by Penny Reid
Greg visibly relaxed, the tight line of his lips smoothing. “When I’m being honest?”
“Yes.”
He continued to scrutinize me as he gathered a deep breath, and in doing so his chest brushed against mine. I felt debilitated by his nearness. Seconds ticked by. He said nothing.
If I’d known him better I might’ve been able to decipher the puzzle of his expression. It occurred to me that the feeling between us, this intangible magnetic field of mutual esteem, might be fleeting. Perhaps it was premature, and based on presumption rather than reality. He was so handsome, so charming, so uniquely charismatic. But what did I really know about him?
Before I could travel too far down the road of doubt, he said, “I’m going to start calling you Fe.”
“Why? A nickname for Fiona?”
“No. Because you have nerves of steel. I’m not typically a game player. When I’m around you…” He stopped, swallowed, his dark eyes a little desperate. “I was going to say, you make me crazy. But it’s not you, it’s me. I make me crazy, thinking about you. Does that make sense?”
I nodded, feeling myself thaw.
He continued haltingly, “I did want you to go on this date with Creepy Mark from art history.”
“He’s not creepy-”
“He is creepy. He looks like one of the children of the corn, and take into account that we’re currently in Iowa where corn fields abound. He may have been attempting to suck the soul out of your body down there, because that definitely wasn’t kissing.”
I found myself trying not to laugh. “Greg-”
“But you…” He pressed his lips together again, his eyebrows pulling into a tight, unhappy line. “After you left, the thought of you out with someone else, I didn’t like it. And I don’t want you to do it again.”
“I can’t not go out with anyone else ever again. That’s crazy. I have study groups and class projects.” I kept my tone even, reasonable.
“I’ll overlook your atrocious double negative for now, because that’s not what I meant.” He took a step back and reached for my hand, cradling it between his large palms and shifting his focus to where we touched. “I wanted you to go out on a date with Creepy Mark because I was certain it would be a disappointment. But when you left, it didn’t matter if you had a good time or not. It was a date, a romantic situation if you will. Certainly you’ll have study groups and class projects in the future. But I want to be your only source of romantic situations from this point forward.”
I felt my mouth pull to one side as I watched him speak, because Greg Archer was completely adorable when he was honest and sincere.
I squeezed his hand and reclaimed the step toward him, drawing his eyes back to mine. “I would like the reverse to be true as well. I would like to be your only source of romantic situations from this point forward.”
He sighed, it sounded both happy and forlorn. “Even if you didn’t want it, it’s yours. It’s been just twenty-four hours and I’m ruined.”
“You’re ruined?” I grinned.
“Yes. I’ve been through all my best pornography videos this evening and nothing interests me.”
My mouth fell open.
“If you want to know the truth, I’m rather upset about it. I’ve invested quite a lot of money in the Debbie Does series, and now it’s all rubbish.”
I pulled my hand out of his, prepared to be outraged, but instead I laughed. “You’re appalling.”
His eyes twinkled with mischief, but his face and tone remained serious. “It’s pronounced appealing, Darling. And I don’t suppose I could talk you into recording some videos? My birthday is in September.”
I shook my head and walked around him to the last flight of stairs. “I’m not talking to you about your porn addiction.”
“I’m not addicted to porn, but I was very fond of it. It’s helped me through some difficult times and answered so many important questions from my youth, for example—pizza delivery women, as a subset of society, are sexually adventurous and are apparently paid well enough that they can afford breast implants. Did you know that?”
He sounded so epically sincere, I couldn’t stop laughing.
“And babysitters across this great country suffer from a very peculiar type of alopecia.”
“What?”
“They’re hairless, in their lady closet.”
“Ah! Stop!” I’m sure my cheeks were bright red.
He had to pull me up the last few steps because he wouldn’t stop regaling me with universal truths revealed to him via porn—all of which were horribly hilarious nonsense. By the time we reached my suite my jaw hurt and I was wiping at my eyes.
“Your jokes are terrible.”
Greg grinned, walking me backwards into my suite and wagging his eyebrows he corrected me, “It’s pronounced tremendous.”
***
I looked up from my textbook as my headphones were pulled from my ears. Fern was standing in front of me, bent at the waist. Her face inches from my face. She was smiling.
“You and Greg,” she said.
I blinked at her. “Uh…”
“You. And. Greg.” She placed my headphones on the desk and straightened, her eyes big and round. I hadn’t seen her since the Thursday before Valentine’s Day.
“Me and Greg?”
“You’re together.” She paired this statement with an emphatic hand wave.
I gathered a large breath—stalling, trying to read her mood—then released it slowly. “Yes. I mean, I guess so.”
“You guess so? You don’t know so?”
If being each other’s only source of romantic situations from now meant that we were officially together, then we were officially together.
I straightened in my seat and replied with conviction, “No. You’re right. We’re together. I know so.”
After our stairway conversation, I’d invited Greg into my room because I wanted him there, not because I had any designs or plans in mind. He’d suggested we stay in the suite instead, placing me between his legs on the floor and rubbing my back. We talked until late, past 2:00 A.M., and munched on snacks of apples and string cheese. He bid me goodnight with a gentle, lingering kiss, and promises to return the next afternoon.
