This morning, Waverly had informed me that Mr. Miller was an independently wealthy real estate agent who showed one, maybe two houses a year. His latest: a cozy little place on Star Island with a price tag of approximately 22 million. Mrs. Miller didn’t need an occupation, other than being married to Mr. Miller.

  “So tell me which of these pieces are yours,” I say to the girls.

  “Mine is the still life,” Priya (Father: Raj! Botany professor at the University of Miami! Mother: Banhi! Ball-busting litigator!) nods shyly at one of the canvases on the wall.

  “Awesome use of color,” Luke praises her. Priya’s cheeks turn pink. “Vibrant.” I like the way he talks to his students: caring, but still authoritative. He’s not one of those teachers who tries to be popular. But he is.

  “And I did the charcoal sketch,” Vi says loudly, flicking a deliberately messy fishtail braid over one shoulder. “which could be worth like twenty grand.”

  “And how did you get to that figure, exactly?” I shouldn’t tease her. Anyone with the potential to drum up twenty grand at the moment is doing better than me.

  “Mr. Poulos has this software where you can upload an image and it will search the Internet for similar images. At school, we set it up so all of our images get scanned.” She waves me over to Luke’s computer and jiggles the mouse. “See? My sketch is just as good as this guy’s in Denver. And he sold it for twenty grand.”

  “Just don’t forget us little people when you’re rich and famous.”

  She blinks. “I’m already rich.”

  “Famous, then,” I sigh, wondering if I ever acted this spoiled at 17. Knowing I probably did.

  “Okay, people. If I could have your attention for just a second.” Luke taps the side of his solo cup with a plastic fork, which makes the girls giggle. Students and teachers cluster around him. Apparently, I’m not the only one who finds him magnetic.

  “I want to thank everybody for coming out to support our summer session artists. You guys did some amazing work. So take a look around, check out the kinds of things your colleagues are creating. And if you’re interested in buying any of the pieces, check with me.”

  The guys nod, the girls golf clap, and Vi emits a high-pitched “Ow ow!”.

  I spend the rest of the reception sipping ginger ale and milling around the chapel. Luke plays host, taking pictures of the kids with their artwork and extending trays of mini quiches to the other teachers. The details in this space are exquisite, and a little worn, which gives the place character. There’s an old wooden pew against the back wall—probably an original—that serves as a display shelf for a row of black and white photographs of churches, mosques, and synagogues. Stacks of books on different world religions are stuffed beneath the pew. The curtains are hanging woven tapestries that border the stained glass.

  And then there are the kitschy-cool pieces: an antique tricycle parked near the kitchen. A wooden desk with a record player and earphones. A hula-hoop hanging on the wall. A globe nightlight plugged into the wall by the door. A painted wood checkerboard on the coffee table.

  I trace the squares with my index finger, wondering if Luke used to play checkers with his father, too. And then, just like that, I am back in the library, sitting across from my father.

  —What do you mean, ‘it’s over’, dad? I’d asked, fear pulsing through me. He’d always been strong; in charge. Seeing him like this had made me feel exposed. Unprotected.

  —All of it. And it won’t be long before people figure everything out.

  —My blood had turned to ice.

  —What do you—I don’t understand. What did you have to do with that couple’s death? I couldn’t catch my breath. My heart pounded in my ears. Was my father telling me that he was a killer? Suddenly, the room around me felt distorted and unreal. This had to be a nightmare.

  —Does Mom know?

  —You know, it’s funny… Dad’s eyes were glassy. In a way, I’ll be relieved when it’s over. There’s nothing more exhausting than living a lie.

  I feel a weight n
ext to me on the couch, drawing me back.

  “Freshen your drink?” Luke dumps the contents of his solo cup into mine. I’m suddenly aware that our bodies are touching: his strong arm pressed against my shoulder, his hip nudging my side. His body is comforting. Weighty, when the memory makes me feel like I’m going to float away.

  “Thanks.” I force a smile. I wish I could tell Luke about my day, about my defunct bank account and Aria and everything else I worry about with my insane, broken family. Holding everything inside like this makes me feel like I’m going to explode.

  “Wait.” I glance around the chapel. It’s empty. “Where is everybody?”

  Luke’s laugh is warm. “Uh, they left. Like twenty minutes ago. You’ve just been sitting here daydreaming, so I thought I’d better not interrupt you.”

