Did I Mention I Love You?

by Estelle Maskame

  “Eden,” Tyler says. When I meet his eyes, his head is cocked and he’s studying me. “Talk about something else. Talk about Portland.”

  My eyebrows furrow as I cross my legs, placing my interlocked hands onto my lap. “You want me to talk about Portland?”

  “I want you to talk about yourself,” he says. His eyes are smoldering now, bright and vibrant, locked with mine and unwilling to break our shared gaze. “Tell me something that no one else knows.”

  There is honesty within his eyes, somewhere within the fire that’s still burning, and I know that I can trust him enough to share my secrets, to tell him about Portland and the people there. It takes me a minute or so to make up my mind. Only Amelia knows my secret and I’m undecided whether or not I want to make that two people instead of one, but Tyler gives me an encouraging nod, like he’s trying to convince me to jump off a cliff with him, and I give in.

  I take a few deep breaths, building up the courage to speak. The truth is, I don’t want to admit what’s going on. “I love Portland. It was an amazing city to grow up in,” I say with a sort of sad smile, as though I’m reminiscing about the good old days, as my grandparents would call them. “I had three really close friends. Amelia, Alyssa, and Holly.”

  “Had?”

  “Had,” I confirm. Tyler is staring at me with keen interest, taking in my every move, every word. “When my parents got divorced I was thirteen, and it hit me really hard. I used to cry myself to sleep, because my mom would be crying and my dad wouldn’t be there and I didn’t know how to make her feel better and it just sucked. It really, really sucked.” I pause for a moment, my next few words proving difficult to force out of my mouth, but somehow I manage, somehow I can handle it. “I started to eat a lot because I was so upset, and I put on some weight during freshman year. Alyssa and Holly had a lot to say about it.”

  I can see Tyler glance down at my body, and it only makes me feel even more insecure than I did before. I try to breathe in. “You’re not fat,” he states bluntly, like he’s mad at me for even suggesting it.

  “That’s because I run, Tyler.”

  He continues to study me, as though he’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking, just like I always try to figure him out. He slowly shifts his body across the floor, almost cautiously, and then positions himself directly in front of me. My body is trapped between his legs, and he places his hands on my knees, his touch making me flinch. “Keep talking.”

  My train of thought has been interrupted by the desire to reach over and kiss him, so I place a hand to my cheek and force myself to continue. “They made me feel like shit,” I admit, because it’s true. Alyssa and Holly did treat me awfully for over a year, they did throw snide remarks about my weight into every conversation, and they did cause the downward spiral of my mental health. “I had two of my supposed best friends calling me fat every day, so I started running. We don’t talk anymore, but they still bitch about me behind my back. It’s just hard, because Amelia…Amelia’s still friends with them. She stuck by my side the whole time though.”

  “Eden,” Tyler says, firmly again, like the only way to get my full attention is to use the quiet force of my name. “That’s why you always say you’re never hungry, isn’t it?”

  My lips part as I stare back at him, almost embarrassed that he’s paid so much attention to me. Not even Dad has picked up on this. But then again, he’s always been selfish. “You noticed that?”

  “Only just now.” He glances down to stare at my legs as he runs his fingers from my knees to my thighs, lightly skimming my skin. “Just so you know, I completely disagree with those girls. I’m sorry for what they did.” With his head still tilted down toward my thighs as he continues tracing patterns, he glances up at me through his eyelashes, his eyes unbelievably powerful, and I succumb to their strength and the sensation of his skin against mine.

  And he must feel the way my shoulders relax and sink back down with a breath of relief, and he must sense the way my entire body grows almost limp beneath his touch, and he must be sharing the same thoughts as I am, because his fingertips stop circling my skin and he grabs my thighs, leaning forward and crashing his lips against mine.

  I don’t know why, but I love it each time he completely dominates the situation. It’s like he’s doing all the hard work while I bask in the exhilaration and the adrenaline. I’m starting to get used to the way his lips fit against mine. My arms seem to move on their own accord, loosely throwing themselves around his neck as I smile against him somewhere amid the kiss. I like that this is beginning to feel familiar.

