I enjoy the split second respite from their non-stop analysis of my non-existent sex life. Less than twelve hours after the end of the Halloween party, the three of them had shown up at my door with coffee, bagels and probing questions. I’d let them in, eaten two bagels, then made up an excuse about needing groceries in an unsuccessful bid to deter them. Instead they’d gotten into my car and accompanied me to Carters, a grocery store off campus.
“Nate doesn’t live in the Alpha Sigma Phi attic!” I exclaim after they’ve debated it for the entire length of the cereal aisle. “He has an apartment somewhere. Not in an attic.”
“Then who does live in the attic?” Dane wonders. “And more importantly, what happens next with Andi?”
I sigh. “Both good questions, and I have no idea.” I’d debated the Andi situation all night once I’d gotten home, alone and sober, a situation I seem to be finding myself in all too often this year. A cold shower hadn’t cured me, nor had visits to a few of my favorite adult websites. Answers elude me in ways I have not been able to elude my friends.
“You should ask her on a date,” Choo says. “Something fancy. What’s that French restaurant in town?”
“Verre Plein,” Crosbie supplies.
I wince inwardly. He knows the name because last year I’d invited Nora there for dinner, forgotten to turn up for the date, and he’d shown up to take my place.
“Maybe not,” I say.
“Send her flowers,” Dane suggests.
I think of Crick bringing flowers to Open Mic Night.
“Not that.”
“Bungee jumping?” Crosbie offers. “A more literal interpretation of Nate’s advice?”
We reach the produce section and I toss some apples and oranges into the cart. “That’s the best option yet, if the least practical.”
“Yeah. Coach would kill you if the jump didn’t.”
I suppose it’s my own fault that I’m in this predicament, and the fact that I consider it a predicament at all is its own type of alarm bell. I wouldn’t exactly call my previous encounters “dates,” and I definitely can’t say I was particularly invested in any of them. We’d hang out, hook up, part ways, and that would be the end of it. But Andi is different. Andi is not an ending. I still don’t know exactly she is, I just know that at the moment I have no idea how to get from here...to wherever there is. I need some time to figure this out.
“There’s Andi,” Dane says.
I clench the grapefruit I’ve been holding. “What? Where? Don’t—”
“Andi!” Choo calls. “Hey!”
Oh shit. I’m not ready for this.
She’s dressed for Saturday morning grocery shopping in jeans with a hole in the knee and a black jacket. Her hair is long and loose, and if I thought my obsession with her hair ended the day I cut off an inch in sixth grade math class and she punched me in the nuts, I was sorely mistaken.
She looks surprised to see us, pausing as she contemplates a bunch of bananas two rows over. “Hey,” she says, her smile a little tense as she approaches. Her gaze flickers around the group before landing on mine, as though she’d also like to put some more time between last night and now.
“Hey,” I make myself say.
“Did you have a good time at the party?” Crosbie asks.
“Of course,” she says. “Who couldn’t have a good time at a party that has two hundred and twenty tiki torches?”
“Right?” Choo says, elbowing Dane smugly. “Told you.”
Andi looks between us. “Do you guys normally shop for groceries together?”
“Nope,” Dane answers. “We went to visit Kellan this morning—he was alone, by the way—and joined him for the trip. Otherwise he would have been alone.”
“Flying solo,” Choo adds.
“Party for one,” Crosbie contributes.
“Shut the fuck up,” I mutter behind my hand.
Because she’s not obtuse, Andi misses none of this. “I think I get it.”
“I just remembered I have something to do,” Crosbie says.
“Shoot,” Dane says. “Me too.”
Choo looks unconvincingly reminded. “Me too. We’d better go.”
“Just the three of us. Right now.”
“Bye!” They wave and scuttle off, but not before we see their self-satisfied grins.
“Wow,” Andi says, watching their retreating backs. “That was so...believable.”
“They all have stuff to do right now. What’s more believable than that?”