It was now the next afternoon.
Fern pressed her lips together. Her gaze moved over me and I suspected she was debating her next words. I was mildly alarmed because I’d never known Fern to be circumspect.
“What’s wrong?” I finally asked.
“Someone saw the two of you last night in the hallway, and then Greg leaving late at night.”
I frowned. Why anyone would care enough to tell Fern? And if they’d told Fern, how many other people knew? And what difference did it make? And why was it anyone else’s business?
“Girls like Greg,” she said with a loud suddenness, like it was a warning.
Ah… okay. Now I get it.
I widened my eyes and closed my book. “I see.”
Fern huffed dramatically then fell into the chair next to mine. “What I mean is, Greg just broke up with Vanessa, and now the two of you are together. This dorm can be worse than high school. We’re basically trapped in these walls until the snow melts, and small minds are occupied with the affairs of other people, especially when one of those people is Greg Archer.”
I squirmed uncomfortably and set my book aside. “I didn’t make a play for him, if that’s what people are saying.”
“I know. You’re not like that.”
“I didn’t go to high school, Fern. And I’ve watched more TV over the last four months than I was allowed to watch during my entire childhood. I’m not used to my personal life being of interest to anyone.” Mostly because I’d never had a personal life.
“You were sheltered, I know.” She gave me a sympathetic smile.
“I’m not completely ignorant.”
“I know.”
“I understand the dynamics of competition.”
“But you�
��re used to defined rules for competition. All is fair in love and war.”
I grimaced. “What should I do?”
“Nothing. Just be you. But don’t be surprised if some of the girls are-”
“Unfriendly?”
“Maybe. Maybe even friendlier than before. They’ll just be bitchy about it. Prepare yourself for lots of questions and judgment. Trust no one.”
Suddenly, I had heartburn. “That sounds lonely.”
She shrugged. “Girls are mean.”
“Not all girls.”
“No, not all girls.” She gave me a resigned smile and added, “Just most girls.”
A knock on the door to our suite interrupted our conversation.
“Who is it?” Fern called, giving me a bracing look.
“Pizza,” came a muffled male reply.
Fern and I exchanged questioning glances as she stood. “What? Pizza?”
“Mail,” another muffled response, followed quickly by, “Candygram.”
Comprehension claimed her features and she pressed her lips together, trying not to smile, and called back, “Go away. We want no land sharks here.”
Confused, I mouthed the words land sharks? at her.
She rolled her eyes, “It’s from Saturday Night Live. There’s this shark at the door to the Weekend Update desk, and he…” she tossed her hands in the air and moved to the door. I heard her unlock it; I hadn’t realized it was locked. “Never mind. I’ll just get my hands on some old episodes.”
She pulled the suite door open and stepped back, motioning for whoever it was to enter. “Enter. She’s all yours.”
Greg sauntered into the room, grinning at Fern and looking delectable. “Thanks, Fern. You’re a pal.”
I sat straighter, a spike of awareness passing through me like a shock, arresting my breath for a span of five seconds and tightening my throat. His eyes moved to me and his grin wavered. We watched each other for… I honestly don’t know how long.
“Riiiight,” Fern’s elongated word pulled me out of my stupor, “I’m going to go so you two can have uninterrupted eye-sex.”
Greg and I spoke over each other.
“You don’t have to leave,” I said.
“Don’t let me keep you,” he said.
Fern rolled her eyes again and chuckled.
I gave Greg a disapproving frown. “Where will you go? It’s supposed to snow all day.”
“I’ll be back before it gets dark,” she said, waving away my concern and grabbing her bag. “We’re supposed to get ten inches overnight.”
Greg opened the door for Fern and mumbled under his breath, “I might give Fiona ten inches this afternoon, if she plays her cards right.”
Um… hello!
Both Fern and I gaped at him, wearing mirrored expressions of shock, and the suite plunged into dead quiet for a protracted moment. But then Fern threw her head back and burst out laughing. Greg’s shoulders also shook with silent laughter, giving me a look that was both apologetic and unrepentant.
I didn’t laugh. I lowered my eyes to the brown carpet and proceeded to turn bright red. My cheeks were flaming because:
Naked Greg.
Naked me.
Bed.
Floor.
Desk.
Mouth.
Hands.
Hot breath.
Ten inches.
I was… overwhelmed with visual imagery. The charged atmosphere between us persisted. Visual imagery plus charged atmosphere made me hot. Which made me embarrassed and unsteady. Which made me turn red.
I forced myself to smile, but it was weak; I needed a minute. “Let me go grab some snacks, I’ll be right back.”
I knew his eyes were on me because I could feel the weight of them as I left. I paced to my mini fridge and opened it, grabbed a can of Coke and pressed it to my neck, telling myself I was ridiculous. It was a joke, just a joke. I may have been inexperienced but I wasn’t a prude.
I was… caught unawares, I reasoned. I’ll be ready next time. I’ll be bold.
I knew when Fern departed because I heard their murmured conversation come to an end, punctuated by the closing of the suite door. I put the Coke back on the shelf and inspected the fridge, distracting myself with its contents and hoping the cold air would help cool me down.