  It doesn’t take long for his tight grip on my thighs to loosen, his hands wandering elsewhere, somewhere new and risky. The kiss slows down as his focus switches from my lips to his hands. They hover by the hem of my shirt for a few moments, brushing the material as though he’s waiting for me to object, but I don’t want him to stop. I tighten my arms around his neck and pull his lips harder against mine.

  Tyler gets the message. He clasps my waist beneath my shirt with one hand as the other finds its way to my bra, leaving the thrilling trail of his touch along my body. I don’t know how he manages, but he slides his hand inside the lace and cups my breast all in one swift movement. He tears his lips from mine, pulling back to meet my eyes for a moment, before moving back in again to plant a row of kisses along the edge of my jaw. His hands are still on my body, his thumb rubbing my breast in soft circles, his skin cold yet oddly sensational. Soon his other hand joins in and I suddenly grow self-conscious. I’m staring up at the ceiling through half-closed eyes, my face tilted to the side as Tyler plants kisses on my neck and cups my breasts. I’ve never been all that fortunate in that area, especially in comparison with Tiffani, and I suddenly grow paranoid that Tyler will burst into laughter any second, but he never does.

  I can feel a moan rising in my throat, and I try my best to suppress it, already embarrassed enough as it is, but then Tyler sighs against my neck and his breath tickles my skin. I move my hands to his jaw and draw his lips back to mine, but before they connect once more, our eyes lock for a moment. We catch our breath as we stare at one another, comfortable in our embrace and unable to hold back the small smiles toying at the corners of our lips.

  We shouldn’t be kissing on the floor of his bathroom and his hands shouldn’t be on my body and I shouldn’t be enjoying it. The scandalous nature of it makes it all the more exhilarating.

  And all the more worth it.

  Chapter 25

  Tyler and I escaped from the confinement of his bathroom two hours later. Our parents returned home with a son bearing a fractured wrist only to find a second son desperately awaiting their return, wondering why he’d been left alone to fend for himself. Little did they all know, Tyler and I had been in the house all along, supervising Chase from afar. I could hear that Ella was furious, probably thinking I’d bailed on babysitting and disappeared again, but when they started calling us both, they discovered we were in the room right above their heads. We had to bullshit our way to freedom.

  “I don’t know how it happened,” I said. Not only was I lying through the door, I was also lying through my teeth.

  “Me either,” Tyler added.

  “I was coming to find him and I fell against the door,” I said. Another lie. Beside me, Tyler was pressing the back of his hand to his lips to muffle his laughter.

  Dad said he’d call the neighborhood handyman, Mr. Forde, to come over straightaway. But Mr. Forde obviously didn’t care too much about the standard of his customer service, because he turned up on the other side of the door forty minutes later. It took thirty bucks and a lot of picking and drilling to unbolt the lock, and finally Tyler and I sheepishly made our exit.

  We didn’t talk to each other again for the rest of the night. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to speak to him. It was because he spent over an hour on the phone with Tiffani, his voice strained with the effort to come across soft and pleading as he tried his best to apolo
gize for his “accidental mistake” that “happened in the spur of the moment,” which he “completely didn’t mean to do.” I could hear it all through the paper-thin walls that separate our rooms. He fed her lie after lie, stacking them on top of each other as he built up a cover story, claiming that a sophomore from Inglewood wanted to see his car when he was on his way to meet the guys, and somehow the fifteen-year-old ended up in his lap. Slightly far-fetched, but Tiffani believed him. His regret was so forced and so fake that I almost wanted to tear down the wall and ask him what he was playing at. But I never did, because I remembered that the Inglewood sophomore was really just me.

  And so last night I fell asleep with my mind split in two. One half was drowning in guilt, but the other was floating, recklessly in love with the idea of Tyler and the secrets that are hidden within the depth of his being.

  Because, somehow, I’ve managed to become one of them.