She smiles. “I can’t think of a single thing.”
I try not to notice how pretty she is. How I’m such an idiot for not seeing it sooner. How weird it would be to say so now. So instead I settle for, “I didn’t know you shopped here.”
She shrugs. “It’s cheaper than the stores on campus and I needed a break from studying.”
“Sure.” I try to think of something clever or remotely interesting to add, but my mind is blank. I’ve been talking to Andi for fifteen years and now I don’t know what to say. My discomfort is clearly making her uncomfortable and she passes her basket from hand to hand, likely wondering how she can leave.
“I can give you a ride home,” I offer, to fill the silence. “If you want.”
“Oh.” She hesitates. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
We shuffle our feet and stall some more. “Are you done shopping?” she asks. Her eyes flit from my basket to something over my shoulder, anywhere but my face, doing her best to look casual. I know this look from our childhood. Whenever Andi was afraid, she’d put on a brave, stoic face and plow onward, not knowing what she’d find. Now she’s venturing forward into the gray area that is our chemistry, unsure what it is or why it is, just very much aware that it’s very much alive. And that in spite of it, I left her alone last night.
“I’ll just get this grapefruit I’ve been fondling and, uh, check out. You?” Fucking Nate. I hate him so much. Wait, Kellan. Don’t jump, Kellan. This is the agony I’ve spared myself the past two years. Torturous morning after conversation, except with women I actually got to have sex with.
“I’m ready.”
We get in different checkout lines, ostensibly to save time, but mostly to save ourselves the pain of more conversation. Andi looks like she’s forcing her legs to move when we walk through the cold parking lot to my car. I bought the most stuff so we put my bags in the trunk and hers in the passenger seat footwell, then I twist the key in the ignition and give the car a minute to warm up. Ten silent seconds pass, Andi picking at the frayed threads on her jeans, eyes on her task.
“Nate told me not to jump,” I blurt out, hands clenching the wheel.
“Huh?”
The frosted windows make the car feel like a prison, no hope on the horizon.
“Last night,” I say, staring at the opaque glass. “That’s why I didn’t...do anything when I brought you home. He said I should wait. He implied that that would make things better somehow, but what does he know? He was probably trying to make me suffer the same way he’s been suffering with this Marcela thing.”
“I don’t think he’s suffering today.”
“You don’t? Why not?”
“Because while you two were sharing secrets in the basement, Marcela was giving me the opposite advice, without any of the subtlety.”
My heart starts pounding. I don’t care much for Marcela, but if she was recommending that Andi hook up with me, I might like her a smidgen more.
“What did she say?” I ask. “Use her exact words.”
Andi’s cheeks turn pink. “I can’t repeat them without dying.”
“Now you have to tell me.”
“Never.”
I arch an inquiring brow. “Show me?”
Her mouth twitches. “Just drive, Kellan.”
“How long do you think people normally wait?” I ask as I steer us out of the parking lot and into the quiet morning traffic.
“I’m guessing longer than
it takes for your car to warm up.”
“But not longer than...”
“I don’t know. Some people wait forever.”
I shift in my seat and adjust my jacket, trying to use it to cover the growing bulge in my jeans. I can’t possibly wait forever, but Andi doesn’t seem to realize that I’ve had enough of Nate’s advice and I don’t want to wait anymore.
“What are you doing now?” I ask.
She’s still picking at her jeans. “Game seven got rained out last night. The make up game starts in half an hour. I’m going to watch it.”
“Want to watch at my place? It’s better than battling for space in your common room.”
She looks surprised. “Okay.”
We don’t talk for the rest of the ride, though I wouldn’t exactly call the silence comfortable. Stifling, maybe. Uncertain, definitely. Torturous, absolutely. My hidden erection and suddenly useless tongue have transported me right back to that last summer, fumbling and secret, equal parts torment and heaven. It’s been a long time since I’ve brought a girl to my place with no idea what was about to happen.