  “Twenty minutes? Oh, God.” He thinks I’m a freak. Correction: I am a freak. A freak who has flashbacks in the middle of a perfectly good reception.

  “No, not twenty minutes, weirdo.” He elbows me in the side. “The kids left a few minutes ago. Last I heard, Vi was telling everybody about a, and I quote, kick ass party in South Beach. So the place cleared out pretty quickly.”

  “Oh.” I slap his leg, feeling relieved and idiotic at the same time. “So, basically, you got ditched for a better party.” He’s so close, his scent envelops me. He smells clean and salty. Warm. Safe. I let myself breathe him in.

  “Nah.” The smile lines around his eyes crease slightly. “Kick ass SoBe parties be damned. I’d rather be here than anywhere else.” He reaches for my cup and tugs it gently from my grip, resting it on the coffee table. “And to tell you the truth, I’m glad everybody cleared out early.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Me, too.” My mouth goes dry, and I search his face for meaning. Does he mean that he’s glad we’re alone? It’s what I want him to mean, the kind of wanting that reaches down deep and holds me captive next to him. And at the same time, I know the truth: Luke would never want a liar like me.

  “So, it went well, don’t you think? I mean, the kids had a good time, and I loved seeing your place and everything.” I’m chattering, a nervous habit I’ve had since I was a kid.

  “Yeah, it was a good time.” I can feel him watching me. When silence falls between us, he doesn’t fill it. Wanting tugs at my core. A warning sign.

  “Okay. I should go.” I don’t move.

  “Big plans tonight?”

  “I think Gwen and Waverly are baking cookies.” My voice is high; lilts up at the end like I’m asking a question. I regret the childish words the instant they leave my mouth. And even more once Luke bursts out laughing.

  “You know, you’re tough to read sometimes.”

  “Yup, that’s me. Complicated. Many layers.” I stand to leave, but Luke reaches for my wrist, pulling me to seated again.

  “Wait. I didn’t—I meant that in a good way.” He leans close, brushing my bangs away from my forehead. “It’s like, you’re this incredibly strong woman and this sweet little girl at the same time.”

  Woman. I don’t usually like it when guys use that word, but when it leaves Luke’s lips it sounds hot. And I like that he sees the kid in me too, the part of me that doesn’t have it all together. It’s like he’s glimpsed the real me, and he’s not turning away.

  “I don’t feel strong,” I murmur. It feels good to tell the truth. “Not today, anyway.”

  “Well, you obviously don’t see what I see,” Luke says softly. With both hands, he reaches out and strokes the studs in my ears with his thumbs. His fingers graze my neck, sending electric jolts through me. My body is warm, and strung so tight I don’t trust myself to breathe. I want him to kiss me. I want him to protect me. And I know I should leave, but I can’t.

  “Luke, I—”

  And then his hands are gripping my shoulders and he’s pulling me into him. And his mouth is on mine, so warm and sweet that my mind goes blank and my body is shaking with anticipation. I kiss him back, hard. In this moment, there is nothing standing between us: not my past, not my lies, not my deceit. There’s only Luke and me. His eyes, my mouth, his hands, my hips.

  Luke’s tongue searches my mouth. Gentle but strong, exactly like him. I run my hands through his thick, dark hair, almost clawing at him. I want him so badly it aches. I lean back, let my head rest on the arm of the couch, trying to get my bearings as he explores me with his mouth: my neck, the hollow at the base of my throat, then the outline of my ear.

  “I’ve wanted to do this since the second I saw you,” he whispers, his words soft on my neck.

  I say nothing, just gasp as he bites my lip. Tracing my collarbone with his fingers, he stops, teasingly, just short of my breasts, but my nipples harden beneath the silk of my dress anyway. He notices and smiles.

  I want to devour him. No. I want to give in to him, to let him take control.

  His lips find mine again, and just as quickly, I feel the chill of air-conditioning where his warmth has been. My eyes snap open. He’s pulled away.

  “Everything okay?” I sit up. “What’s wrong?”

  He doesn’t answer, just watches me for a few seconds. My heart is still pounding in my ears.

  “Yeah. Fine. Stay right there,” he instructs me, bounding off the couch. “Don’t move! I’ll be right back.” He cuts across the chapel and throws open one of the doors close to the entrance. A bathroom, I think. “Seriously! Don’t move!”