  * * *

  “And that’s why British guys are better than all these American scumbags,” Rachael announces, finally, after a five-minute speech comparing the two nationalities. According to her, British guys are better, because they have cute accents and use cute words and are just overall cute, and that’s as advanced as her arguments get.

  Meghan voices her own opinion. She claims that the French are better because they kiss you at the top of the Eiffel Tower and whisper “je t’aime” while you share a bottle of wine.

  Both of their European boyfriend fantasies are somewhat stereotypical, but I just laugh and drop my eyes back down to the sidewalk. We’ve just left the Refinery, so my latte to-go is hot against my palms as I slightly lag behind my two companions, my gaze following the lines in the concrete.

  “Eden,” Rachael says, spinning around with a sense of urgency. “You have the final say: British or French?” She and Meghan both stare at me, their expressions intense, as though I’m about to announce who’s just been elected president.

  I simply shrug. “French,” I say.

  Rachael’s face distorts with disgust as she turns on her heels and stalks off for dramatic effect. Meghan grins and tells me I’ve made the right choice, and we rush through the flow of pedestrians until we catch up with Rachael again, who appears to have gotten over it by the time we reach her.

  “We’ve got to wait for Tiff on Broadway,” she reminds us as we reach the promenade and head round the corner onto Third Street.

  Given that it’s like three hundred degrees out today, it’s no surprise that there are people shuffling around, pushing past each other as they weave their way toward their next purchase. I don’t know where Broadway is, but Rachael and Meghan certainly do, so I drop back and tag behind again as we sweep southbound down Third Street. Every time I come here, I notice stores that I somehow didn’t notice the time before, like Rip Curl, some Australian company selling water-sports apparel, and Johnnie’s New York Pizzeria, which looks adorably Italian and reminds me of Dean.

  Rachael slows to a halt by H&M, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair as she peers through the windows at the mannequins draped in floral designs. “Cute shirt,” she comments. She tilts her shades back over her eyes again and starts walking, this time both Meghan and I scrambling to keep up with her. It’s almost as if the alpha status gets passed onto Rachael whenever Tiffani isn’t here to fulfill the role, but today the switch doesn’t last long. We’re meeting Tiffani any minute now.

  We reach the end of the promenade and file onto Broadway, where the promenade flows into Santa Monica Place, the upscale mall cluttered with designer stores that the girls have taken me to a couple times before. We pass Nordstrom and linger on the corner of Broadway and Second. Meghan presses her body back against the windows of the store as she squints at the sun, and Rachael folds her arms across her chest and taps her foot against the concrete as she studies the traffic. For a while I watch her and wonder what she’s looking for, but very soon it becomes clear.

  She straightens up after a few minutes, arms dropping to her sides, expression curious. I follow her gaze. It lands on the white car that’s just pulled up across the street, windows down, engine still purring as it comes to a complete halt. It’s Tyler. My jaw tightens. There’s so much tension between us at the moment that it’s almost unbearable to be anywhere near him, especially under the watchful eyes of our friends.

  “Why is she smiling?” Meghan asks as she steps in between Rachael and me, a hand resting on the top of her head, her fingers woven into her hair.

  “Because she’s insane,” Rachael answers blankly.

  The more I stare at the car, the more my jaw begins to twitch, and the more my jaw begins to twitch, the more I become frustrated with the whole situation. Tiffani is in the passenger seat. I knew she would be. The very first thing Tyler decided to tell me this morning when I woke up was that he was heading out to meet her, so it’s no surprise to see her with him.

  The three of us watch for a few moments as the pair talk inside the privacy of the vehicle, Tyler’s eyebrows furrowed as Tiffani angles her body to face him, her hands moving as she speaks. I really wish I knew what they were saying. Tyler cracks a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and she leans over the center console to kiss him.

  “She’s insane!” Rachael yells, her sudden outburst grabbing the attention of people around us, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she throws her hands up in frustration. I’m surprised she doesn’t hurl her coffee at the car. “A goddamn lunatic!”