We park at the curb and go inside, still not speaking. When we take off our shoes there’s a split second where our eyes meet and I’m desperate to close the two feet between us, pin her to the door and show her what I’m feeling. Then she looks down to unzip her jacket and the moment’s broken.
Nate did this, I think.
But I know he didn’t.
I did.
I put away my groceries while Andi takes a seat on the couch and flips through the television channels to find the baseball game. The pre-game is wrapping up, the announcers in the midst of debating the merits of Marco Hewlett, a superstar shortstop who was traded to L.A. during the off-season. He hasn’t hit or played as well as hoped since the move, and as is typical when someone doesn’t live up to everybody else’s dreams, he’s been vilified by both the press and the fans.
I bring two bottles of water to the couch and sit next to Andi.
“Hewlett’s batting in the eight spot tonight,” the announcer says as the night’s line-up is displayed. At the start of the season he was batting second. “If he’s smart, he’ll pray that these storm clouds open up again and buy him a bit more time to hide. Think he’ll ever be bad enough that they put him behind the pitcher?”
His co-host chuckles. “That might happen sooner than we think, Ray. If they win tonight and make it to the World Series, Straub is a lock-in for starting pitcher. He’s batting .170 this season...just five points worse than Hewlett.”
They laugh mercilessly and I pick at the label on my bottle. I feel for Hewlett. Yeah, his stats dropped drastically after the trade from the Cardinals, but he’s batting .260. That’s not great compared to the .310 he was hitting in St. Louis and a tough pill for anyone who paid him eight figures to swallow, but it’s not like he isn’t trying.
The game begins and despite the drizzly skies, you can tell it’s going to be a good one. By the time the third inning starts there have been four strikeouts on each side. Hewlett leads off the inning for L.A. and the rain increases steadily. As though he’s to blame for that as well, a low thrum of boos comes from the stands before he even reaches the plate. It’s typical for the home team to boo an away player, but these guys are just jumping on the bandwagon.
I peek at Andi from the corner of my eye. She seems unmoved by Hewlett’s plight. Then again, she knows how to hide her feelings.
“Stop staring,” she says without turning her head.
I look at the TV. “I’m not.”
Hewlett strikes out on three pitches and the fans cheer.
I look at Andi again. The first time we had sex that summer we’d picked a day—it was a Tuesday—waited until her mother left for work that night, then I’d gone over to her house. We stared at each other awkwardly in the foyer, then I’d followed her awkwardly up the stairs to her room, where we’d awkwardly stared at each other some more.
“How do we start?” she’d asked.
“I guess we just start,” was my answer.
If only it were that simple now.
The inning ends and a fried chicken commercial comes on. “Are you hungry?” I ask.
“Not really. You?”
“No.”
We watch the commercials and when the game comes back they’re in the studio again, where Ray and his chuckling cohort inform us the rain has picked up, they’ve covered the field with a tarp, and they’ll let us know when the game resumes.
“Ugh.” Andi groans. “That was a good one.”
“It’ll come back.”
“But how long can we wait?” she asks, mimicking my question from the car.
I cannot believe how foolish I’m being. If anyone reading the Student Union lists saw me now, they’d think they were looking at the wrong guy. I wanted Kellan 2.0 to be a better person than Kellan 1.0, but I didn’t intend for him to be a complete pussy.
I scrub my hands over my face and tell myself to get a grip.
“What’s wrong?” Andi asks, doing her best impression of a person who is more concerned about me than the baseball game.
“Nothing,” I say, meaning everything. “I’m going to open a window. It’s hot in here. Do you think it’s hot?”
“Not really, but I’m still going to get more water.”
We stand at the same time, stuck between the couch and the coffee table, bumping into each other when we try to pass.
“Sorry,” Andi says automatically, the second syllable trailing off when the hand I put on her hip for balance slips over the waistband of her jeans to graze approximately one square inch of smooth, bare skin. She’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and suddenly it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
We both look down, then I summon my nerve, and instead of apologizing and taking my hand away, I curl my fingers slightly into her waistband and tug, very, very carefully.
