by Monica Cole
Friends.
He wants us be friends.
But the look in his eyes contradicts his words.
And the throbbing in my chest is proof that I’m making a huge mistake.
I roll my lips together and clear my throat, demanding his attention. His eyes lift slowly, his pupils huge and dark and terrifyingly helpless and I realize right then that he’s scared too. Of this. Of us.
“So, does this mean we’re friends?” I ask quietly.
He takes a step back and it’s like a weight has been lifted off my chest, allowing me to breathe. He eyes my mouth one more time, and my stomach flutters when he looks back up.
“Friends.”
Chapter Seven
Past
September 2, 2012
Canyon picks me up and drops me off at school every day for the next two weeks. I wasn’t thrilled at first, but his truck smells so much better than the bus and it doesn’t hurt getting to look at him in his uniform everyday either. It turns out he was on to something with us being friends. Along with our identical taste in music, we have a lot more in common. Books, movies, and a slight obsession with the T.V show Dexter. I stand corrected on the whole bad boy thing, too. Sure, he looks the part, but Canyon is so down to earth and funny. It’s scarily contagious and I’ve wondered countless time already how someone as laid back and happy as him could have ever contemplated taking his life.
It’s Friday afternoon, and we’ve just dropped Whitney off at her house for the first time this week. She’s been taking the bus lately, saying that she wanted to give us “space.” Whatever the hell that means.
“Do you mind if I run by my house real quick? I’m heading to the gym after I drop you off, and I forgot to grab a change of clothes this morning.”
I wave him on as I scroll through my phone. “As long as you have snacks. I’m starving.”
Canyon’s house is just as I imagined it. It’s modern, and huge, and downright breathtaking. I’d give an arm and a leg to live in a place like this. I follow him inside clenching my teeth so my mouth doesn’t drop. The inside is just as impressive with marble floors and a spiral staircase.
“You coming up?” He’s already on the stairs and of course I follow. I’ve always wanted to use a spiral staircase. We go down a long hallway that’s painted stark white and is a little bare for my taste. When we get to Canyon’s room, I’m disappointed to find more white walls and a lot of black and gray.
“Your room is so depressing,” I say. I walk over to the king sized bed and sit down while he disappears into his walk in closet.
“What were you expecting? Blue with rainbows painted on the ceiling?”
“What? No. I was just expecting more personality. It looks like no one even lives here.”
He comes out carrying a small duffle bag, his white shirt half undone and his tie gone. “This room has plenty of personality. It has a bed, and I like sleeping”
I grab one of the gigantic pillows off his bed and chuck it at him.
“Make a mess in my room and you’ll be cleaning it up.” He bends over to grab his tennis shoes, and I toss another pillow, causing him to knock his head against the wall.
I bite down on my lip to suppress a laugh. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”
He drops his shoes in the bag and calmly moves towards the bed. I’m starting to wonder if I actually made him mad because he looks so serious. But then he reaches across me, grabs a pillow, and before I have a chance to react, smacks me hard across the face.
He’s laughing as I spit out the hair tangled in my mouth.
“That wasn’t nice,” I pout, my bottom lip poking out.
His eyes drop to my mouth, his pupils appearing to have swallowed all the color. “Wasn’t trying to be.” He winks and my stomach flips in response, creating heat waves that soar through my body. I’m not sure what to make of the reaction, other than it kind of freaks me out, so I do the only thing I can think of and shove him back, feigning irritation. When I fail to make him budge, he chuckles then tosses the pillow on the bed. He moves closer, right in front of me, the fabric of his jeans brushing against my bare knee.
I take a deep breath, but each one is thick, like I’m sucking up all the tension pulsating between us. Then he grabs my chin with one hand, and I’m pretty sure I stop breathing all together. He brushes the hair from my face, his touch light but I feel so heavy inside. The tips of his fingers graze my mouth and I swallow hard when his hand freezes. There’s so much energy in the air, zapping between us, and I’m not sure what to do with it. I peek up at him from under my lashes, wondering if he feels it too.
