Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University 1)

I find Reagan hovering by the elevators, one hand gripping the back of his neck, head tipped forward, nervous energy all about him. He doesn’t see me approach.

I take notice of the fine cut of his suit, the crispness of his stark white shirt. He’s so handsome it hurts to look at him. His fine features––so familiar. And yet simultaneously, distance and time have made him unapproachable.

His head comes up when he hears me. His face relaxes. “I thought you were going to bail on me,” he murmurs while I walk up and press the elevator call button.

“I don’t bail. I thought you knew that about me.”

His shoulders slump, his expression distressed. “I know. I know. You’re right. You never have.”

I’m not trying to hurt him, just stating a fact. “Your friends are in there.” I hook a thumb at the room I came out of. “I didn’t tell them you’re here, but I know they’re dying to see you.”

“I’m not here for them––” When he goes to speak again, the elevator door opens and people pour out. We step inside and three others join us.

“Eighteen, please,” I instruct the guy standing closest to the panel. Reagan slides next to me. The wool of his suit brushes my bare arm, sending shivers up my back and my stomach somersaulting.

I’ve been anticipating this moment for four months, imagining the things I’d say, dreaming about touching him. And now that he’s here, I’m speechless, at a total loss as to how to begin articulating what I’m feeling.

At floor eighteen, we silently file out. I open the door and walk to the wall of windows that overlooks the shoreline from the Santa Monica Pier to Malibu, a Christmas tree of lights snaking up the coast.

“I missed you,” he says.

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

The AC clicks on and a cold blast of air hits me. I’m shaking and I’m not sure it’s because of the chill. Sliding off his suit jacket, he goes to the thermostat and turns the AC off, then he meets me at the wall of windows and slips his jacket over my shoulders.

His body heat clings to it. So does his scent. It takes me right back, wipes away months of anguish and puts tears in my eyes. Why does love have to be so hard?

He leans a shoulder against the glass and stares down at me, expression walking a fine line between frustration and longing.

“You’re so beautiful…I’m sorry if I can’t stop staring.” He licks his lips nervously. His gaze slides out the window for a moment, as if searching for courage out there into the dark unknown.

“You left without even a goodbye, or see ya later––maybe. I didn’t know if you were starting over somewhere else, with someone else. Or destroying yourself over what happened…I lived in a constant state of anxiety for four months, Rea. Four!”

He nods, gaze cast on the beige carpet.

“I don’t even know how to begin. ”

“Start anywhere. Just start. Because it’s getting hard not to walk out that door.”

He clears his throat. “I made it to Patagonia. It was beautiful, everything I thought it would be.” He frowns. “I missed you there.” His throat works, Adam’s apple rising as he swallows.

“Kenya was next. I got mugged. Don’t walk around at night in Mombasa. I thought about you that night. You’re all I thought about––what it would be like to never see you again, and it scared me more than the gun that was pointed at my face.” He jams his hands in his pockets and leans a shoulder against the glass. “I saw more amazing sunsets than I’ve ever seen, even better than the ones here. I missed you there too.” There’s an edge to his voice. As if he’s admitting something he wishes weren’t true.

“Reagan––”

“I didn’t want to miss you but I did.”

And there you have it. “Stop. I don’t want to hear anymore.”

“I worked my way through Europe,” he continues, talking right over me. “France, Italy, Spain. I thought I saw you there––in Spain, chased a girl for two city blocks down La Rambla before I caught up to her and realized it was only my mind playing tricks on me.”

“Reagan…”

“I made it to China––” He exhales harshly. “Missed you there too.”

“Reagan––”

Facing me now, I can see his eyes are glassy, his cheek twitching, mouth drawn tight. He’s barely hanging on.

“I’m sorry I left. I didn’t know what else to do. It just got to be too much. The guilt. The pressure. I was starting to resent you.”

“Me?” My voice is pitchy, sharp. Nothing could’ve surprised me more. Not even if he had slapped me. “Why would you resent me?”

“Because you’re so fucking strong.” The words come ripping out and peter to a whisper. His head shakes, his voice flattened by something that worries me. Something that sounds a lot like hopelessness and resignation. “And I’m not…I’m not.”