I hear her inhale, the sound a tightrope walker hears at the very center of the line, the wind whistling past, the way forward just as difficult as the way back, nothing to catch him, no matter which way he decides to go.
Andi scoots her foot forward one tiny inch and I exhale. There wasn’t much room between us to begin with, but we’ve kept our distance with less.
I tentatively move my hand, sliding the back of my knuckles over her hip as I raise my eyes to her face. She watches where I touch her, then lifts her gaze, eyes meeting mine. The impassiveness is gone. I can’t name the emotions swirling in her eyes any more than I can name the ones I’m feeling, but it’s something.
I can work with something.
I’ve managed with less.
I shift so I’m close enough to kiss her, my free hand going behind her head, resting against the fall of her hair. Her lips part slightly and I’m reminded of our first kiss, sitting side by side on her bed, our shirts off. We’d been so cautious, not sure what line we were crossing or what it would mean. I never thought I’d lose my friend.
Never thought I’d get her back.
Not like this.
“Andi,” I say quietly.
“Just do it,” she replies.
I kiss her. Not hesitant and fumbling like that first summer, not harsh and jealous like the last time. I kiss her gently, our eyes open, testing the waters, until eventually our tongues touch and our breath hitches and I hold her more tightly. She sighs and softens against me, transforming my relief into a frisson of anticipation that starts at the base of my spine and spreads everywhere.
Wait, I tell myself.
That first time in her room I’d been so eager to get to the main event that I’d rushed past this part. I don’t know that I ever really made up for it in all the times that followed. I’d been young and desperate and eager, and Andi had never complained. Never asked for anything different, because she didn’t know what else there was to ask for.
I kiss her until she makes a tiny sound in her throat, a sound I remember, a sound I’ve missed. Unl
ike that summer, however, she doesn’t wait for me to initiate the next steps, just grips the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head. She’s seen me naked before, of course. Not even that long ago, though it was dark and rushed and I ran out right afterward. This time she looks at me, my shoulders, my arms, my chest, my stomach. I work out and eat right, try to look good, but seeing the way she bites her lip, recognizing me, seeing me, makes my cock so hard I have to unzip to get some room.
Andi’s lips curl and she looks at my face, taking note of my dilemma, and I smile back, a little embarrassed, but generally just really happy to be here. Her smile expands too, and when we come back together, kissing and fumbling, it’s not awkward and tentative, it’s more like a homecoming, a reassembling of the same pieces into a new pattern, different but better.
I relieve her of the white T-shirt and take a second to admire the lacy bra she wears, tiny triangles of transparent fabric that seem to dissolve when I brush my thumbs over her nipples.
She tangles her fingers in my hair and kisses me harder, her tongue doing things it definitely hadn’t done that first summer. I don’t know where she learned this, but I’m happy to be the benefactor of her studies. I unhook her bra and she lets it fall to the floor. Seeing this much flesh just makes me want to see more. Want everything.
My erection bumps her hip through our jeans and I shove mine down and make swift work of hers, until just like last time we’re standing in our underwear, breathing hard. Unlike last time, however, there’s no animosity here, just desire, anticipation, promised reward.
“I like these,” I murmur, stroking the back of my hand over her panties, printed with tiny penguins.
She laughs a little, suddenly shy. “I didn’t think anyone would see them today.”
“Please. I know you waited for me in that grocery store for hours.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Let’s see.”
I hook my thumbs under the sides of her panties and peel them down her legs, crouching as I do, leaving my face level with the soft blond curls that cover her pussy. Her fingers clench at her sides, fighting the natural urge to cover herself. I lift one of her feet, then the other, and disregard the panties entirely, so Andi Walsh is once again naked in front of me.
Undeclared (Burnham College #2) Page 19