“Canyon?”
The sound of a man’s voice in the hall startles us both and the moment shatters around us like glass. As if he just got cut by the pieces, Canyon withdraws his hand and shoves it in his back pocket. The door swings open and a middle aged man that I assume is Mr. Beckett appears in the doorway, his eyes darting between the both of us. He has Canyon’s thick brown hair and defined facial features, but unlike his son, there’s no warmth in his light green eyes and from the hard expression on his face, I get the feeling he’s not as friendly either.
“I didn’t know you had company,” his dad says, speaking to Canyon but his eyes are on me, intense and assessing.
Canyon shoves his other hand in his back pocket and leans against the wall beside his bed. “Dad, this is Elle Reynolds. Elle, my dad.”
Mr. Beckett nods his head in what’s in my opinion a sorry acknowledgment then asks Canyon, “Do you go to school together?”
“She goes to Alden,” Canyon answers, crossing his arms over his chest. I’m afraid Mr. Beckett is going to ask how we met since we obviously don’t go to the same school. But thankfully he doesn’t think to ask. That or he doesn’t care.
His dad lifts his arm to check the gold watch on his wrist then starts undoing his tie. “Look, I’m in a hurry. I’m working tonight, so I to need you to take her home. No company during the week, remember?”
Canyon looks like he wants to argue but instead pushes away from the wall and says, “Okay.”
His dad shuts the door without saying goodbye.
“He seems…nice.”
Canyon throws the duffle bag over his shoulder and rolls his eyes. “If by nice you mean asshole, than yea, he’s real nice.”
I smash my lips together, not sure what to say. From what little Canyon has told me, I know he doesn’t get along well with his dad. Now I can see why.
I follow Canyon out of his room, taking my time on the spiral staircase. He waits at the bottom, grinning as he watches me descend.
“What?” I ask, jumping off the last step. “Who knows when I’ll get to use one of these again?”
“You can come over here and use it whenever you want.” He walks backwards, in the opposite direction of the front door.
“Um, where are you going?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, his eyebrow raised. “You wanted a snack, right?”
I fiddle with the strap of my tank top. “Yea, but your dad told us to…”
“Since when do you care about what anyone else tells you to do?” he interrupts and even though he’s right, I have a bad feeling about not listening to his dad. I can already tell he doesn’t like me. Canyon sighs then pauses, his bottom lip poking out in the most ridiculously sexy way imaginable. All I can do is stare at his mouth before I hear him chuckle and then motion for me to follow him. I do. Because I suddenly can’t remember why I shouldn’t.
The kitchen is…cold. Not temperature wise but décor wise. Everything is metal and black and gray, and I’m starting to assume that’s the general theme around here. I kind of hate it.
“What are you in the mood for?” Canyon is digging through the fridge, his ass on full display from where I sit on the island counter top. I’m trying not to look. Really. But his black pants are tight and hanging the slightest bit off his hips, showing the top part of his navy blue boxers. I’m startin
g to worry about myself. A week ago I couldn’t stand him, and now I’m at his house, sitting in his kitchen and staring at his ass wishing I could have it as a snack instead of whatever it is he’s searching for.
We’re friends, if you can even call it that. And friends definitely don’t stare at each other’s asses. Do they?
The refrigerator door bangs shut, and I shift my gaze, trying to look casual. His eyes lift halfway as he drops a bag of grapes on the counter along with two bottles of water.
“What is that?” I scrunch up my nose and nod my head at the contents beside me.
“Your snack.” He plops a purple grape into his mouth and cocks an eyebrow. “Is this not okay?”
He eats another grape and another and another.
“I don’t like grapes,” I say, watching his throat move as he swallows a gulp of water.
He twists the cap back on, dragging his tongue over his lips. “Picky, are we?”
“I’m not picky,” I reply, forcing my eyes to my lap. “I just don’t like grapes. Or most fruits. Really anything that’s not fried or dripping with grease.”
