by Scott, S. L.
I have two things to list myself.
Joshua just confessed he likes me.
I said we’re on a date, and I know he’s about to have a field day with that slip of the tongue.
Now I’m holding the table for an entirely new reason—to brace myself for the verbal onslaught heading my way. Not really. I shovel soup in my mouth instead.
Leaning back with a self-satisfied grin, he says, “Don’t worry, Chloe,” dragging out that e again with a drawl that’s definitely not from around these parts. “Whether I like you or not, I always leave my dates happy.”
The spoon drops from my hand, clanging against the bowl and landing on the placemat. The ruckus earns unwanted attention. Waiting it out, I cross my arms over my chest, trying to level that smirk into smithereens. “Do I even want to know what that means?”
“Trust me. You want to know.”
There’s so much conviction in his tone that I’m starting to believe him. Before I get too wrapped up in my imagination, I ask, “What exactly does this happy ending consist of?”
“Would you like me to show you?”
“No. We’re not on a date. That was a slip on my part.” Waving between us, I give in just a little because his ego may be the most dominant part, but I kind of like the other side he shows me every now and again. “I wasn’t looking for a friend, but for some reason, I find you, when not utterly incorrigible, mildly entertaining.”
As if he just won the lottery, his whole expression changes as that ego is fed once again. “It’s probably best if we’re only friends.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t think you could handle—”
“Your ego.”
“You’re so fixated on my ego. But by how you walk around studying like you’re above it all—”
“I study all the time because I have to. How much do you study?” Maybe, I cut him off again, but he knows exactly how to push my buttons.
His silence keeps me fixated on him, the way he suddenly appears to want an out, has my curiosity going wild. No shame covers his face, and he doesn’t seem to be searching for an excuse. Then it dawns on me. My mouth falls open as I find fault in my own abilities in direct comparison. “Oh, my God. Tell me you have to study. That you do it every minute you’re not in class or at work.”
The tilt of his head sends strands falling in his eyes. That’s when I notice he’s not wearing a cap like he was when I walked in. I swear his shirt was blue, but now it’s red. Occasionally, I get a whiff of the clean scent of soap, and considering he’s a cook, he almost appears freshly showered. Like, maybe, he was hoping I’d come in tonight. Maybe.
Stroking my hands over my head, I pull the elastic from my hair and collect all the loose strands. All the while, we’re looking at each other as though we’re more than friends. I hadn’t noticed my heart beating so heavily in my chest or that my breathing had shallowed—until now—and the beat’s so loud that he might hear.
In the strangest turnabout, I’ve gone from feeling defeat from being outdone collegiately to feeling alive from his proximity. Dipping my hands to my yoga pants, I slide my clammy palms down the tops of my thighs.
“I wouldn’t say I have a photographic memory since I haven’t been officially tested, but I wouldn’t say that I don’t either.”
Why are his lips suddenly the most fascinating thing about today?
I don’t know if I hate myself for suddenly finding him so attractive or should congratulate myself for sitting through this meal. I take a few more bites of soup to ponder this precarious situation. “I have to work for every grade. My memory isn’t bad, but I wish it were better.”
“Whatever you’re thinking, and it seems like there’s a lot by how tight your grip is on that spoon, don’t discount me.”
“Discount you? I’m envious. Maybe if I didn’t have to study so much, I could get the life everyone tells me I’m missing out on.”
“It seems you already know what you’re missing. Now, it’s just a matter of doing something about it.” Resting his forearms on the table, he asks, “What are you going to do about it?”
I like to think that I’m quick on my feet with the correct textbook answer to anything. Short of going to finishing school, I can make small talk with the best of society. But when someone asks about me, I’m blank. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
“That’s okay. We’re young. We have time to figure it out.”
We? I distinctly caught a we in there. “Said like someone who knows exactly who he is.”
“Said like someone who had no choice but to grow up fast.”
The lighter, more jovial side has disappeared, and the words of his mother come back to me—I hoped he could find inner peace and calm through some turbulent times. Now doesn’t seem like the time to ask him deeply personal questions, though I remain curious as to what happened. “I wanted to thank you for Frankie’s housewarming gifts.” Fine, I give into this silly mess. “She loves them.”
A smile more genuine than before appears. “I’m glad to hear.”
“She’d turn tricks with those leaves for a good misting.” I laugh. It’s his laughter that has the joy reaching my eyes as well. “So I guess it’s official. I’m part of the bonsai club.”
“Yale has one.”
“Slow down. Baby steps.”
He checks his watch, and says, “My break is ending soon. How about a lightning round of get-to-know-you questions?”
“I’m game. Can I go first?” When he nods, I ask, “Age?”
“Twenty-two next month. Age?”
“Twenty-one.” I don’t know why I lie. He’s given me no reason to, other than I don’t want him to treat me differently. People always do when they find out I skipped a year or can’t go to bars with them like I should be able to.
“We’re the same age—”
“Major?” I ask, moving past that topic as fast as I can.
“Economics. Premed for you?”
“Yes.” A joy fills my chest. Although I have all kinds of questions about his major, I go easy. “Favorite food?”
