Conventionally Yours (True Colors 1)

Far, far more than me. And that depressed me on so many levels. So, I’d given a tissue-paper thin excuse to get out of dinner, gone and wallowed in feelings I didn’t know what to do with.

But now I was here, and he was over there, almost close enough to touch, and I wanted him so badly. Not his body. Him. He snuffled around, tossing and turning, clearly awake and not doing a terribly good job of hiding it. It was beyond illogical that we both were lying there miserable, not sleeping, screwing us both up for the next day. Forget who deserved to win when we played. Neither of us was going to play our best if we didn’t sleep. I waited for him to say my name again, to try for conversation, or for him to come to me.

Nothing. The silence stretched and stretched until my skin itched with wanting something. Anything.

But maybe he’d made the first move too much. Maybe I’d come to rely on that. With few exceptions, he was the first to text, first to kiss, first to suggest fooling around, first to try to calm me down. And now I’d shut him out, and he probably thought he was being noble, not bugging me. If anyone was going to end this inertia, it was going to have to be me.

My heart beat faster as my hands gripped the comforter. I didn’t know if I could cope if he paid back my silent treatment with rejection, if he was done dealing with me. But I also knew I wasn’t sleeping until I’d tried.

Throwing back the covers, I crept over to his bed. Still nothing, not a word. Legs unsteady, I climbed in behind him. Logic said that it would be harder for him to tell me to go to hell if I was right there versus calling his name from across the room.

“Alden?” His surprised tone as he finally broke the silence wasn’t angry, and I exhaled hard. “You okay?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“Me either.” Rolling, he gathered me close, arranging us so that I was his pillow, the way he seemed to prefer, draping himself over me. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too.”

“Good.” He stretched so that our faces were level. Then we were kissing, and maybe the answer to not wanting to talk was simply this. Not talking. Just doing. But as our lips met, my heart wrote volumes of words I’d never say. And as our bodies connected, movements urgent, hands needy and grasping, they too wrote a story. But for all the unsaid words exchanged, I couldn’t guarantee our story would be one with a happy ending.

* * *

It all came down to this. In so many ways, it felt like we’d been building to this moment the whole trip. Maybe ever since the professor had produced those tickets. I’d known somewhere deep inside that I’d have to battle Conrad at some point. And it didn’t matter how much I’d clung to the night, to him, to our time together—dawn still came.

I had no appetite that morning, and Conrad seemed in a similar boat, turning down both oatmeal and coffee. As we dressed, we were silent by some unspoken agreement, a holdover from the previous night. That was fine by me. Words would be bad. Words could ruin everything.

Instead, I checked my phone. Professor Tuttle wished us both good luck. But it was yet another message from my mom that had my stomach churning.

Call me.

I checked the clock. It was early here in the West, but back East, Mom and Mimi would undoubtedly be mid-Sunday brunch. Reluctantly, I hit Dial.

She answered on the first ring, exactly as I’d expected. “Alden. So glad you called. It’s been days.”

“I’ve texted,” I protested.

“That’s something. But you’ve also been dodging my messages. I saw your department head the other day. He wanted to know if you’d be back. Said you still haven’t registered for fall classes. And I’m seeing other deadlines ticking away. If you’re switching programs, you’re running out of time.”

“I’ll figure it out.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose, knowing that Conrad was likely hearing every word. Needing space, I moved to the bathroom. “This really isn’t the time.”

“Not the time? Alden, when are you going to make up your mind?”

“Soon.” My voice came out sharp, but I couldn’t regret my tone. “I’ve got kind of a big day here. I’m in the semifinal—”

“I saw.”

“You watched?” Despite my irritation with her, satisfaction still surged through me.

“Part of it. Mimi had the live streaming on.” Her tone was just this side of dismissive. “And you’re very talented, but chasing this dream about a game… I’m just not sure this is healthy. Or realistic. Is there really a future in it for you, even if you win?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, drumming my fingers on the bathroom vanity. All my worries and reservations rushed to the front of my brain. “Not even sure I want to win.”