He laughs, resting his hip against the counter. “In other words, you’re picky.”
I stick out my tongue.
“Classy.”
“Shut up and eat your grapes.”
I pick up my water but stop mid drink when I notice him staring.
“What?” I snap.
He shakes his head, his lips perked up on one side. “Nothing. I’m just surprised you like a drink that isn’t carbonated or full of sugar.”
I narrow my eyes at his smart comment. “You know, instead of making fun of me, you could offer me something else.”
He rolls a grape along the counter before tossing it in the air and catching it in his mouth. “I could. Or you could just eat what I gave you.”
“Did you not hear me? I don’t like grapes.” I reach over and push the grape he has caught between his lips into his mouth.
“How do you know you don’t like grapes?” he asks. “Have you even tried one before?”
I give him an incredulous look. “Yes, I’ve tried one before. When I was five my mom made me eat grapes for an entire week, because I had a bad habit of stealing cookies from the top shelf in the pantry then not wanting to eat dinner.”
Canyon’s mouth spreads into an amused grin. “You really are a junk foodie at heart, aren’t you?”
I lean back and shrug. “It’s in my blood.”
He shakes his head and grabs another grape before placing them back in the fridge. Then he opens the freezer, pulls out a carton of ice cream and a single spoon.
“Now you’re getting somewhere.”
He opens the lid and stabs the spoon into the strawberry ice cream. I wait for him to hand it to me, but instead he scoops up a generous spoonful and slides it in his mouth.
My mouth slacks open and I frown as he drags the spoon between his lips, licking it clean. He looks down at the carton then up at me. “Oh, did you want some?” He points the spoon at the ice cream, a smirk creeping up on those beautifully full lips.
I roll my eyes at his attempt to be funny and go to jump off the counter. He stops me, moving his body until his front is pressed against my legs.
“Come on, Elle. I was just kidding.” He sets the carton down, placing his hands on either side of me.
I cross my arms stubbornly, but more so to cover up the goose bumps that have appeared at his sudden closeness.
“You’re not supposed to joke where ice cream is involved.”
He laughs softly, the sound creating a shiver to go along with the hair raising on my skin.
“My mistake,” he says, reaching for the spoon. He lifts it to my mouth, and I turn my head away.
“Come on. Open up.” He jabs the spoon against my cheek.
“Canyon. What the he…” Taking advantage of my open mouth, he shoves the spoon inside, laughing as melted ice cream dribbles down my chin.
I quickly lick my lips, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Little drops of ice cream are on my legs, and my hands and face are a sticky mess. I frown and he grins, swiping his thumb over my chin and sucking it into his mouth.
“You taste good.”
I punch him in the shoulder, but that only makes him laugh harder. Glaring, I reach over for the ice cream and scoop some on my fingers. Then I smear it in his face. He yells and stumbles back, but I wrap my legs around his hips and grab hold of his face, continuing to smear as much ice cream as possible as he fights against me. We’re both choking with laugher, his hands on my arms, forcing me back. Unfortunately he’s stronger and steers our hands to my own face, raking them through my hair and down the sides of my neck. I’m attempting to push him away when he suddenly goes still, hands frozen on my waist, his eyes looking at something behind me.
I crane my head around to see Mr. Beckett standing in the entry way. His arms are crossed over his chest, the look in his eyes intimidating. He’s pissed. And I’m pretty sure I’ve just blown any chances of him ever liking me.
“What’s going on in here?” He asks in a clipped tone that cuts through the silence. He looks at the pink ice cream smeared on the counter then back at Canyon. “Did I not tell you to take her home?”
Canyon slides his hands off my waists and steps back. “We were just getting a snack, dad,” he says calmly, but I can almost feel the tension radiating off him.
“But that’s not what I told you to do,” Mr. Beckett scolds. “I told you to take her home. Not get a snack and definitely not create a mess like this.” He presses his fingers into his eyes and points to Canyon, his face stern. “I’m serious. Get this mess cleaned up and get her home.”