“Cooking or eating?”
I giggle. “Figures a chef would get that specific. How about both?”
“I’m a cook, not a chef. As for food: Eating—fresh caught catfish after a day on the lake. Cooking? Hmm . . .” He rubs his chin. “Maybe omelets. You can make them a million different ways. Kind of simple, I know, but it matches me, I guess.”
“I don’t find you simple at all.” The ball sort of drops, and I wish there were takebacks. But since it’s already out there, I follow up with, “I think you’re rather interesting, Joshua.”
“Enough to want to share another special someday?”
“Someday.” I can’t give in that easily. Where’s the challenge in that?
Pushing off the table, he stands and begins collecting the dishes. “I need to get back to work. The dinner crowd is already piling in.”
I look around, and despite a bell above the door, I never noticed the restaurant is now full. “Of course. I can leave money on the table.”
“Now why would I let you do that? This is a date, remember?” He punctuates it with a wink.
Looking down when my cheeks feel hot, I smile to myself. I peek up at him under my lashes. “I remember.”
When he takes the dishes, I slip my backpack back on. It gets lighter, so I turn around to find him adjusting it. “Don’t want to hurt your back carrying all those books around. Not sure if you know . . .” His tone drips in sarcasm. “But everything you need is online these days. You don’t actually have to carry books.”
“And here, I was starting to think I wouldn’t get another of your smart-ass comments. Thanks for coming through for me.”
Snickering, he replies, “You’re welcome.”
I start for the door and notice him behind me. “It’s okay. I can see myself out.”
His shoulders hit the bottom of his ears. “Yeah, no worries. I was just
coming to get fresh air.”
“Ah. Right.” I laugh. On the sidewalk, I stop awkwardly, looking down the street, and then turn back to him. “So, I’m going. Thanks for dinner.” I have no idea what I’m doing, which seems to be a running theme when I’m with him. But I do it anyway. “You know how you told me to tell Frankie hi?”
The laugh rumbles through his chest as he runs his thumb over a plush lower lip. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I was thinking you could tell her yourself sometime.”
He tries so hard to restrain his smile and fails. I’m fairly certain it’s the only thing he fails at. “I could do that. I’d have to check my schedule. Maybe I can give you my number, and you can send me a text sometime.”
“Absolutely. Frankie will love the visit.” I pull my phone out and hand it to him.
As he types, he says, “Anything for Frankie.” When he hands my phone back to me, he pulls his from his pocket with my number flashing on the screen. “Hope you don’t mind me sending a text to myself. Now, I have your number.”
“Text me the specials.” I start to back away in the opposite direction, and say, “You never did tell me about that happy ending.”
“Like I said, it’s something I have to show you.”
“Maybe next time.”
He reaches for the door. “You got it.”
I don’t know why my feet feel like they’re full of lead, but every step I take is painful. My phone buzzes in my hand with a message from him: I forgot to tell you something.
Me: What?
Joshua: The second thing.
I turn around to find him standing in the middle of the sidewalk with a grin that makes me weak in the knees because I’m the one who put it there. I raise my arms out, and from half a block down, I yell, “What?”
“My last name is Evans.”
Realizing that all the things instilled in me growing up flew out the window the day I met him, I start to wonder if he’s what’s been missing from my life. “Joshua Evans,” I say well out of his earshot, just liking the sound of it. But my feet are moving, and although he said I had to trust him on that happy ending one day, it’s too late for propriety. I feel alive. I want another taste of that happiness today.
I run with my backpack bouncing, slipping it off and dropping at his feet as I fly into his arms. Our lips meet in pure passion, pushed to the brink by flirty banter as foreplay. With his arms wrapped around my middle, his body is pressed to mine with no room left for misinterpretation.
My arms tighten around him, and all I feel is his heat against my lips, between my legs, and in this kiss. Our lips part, and our tongues meet, embracing like a familiar lover from the past. When all the air is empty from my lungs, I kiss him longer, breathing him in instead.
This time when our lips part, he doesn’t set me down but looks at me eye-level. Breathless and panting, I say, “Chloe Fox. That’s my name.”
And suddenly that smirk isn’t offensive or arrogant. It’s infectious, causing me to display one of my own. “It’s nice to meet you, Chloe Fox.”
“It’s nice to meet you too, Joshua Evans.”
6
Joshua
Kissing Chloe Fox has become my new favorite pastime.
I don’t know what happened at the diner earlier in the week, but the moment our lips met, some kind of kiss and attack game began. I didn’t take her for spontaneous, considering her type A personality, but on Wednesday, we discovered we both have classes near Kline Biology Tower at two. Let’s just say we were almost late to our next classes after making out in an empty lab room for a half hour. If I’ve learned anything about her in the past week, it’s that she’s regimented. Pushing her boundaries might be my second favorite thing right now. Thursday, though, I was the one to blame. It killed me to have to stop kissing her in the photography section of the art gallery before racing to work. Everything about her calls to me. She’s smart and soft.
I’ve been dying to touch her all day, feeling the itch in my palms, so this time when I spy her refilling her bottle at a water fountain, I stand behind her and pretend to wait my turn. This was my first mistake.