  “Clearly, it was as good for you as it was for me,” I mutter under my breath, straightening my dress. It’s been a while since I’ve made out like that—okay, made out at all—but am I seriously rusty enough to send a guy running to the bathroom?

  “Okay. I’m back. Just stay… right there. God, you’re beautiful.” Luke emerges holding a cylindrical oatmeal container wrapped in black duct tape.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Pinhole camera, from my darkroom. I made it myself—takes awesome pictures.

  Mind if I take yours?”

  “Um, yeah. Sure. Fine.” Ignoring his instructions, I swipe at my bangs.

  “Elle. Sloane. Stay. Still.” He tilts the container toward me, like he’s looking through a telescope, and peels a strip of tape away from the lid. “See, there’s this tiny little hole here, and when you peel the tape away, it lets light in and captures your image on photo paper.” He replaces the strip of tape and sets the camera on the coffee table.

  “Well, I can honestly say that’s the first time anyone stopped making out with me to take my picture.” I punch him in the arm.

  “I know, I’m sorry. I’m a photography nerd. Didn’t mean to put the brakes on so fast. It’s just…” he collapses next to me and grins. “I want to remember you like this. You’re… I think you’re perfect, Elle.”

  I search him for any sign that it’s a line, and find nothing but warmth in his eyes. So I do the unthinkable. I believe him.

  chapter nine

  Elle,

  Sorry for inviting myself down there. I know you have your own life going, and you don’t need your pesky little sister cramping your style.

  Besides, things are starting to get a little better here. Kylie and Liz invited me out the other night—we just had a couple drinks at that karaoke place in the Village where they don’t check IDs. It felt like things were getting back to normal. Maybe school won’t be so bad after all.

  Love you for infinity,

  A

  Gwen’s at the kitchen table when I get home, surrounded by a stack of papers, legal pads, three back issues of In Touch, and a mason jar of iced tea. She manages to look hot in a full set of blue and white-striped men’s pajamas, and her brunette waves are twisted around a red colored pencil. She whistles softly when she sees me.

  “Pretty dolled up for a Tuesday night, missy.” She nudges one of the kitchen chairs with a bare foot and motions for me to sit. “Where’ve you been?”

  Trying to hide my grin, or at least disguise it as a casual I JUST WENT TO A SCHOOL-SPONSORED ART RECE
PTION AND DRANK GINGERALE! NOTHING ELSE HAPPENED!-smile, I kick off my sandals and flop onto the chair.

  “Nowhere.”

  She leans back, surveying me from head to toe. “Just… ‘nowhere’? That’s what you’re going with here? You’re a sucky liar, you know that?”

  I pretend not to hear her and reach for her jar of tea. I need something to do with my mouth. I’d prefer that something to involve Luke, but he’d dropped me off just a few minutes ago with a sweet, quick smooch. Had told me that while he wanted me to stay, he also wanted to take things slow. Which I both loved and hated.

  “Easy, chickadee. It’s spiked,” she warns as I lift the frosty glass to my lips, which feel bee-stung from Luke’s playful bites. “I can’t grade these summer reading tests on straight iced tea.”

  Then she goes silent, waiting me out as I take a long swig. I want to tell her where I’ve been. In fact, I want to tell her everything. But there’s no use saying the words out loud. I kissed Luke Poulos tonight. And it. Was. Magic. If I say it, then it’s real. Something, when I know that there can be nothing between us.

  Still, it felt like a pretty fucking incredible nothing.

  “Okay. I…went to the art reception for the summer session,” I admit, looking everywhere but directly at Gwen. There are two chocolate chip cookies on a burned cookie sheet on the stove, and our Chinese takeout containers from the night before are still sitting on the counter.

  “Wasn’t that at Luke’s place? And wasn’t it for art faculty only? I think Waverly tried to score an invite, and he said he wanted to keep it small.”

  When I give in and look at her, Gwen taps her nose ring knowingly, her brow furrowed with amusement. She’s on my side. Not that Luke is a competition. And if he were, I’d be winning. I can’t help but gloat a little that Luke wanted me there—me—and not Waverly.

  “Look. He probably asked me since I’m new, and he’s my mentor, and he figured I don’t have anything else to do, and—”