He doesn’t even give Canyon a chance to reply before he storms out of the kitchen. A minute later the front door slams shut, ringing through the empty house.
I start to say something. Apologize for getting him in trouble even though I knew this was a bad idea to begin with. I’d still gone along with it and technically started the whole ice cream fight. But Canyon doesn’t look like he wants to talk as he grabs a wet towel and begins cleaning off the counter. I hop down, putting the ice cream away then go to the sink to wash my hands and face the best I can. Canyon does the same and when we’re finished, we leave the house and climb into his truck.
We’re almost to my house when I finally speak.
“I’m sorry you got in trouble.”
He flips the blinker on, turning down my street. “It wasn’t your fault. You were right. We should’ve just left.”
We pull into my driveway, and he throws it into park, dropping his head against the seat. I grab my backpack from the floorboard but don’t make any movement to get out. I match his position then roll my head to look at him. He’s staring out the windshield, and I smile when I notice his hair clumped together from the ice scream.
“Are you really going to the gym covered in ice cream?” I ask.
He reaches up, fingering a lock of hair. “At least I’ll smell better than everyone else,” he jokes, wiping his hand on his pants. “Who knows, maybe I’ll meet a girl who loves strawberry ice cream and will agree to go with me to the party at the Cove this weekend.”
I make a groaning noise in the back of my throat and throw my hands up. “Are you still on that?”
“I’ve given you two weeks to think about it.”
“I thought by not giving you an answer you would get the hint that I don’t want to go.”
He draws his leg up on the seat and rests his arm on his knee. He looks genuinely disappointed, and I feel bad for being so stubborn about this. But I haven’t been to a party since the accident. They’re just a cruel reminder of my selfishness and stupidity. They make me feel too much. Hurt too much. So I do the only obvious thing I can and avoid them. Not to mention it’s a St. Paul’s party and God knows what would happen to me if I got caught there. Everyone knows each other which means I’d stick out worse than a sore thumb.
I blow out a long breath. “Okay look. I’ll agree to go with you, but…” I pause, letting the word linger. “I have rules.”
Canyon grins, motioning with his fingers for me to continue.
“Neither of us are getting drunk. I’m not staying past eleven, and I don’t socialize, especially with St. Paul scum. Oh, and I absolutely, under no circumstances dance. So don’t bother asking.” I stick out my hand, waiting for him to shake on it.
“I think I can live with that” He places his hand in mine, sealing the deal.
I throw my backpack over my shoulder and open the door. “Have fun at the gym. And make sure to work your arms. They’re starting to look a little flabby.” I reach over, pinching his bicep before scrambling out of his truck. As he pulls out, he gives me the finger. I smile, blowing a kiss before I go inside.
“What the hell happened to you?” Parker glances up from the T.V, his spoon of fruit loops lingering in front of his mouth. I kick off my shoes and hang my backpack on the coatrack.
“Canyon and I had ice cream,” I explain, pulling my sticky hair from its ponytail.
Parker takes a bite, his head shaking slightly. “I guess it’s safe to say you didn’t actually eat any.”
“Not really.”
He smiles and goes back to watching his show. When I pass the kitchen, I catch sight of mom at the table. She’s wearing her glasses, her eyebrows furrowed as she goes through a pile of bills. She looks up, catching me staring, her eyes scanning my outfit warily.
“Please tell me you didn’t start a food fight at school,” she says tiredly, rubbing her temple like the thought is giving her a headache.
“I didn’t start a food fight mom. I was at Canyon’s house.”
She frowns, tucking a pen behind her ear. “Alone?”
I adjust my backpack, deciding how to answer her question. “Mr. Beckett was there,” I say.
“Good. You and Canyon shouldn’t be hanging out at his house all alone.”
I restrain from rolling my eyes. “We’re just friends, mom.”
“And that’s supposed to convince me that a boy and a girl alone in a house is a good idea, how?”