“But you… you are a great guy. You know that, right?”
He says nothing. Turns back to me and looks me in the eyes. “Let’s say I give you a grand to buy whatever you want.”
“You will not.”
“It’s a hypothetical.”
“I prefer actual cash.”
“Don’t we all.” He chuckles. “Say I give you a grand. Say you have to spend it here. What will you buy?”
“One very expensive designer purse.”
“Bullshit.”
“Em would buy one.”
“Em is Em.”
“Still… I don’t think it’s wrong. Your mom was into a certain image, yeah. But you are too. It’s just different.” I drag my fingertips over his sleeve tattoo, tracing the lines from his wrist up to his bicep. “How much did this cost?”
His tongue slides over his lips. His eyelids flutter together. He’s soaking up my touch.
But only for a second.
Then he’s looking at me like he can control every one of his senses. “More than that purse.”
“How much more?”
“More than you make in a month.”
“A summer month?”
“Yeah.”
Damn. I’m not exactly rolling in it, but I work a lot in the summer. And summers are busy. Tips are good.
“Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?” I stare into his deep eyes, trying to find… something. I’m not sure.
“I’m not like my parents.” Hurt flares in his expression.
“I know. Just… we all care about how we appear to others. I know I do. I want people to think I’m strong and smart.”
“You are.”
I bite my lip. I’m not arguing this point, no matter how much I disagree.
He takes my hand. Leads me toward the colorful bags and backpacks to our left. The ones next to the giant silver gorilla. Kipling. My favorite. Half my bags are this brand.
Has he been paying that much attention?
His gaze goes to the backpacks on the wall. He picks up a teal one and turns back to me. “It matches your eyes.”
It kinda does. “It’s cute.”
“Not cute enough for you.” He sets it back down. Picks up a pink one next to it.
It’s a beautiful shade of pink—halfway between pastel and Barbie bright.
He moves back to me.
His fingertips skim my bare skin as he peels my purse off my shoulder then slides the backpack over my arms, one at a time.
They brush my neck as he pushes my hair to one side.
I feel his touch everywhere.
I can’t do friends.
Not even a little.
Not with the way my body is buzzing.
I want his body.
And his heart.
I want him to know me.
I want to crumble in his arms and let down every one of my defenses. To admit how terrified I am. About school and Grandma and my parents. And everything.
“How’s that?” His breath warms my ear.
My knees knock together.
My sex cries out for attention.
My heart too.
Please, someone, somewhere. Please let me have him. I’m losing everything else. I just want this one little thing.
I force myself to turn toward the mirror. The backpack is cute and comfortable. But— “Pink? Really?”
“Pink is perfect for you.”
“It’s impractical.”
“Then explain this.” He holds up my dainty pink purse.
“Purses are supposed to be cute. Backpacks are utility.”
“What about that bright blue Jansport with lyrics all over it?”
“You used to complain that I put too much pop music on it.”
His eyes light up as he smiles. “If you’d just put something by The Dead Kennedys.”
“How about The Smiths?”
“I’m not wearing eyeliner no matter how many times you ask.”
I laugh and blush at the same time. Mmmm. Brendon in eyeliner. What a beautiful mental image. “How about Garbage or Hole? Something angry with instruments I can hear?”
He gives me a slow once over. “Why do you scribble lyrics on everything?”
I look up into his eyes. “Why do you have ink everywhere?”
“I asked first.”
“I guess, I want to make it mine.”
“But it’s someone else’s words.”
“But when I put them together, they feel like mine. Besides, did you ever hear of someone getting lyrics they wrote as a tattoo?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“I did them once.”
“Name. Dropper.”
He shrugs, playing coy. “A huge pop star known for how much she hates her exes.”
“Bullshit.” It really is. “Why do you have so many tattoos?”
“Same reason.”
“You want to mark your body?”
He nods. “Honestly?”
“Yeah.” I press my lips together. He’s going to tell me something he doesn’t tell anyone. I need that. Every drop of it.
“At first, I wanted to piss off my mom. To prove to her, and myself I guess, that I’d never be a khaki wearing, golf playing yuppie.”
“Did it work?”
“Yeah. She wrote me off right away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was for the best. It hurt less when they…” His voice trails off. Like he doesn’t believe it.
It must hurt. Even if things were tense. Just thinking about Grandma—it makes my entire body heavy. Which is why I’m currently rocking a nice state of denial. As long as I don’t know the details, I can pretend things will be okay.
“It’s more than that.” I trace the lines on the back of his hand. His wrist. His forearm.