My back was to the entrance of the room and I was absorbed in not thinking about Greg’s alleged ten inches, so I started when I heard the door to my room close. I turned my head and found Greg leaning against it, looking at me.
I gave him a tight smile. “Are you hungry?”
He paused, like a witty retort was on the tip of his tongue, but must’ve thought better of it because he shook his head, saying nothing.
The charged atmosphere grew tenfold, was positively electric.
I managed to swallow and straighten from the fridge, closing it as I stood and saying honestly, “It’s good to see you.”
His answering genuine smile made my heart thunder. Why was I so nervous? I told myself to calm down.
Greg stepped away from the door. He made a small circle, glancing around the room and paying special attention to my half. At length he declared, “So this is your room.”
“Yes. This is my room.”
He gestured to the walls. “You have no posters up.”
“Correct.” I was happy to be discussing a topic as benign as posters.
Greg surveyed me. “Why don’t you have any posters?”
“I guess I haven’t found any that I want to look at every day.” My attention flickered to Dara’s side, to her ten or more posters and pictures wallpapering the plain white paint. I hadn’t noticed how bare my side looked in comparison.
“Interesting. What’s this?” He picked up the book on my nightstand, a practical pictorial guide to mixed martial arts, and flipped through it. “Are you interested in martial arts?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to beat me up?” He gave me a sideways glance.
“Not unless you give me a reason.” I crossed to him and took the book out of his hands, setting it back on the table. “Are you going to go through all my things?”
“Yes, starting with your panty drawer. Be a good girl and point me in the right direction.”
I forced a chuckle, reminding myself to be bold, and sat on my bed. “Go ahead, snoop. I have nothing to hide.”
His gaze skittered over me, considering. After a short pause, he stepped forward and sat next to me. My heart jumped to my throat and I tensed in anticipation. We were alone together, in my dorm room. The door was closed. Anything could happen.
How wonderfully exciting.
Greg bounced a few times, flattening his hands over the mattress as though testing the springs. “I think your bed is firmer than mine. And it squeaks less.”
“You should file a complaint.” My tone was tighter than I wanted so I tried to swallow… and failed. I took a deep, calming breath.
“I should. Or,” he lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, “I could just steal yours.”
“Or…” I cleared my throat to dispel the nervousness, placed my hands on his chest, and gently pushed him down on the mattress. I finished my thought as I settled next to him, “You could sleep in here with me.”
I was being bold and brave and not a prude. But I’m sure the effect of seductress was ruined by my shaking hands and voice. I tried not to wince at the terse awkwardness of my attempt. I was bad at this.
Greg cocked an eyebrow, narrowing his eyes. Again he looked like he was biting back a retort, literally this time—he was biting his bottom lip—his gaze assessing.
At length, he gathered a deep breath and said, “You look like one of those sorts who has perpetually cold feet and stabby toenails.” As though to illustrate his point, his foot played with mine at the end of the bed. “But I do enjoy your hermit socks. Where can I get a pair of these?”
I realized he was trying to disarm his earlier sexual innuendo, encourage me to relax with b
enign teasing. I was grateful, but it also made me feel naïve and inadequate.
But then again, I was naïve. I was unworldly, and I couldn’t become worldly overnight.
“I knit these hermit socks.” I poked his foot with mine and grinned when I realized we were playing footsie.
“You knit those socks?” He sounded impressed. “Do all hermits knit?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Especially misogynistic manifesto writing hermits.”
He lifted his head, inspecting our feet as they continued to play, then leaned his head toward mine. “These socks scream, Ask me about my thirteen cats!” Greg whispered, his eyes widening for a beat, his mouth forming a crooked grin.
I smiled at him as I giggled, reaching forward and enjoying the connection, the warm solidness of his stomach and chest under my fingertips. We were laying on our sides, face-to-face, so close I was able to count his freckles. The light from the window behind me highlighted the flecks of gold and copper in his dark irises. I was lost to the moment, fuzzy headed with possibility, allowing myself to be caught in the halo of his strength and… maleness.
Then he said, “You’re beautiful.”
I blinked his face back into focus, feeling flush with pleasure, and unable to contain my smile. “Thank you.”
He wasn’t smiling; his gaze sharpened, the curve of his mouth almost stern. “I don’t know that you understand my meaning. Allow me to explain.”
I nodded, still smiling despite his somberness. I couldn’t help it. The boy… rather, the man I couldn’t stop thinking about had just told me I was beautiful. I wasn’t coming down from the clouds anytime soon.
“Do you know who Henry Rollins is?”
“The singer?”
He bobbed his head back a forth in a small considering movement. “Technically he’s a spoken word artist, but what he is or isn’t doesn’t relate to my point. Sometimes his words are nonsense, rubbish, innocuous propaganda. And sometimes his words are…” Greg paused, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth and staring through me. He was quiet, obviously debating how to adequately describe what Henry Rollins’ words sometimes are.
Suddenly he quoted, “‘Girls aren't beautiful, they're pretty. Beautiful is too heavy a word to assign to a girl. Women are beautiful because their faces show that they know they have lost something... and gained something else.’”