  I’m thinking the same thing about Tyler. I just don’t say it out loud.

  Something is happening inside me, like a light switch has been flicked on, and all at once a wave of fury rushes through my veins. I try to convince myself that it’s not jealousy, that I’m not jealous. But I am. My hand tightens around my cup and I almost crush it. I squeeze so hard that the plastic lid pops off and flutters to the concrete, delicate wisps of steam floating up and into the air. Immediately I draw the cup to my lips and sip at the latte as I watch the scene at the other side of the road.

  Finally, Tyler pulls away from Tiffani. She’s giggling like a love-struck preteen, like she’s head over heels for him again. This really aggravates me. Tiffani should hate him. They shouldn’t be fixing things and they shouldn’t still be together, but they clearly are. When Tiffani steps out of the car, she comes rushing across the traffic toward us, bearing a huge grin.

  I’m still sipping my latte, never dropping the cup from my face, pretending to be too distracted to say anything. But as Tiffani reaches us, I notice Tyler’s car still sitting there at the opposite side of the road. He seems to have noticed me too. Through the windshield, he’s watching me, staring at me, until finally he smiles. It’s partly apologetic, partly genuine, like he’s glad to see me. I find myself smiling back, but our moment is quickly interrupted as Tiffani joins us on the sidewalk.

  Rachael lets out a horrified groan and flings her coffee into a nearby trash can, as if to show her outrage at Tiffani’s good mood. “What is wrong with you?”

  My eyes move to Tiffani. Over her shoulder, Tyler’s car revs its way down Broadway, leaving behind the gawking admirers and a plume of smoke. Tiffani, on the other hand, is unfortunately still here. Somehow her smile keeps on getting wider, so I keep on acting like I’m innocently sipping my latte. But I’m not innocent. In fact, I’m the guiltiest person around, and my coffee ran out twenty seconds ago.

  “What?” Tiffani blinks her wide eyes, looking almost perplexed.

  “That!” Rachael points in the direction that Tyler has just disappeared in. “I can’t believe you’ve forgiven him just like that.”

  Tiffani’s smile becomes a pout as she bats her eyelashes and glances up from beneath them. It’s such a contrast from how she looked yesterday, when she cried out five hundred buckets of tears and looked entirely miserable. “He did explain himself, Rachael.”

  “You’re really buying his bullshit story?”

  “It’s not bullshit.”

  Ther
e’s a moment of silence as Rachael tilts her head and presses her lips together, but Meghan seizes the opportunity to speak.

  “When did you get that purse, Tiffani?” she asks suspiciously. “It’s new, isn’t it?”

  All four of us drop our eyes to the purse hooked over Tiffani’s arm. It’s a brown Louis Vuitton monogram purse, the leather shining under the sun. Tiffani gives us a sheepish smile.

  “Well…” she says slowly, and then bites her lower lip. “Tyler bought it for me.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Meghan murmurs, and her eyebrows knit together as she shakes her head in disapproval. “At least we know now that it only takes a one-thousand-dollar purse to gain Tiffani Parkinson’s forgiveness.”

  At this, Tiffani laughs. I don’t. I bite the rim of my cup to stop myself from saying something I shouldn’t, my teeth sinking so hard into the cardboard that I almost bore holes in it.

  “He could have donated that money to charity,” Rachael remarks with a twisted frown, and I agree with her comment. I’m pretty sure the homeless would benefit more from that money than Tiffani will from her leather purse. “We all knew you’d end up forgiving him sooner or later.”

  “And you could have stopped hooking up with Trevor six months ago,” Tiffani shoots back. “We all knew you’d end up falling for him.”

  Meghan lets out a loud snort, to which she quickly covers her mouth with her hands. She blushes but still continues to giggle. I glance over my cup to Rachael, whose lips have parted to form an O. She looks flustered for a moment, like she’s suffering from a concussion and has forgotten how to string sentences together. I think she may be mad, but she only sighs.