Turning to dash back down the hallway, she runs right into me, her hair swinging wide around her shoulders as water splashes across my shirt. “Oh, no!” She gasps in horror. Her gaze glides up my chest and then a little mischievous smile appears. I see when the devious cogs start to turn. Rubbing her hand down my shirt, she says, “I am so very sorry about that,” not sounding sorry one bit.
“I just bet you are.” My abs start tightening from the cold water pricking my skin, and I take her by the elbow, moving her off to the side. “It’s funny how we haven’t seen each other in the three years we’ve been here together, but now we’re running into each other everywhere.”
“True, but I wasn’t looking before.” The space between us is too far, and knowing we both have class soon, I get to what’s been on my mind. “I’ve been thinking you—”
“Good thoughts or bad?”
“Why would I have bad thoughts about you?” The little scalloped edges of her white top highlight an innocence, matching her face, but then she wears tight black pants with it, keeping me guessing. That’s just it. I can’t get a solid read on her.
She seems to be good deeds and sin, carefree but measured. She’s become a riddle I want to solve.
Her eyes follow the people walking behind me when her shoulders pop up and then drop. Her eyes come back to me, and she says, “I don’t know. I don’t know you well enough to know what you think about me.”
“That’s just it. I want us to get to know each other better.” She rocks back, so I take her wrists and move closer. “I like making out with you—”
“Hey, Josh.”
Shit. Talk about bad timing. “Hey,” I mumble, catching Trish’s eyes still on me when she passes. One date two years ago didn’t lead anywhere, but that never looks good to other women, which usually ends badly for me.
But Chloe’s standing there like we weren’t interrupted. As much as that fascinates me, we’re running short on time.
“You were flattering me with sweet nothings of I like making out with you. I’m sensing a but coming.”
“But I want to spend more time with you.”
Smiling, she moves in even closer. Her lips so close, our height difference the only discrepancy. “That’s a good but.”
I’ve been dying to touch her all day, feeling the urge to wrap myself around her—feel her against me. As I take hold of her hip, we both shift our middles closer, and an urge begins to churn deep inside. Fuck me, she’s driving me wild. I have to use my head, but my heart is suddenly going crazy in my chest—nerves kicking in. What if she says no? What if making out is all she wants from me? What if we’re only hooking up, and I’m reading this all wrong?
Her chest rises and falls, each breath seeming to anticipate what I have to say.
Fuck. I gulp so embarrassingly loud. I’m either doing this, or I’m not. Spit it out, Evans. “I have to work tonight, but I was wondering if you’d like to get together this weekend?”
“You’re asking me out?”
“Or in. Whatever you like. I just want to spend time with you.”
I’m fairly certain I hear her gulp this time as she takes hold of a dry part of my shirt with her free hand, holding me closer. Blood pumps through my veins like a race car. Judging by the lust in her eyes, I’m thinking I didn’t fuck this up entirely. “I’d love to spend more time with you, Joshua. We should kiss on it.”
“Stop stealing my lines, lady.” Before she tries to control this like the other times she so sexily stole my lips for her own purposes—completely to my benefit, I might add—I kiss her. I want her to feel how she’s made me feel this week—alive and not shy to show affection to someone I’ve started caring about. I want to be the one who kissed her right here for everyone to see, to show her what she means to me. She’
s not just another girl; she’s the one who has captured my imagination.
I kiss her again. And again, as I run my hands over her ribs, touching, exploring, memorizing how much space she takes up—not much—her body slacks against mine. Her lips soften in greeting and then firm when she kisses me, her tongue exploring my mouth as much as I taste the heat of what’s in store the next time we’re alone.
Pushing her hair back, I deepen the kiss, making sure that every part of her remembers me. If she deserves anything from this, it’s to be kissed like we’re the only two people in the world.
The sound of shuffling feet behind me signals that our time is up. She lowers down, flat on her feet, and whispers, “I need to go. I have to run to class.”
I don’t want her to go. I want to spend time with her right now, but I know it’s impossible. Exhaling a deep breath, I put space between us and nod. “So do I.”
“I’ll see you this weekend?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
Lifting onto her tiptoes once more, she kisses my cheek, her lips searing my skin so I won’t forget how this felt either. “Bye, Joshua.”
“Bye, Chloe.” I watch her walk away, occasionally glancing back until she turns a corner after a little wave.
I go to the fountain and splash my face, needing to cool down. My mind has kicked into overdrive, wondering why everything feels so different with her . . . this year.
Somehow, I hadn’t noticed how heavy my thoughts had become until the lightness she brings swept through me. But as much fun as it has been kissing Chloe, I kind of want to know everything about her. I want to know what she eats for breakfast. I want to know what she wants out of life. What would she bring to a desert island? This is the shit that fills my head, and I want to know everything. All of it.
She goes against everything I figured she would be, yet she’s exactly who she says she is. The facts are that I know little about her other than she’s a senior from Newport who has a bonsai tree. Having two out of three in common doesn’t justify how I’m starting to feel about her. I mean, shit, before we kissed outside the diner, I thought the girl hated me.
