Jake opened the program, and I was still functioning on high alert. But, weird as we were together, I loved my work in class, and soon I couldn’t worry about not bumping his arm or touching his hand, because I had needed his help on this project for a week, but hadn’t had the guts to ask him. Now that he was explaining it, I was excited to make everything that had to do with my design better. If the entire world was screwed up and it was all my fault, the least I could do was rock my project and work out every single kink on paper.
By the time he’d run me through it three times, I felt like I could do it better, and I nudged him out of the way and applied all he taught me with some variations.
“Perfect.” He turned his head to me, and the smile on his face was the sun stippling through the trees in the summer, your favorite song blaring on the radio with the windows down, the warm crush of someone you love holding you in his arms…perfect.
And then it disappeared and the temporary reprieve from all the insanity was over. The memories of all that had happened in the last few weeks bulldozed over us, and Jake’s relaxed posture stiffened visibly.
“Thanks. For your help.” The period was almost over, so I closed out of the program, once again careful not to touch him at all.
“So, you’re going to the Folly concert tonight?” He arranged his books in an overly neat stack.
“Yeah. Are you going?” I had to lean across him a little to switch off the monitor, and I could smell the cold, crisp smell that always reminded me of leaves falling off the trees in autumn. How does someone smell like a season?
“I planned on stopping in after work.” His gray eyes cut over to me. “I guess you’ll be getting a ride from Saxon?”
“I guess you’ll be giving a ride to Nikki?” I shot back.
“Nik drives herself.” His voice was hollow.
Of all the crazy things I’d seen and heard and thought, for some reason that one cut me deep, just this idea of him with an independent, older girl. The idea of him with someone who could do things I couldn’t, driving being the least of it. It made no sense, I had no right, but that didn’t stop me from feeling it.
I took a big, shuddery breath, tears so close I could taste them in the back of my nose and throat. Jake’s eyes went from cold-shale-in-the-winter gray to oldest-softest-Henley gray, and, just when I was sure I’d ooze into a liquid puddle of sadness on the floor, the bell I’d waited for all day screamed like a miracle.
This time I broke pattern; I grabbed my things and ran, promising myself the longest, gulpingest, most horrifically sobful cryfest as soon as I got home and stepped into the shower. I just had to hold it together for a half an hour, tops. No problem.
I was already down the long hallway and could see the dim winter light through the dirty window squares in the metal door that I was inches away from exploding through, when I felt a warm hand on my shoulder.
“Brenna?”
The brakes locked and squealed on all the thoughts rushing through my head, and only one thing propelled full force through the windshield of my sanity.
Jake Kelly.
I held my eyebrows high on my forehead and puckered my mouth as small as I could to keep the tears at bay.
“You left your sketchbook.” He backed up and held out my black book, his arms stretched to maintain maximum distance between our bodies.
I held my arms out and grabbed the book on two corners so that not even one finger from one of our hands would brush into one finger of the other’s hand.
“I’m sorry…” he said.
“Thank you,” I said at the same time, then we both tangled and clumsily bumped words for another minute until he finally said, “Be quiet, Bren.”
I clapped my jaw shut.
“You ripped me up.” There was no malice or accusation in his words, and that made it feel like I had swallowed a bear trap. It was just us in the hall with his words stacked between us, naked strong. “I’m probably still not really over you and everything that happened. But I’ve been doing things, saying things that I hoped would hurt you, and that’s dick. That’s a sad-sack excuse for the way I acted, though. You’ll always be someone I care about and admire. So, I’m sorry. If I hurt you, if I made you upset, I’m honestly sorry, Brenna.”
Wait! This was my speech, sucked from under me and pouring out from Jake’s mouth so beautifully, it made my knees buckle.
There was suddenly nothing to say that he hadn’t already said better.
“I’m sorry,” I tried weakly, embarrassed as soon as I said the woefully inadequate words.
He nodded, already walking backwards, his hands in his pockets, his hat so low over his eyes, I didn’t know if he could see me. He had delivered his message, and there was nothing left to say. He turned on his heel and left me, an inch away from the doors that I didn’t blow through fast enough to avoid the bomb he dropped on me.
I walked outside in a daze, and Saxon was waiting. He put his arm around me and pulled me close.
“You look like hell. Tonight is officially cancelled.” He led me to the car.
I molded my body to the leather seat and prepared to let the tears fall, but there wasn’t even the prickly promise of a sobfest. I felt lighter, freer.
“I want to go,” I announced, feeling sure, strong, and hopeful. Scarily, newly hopeful. “If you don’t want to pick me up, tell me, and I’ll find another ride.”
“If you’re dead set on being an idiot, let me at least have the privilege of driving your Royal Craziness.” He flicked the car stereo on, and we listened to the Celtic girl wail and plead in her faraway voice.
He dropped me off, and I told him I’d text if my mother said no, otherwise he could pick me up at seven. Mom wasn’t even home; I had to text her, and she gave quick permission with a warning to be careful and an encouragement to have fun. I took a long, hot shower, but there were no tears to puff up my eyes or make my throat hoarse. There was only the curious echo of Jake’s words.
I spent a long time getting ready, and since getting ready didn’t take all that long, it meant that I had extra time to put on extra makeup and change into cuter outfits, each tighter and more daring than the last. By the time Saxon knocked on my door I was in a tight, black, short skirt, a black and red Folly shirt, black boots and makeup that was smoky/sexy/dark/alluring when I’d really only aimed to be cute/pretty/made-up/sweet.
“Holy shit.” Saxon took my hand and spun me, then glanced at the empty house. “Seriously, let’s hit your bedroom. Now.”
I laughed, feeling powerful with all my eyeliner and mascara on. “No! We’re going on a date.”’
He was wearing a tight black t-shirt and dark jeans with black boots. Simple, understated, and sexy as hell. I could smell the sharp cling of his aftershave and that amazing undersmell that was spicy, male, and all Saxon.
I went to the closet to grab my coat and he came too close behind me. When I spun around, I was in his arms.
“I don’t want to go out,” he said, his mouth at my throat. I backed away. “Don’t. You smell so good. You look so freaking good. Be with me tonight.” When Saxon pleaded my entire body yanked and pulled towards him like an eager puppy on a leash.
“No.” I stepped away from him. “We’re going out.”
He blocked my path to the front door and escape. “You don’t want to be here with me alone.” His dark eyes went all black, and his words were just bare facts laid out uncomfortably in front of both of us.
“I want to go out.” I put a hand on his chest, and he took my fingers and squeezed them over his steadily beating heart. “With you, Saxon.”
He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead on mine. “You want to go out with me. You don’t want to bewith me.” His voice was sandpaper on metal.
“I want to be with you, but I want to go out. With you.” I squeezed his hand, but he squeezed back so tight and so hard it startled me.