No Interest in Love

by Cassie Mae

  I’d say, “Didn’t know I fell asleep with a grizzly.”

  And she’d respond with, “A grizzly and a jackass, sitting in a tree.”

  I’d ask her with a cocky grin, “You saying you want to kiss me?”

  “Don’t you still have cheesy wiener breath?” she’d say with a sexy lift of her eyebrow.

  I’d shake my head, lean up, but keep my hand on her leg. With a nervous grin instead of my arrogant douchebaggery, I’d tell her, “See for yourself.”

  If I’m lucky, she wouldn’t say anything. She’d sit up, grab my face, and…

  “Good afternoon, passengers. It’s just about three P.M. central time, clear skies at our next stop, Kansas City. We’ll be arriving within ten minutes, so please prepare for exit. If you need assistance, please look to our staff located at each aisle doorway. Ticket checks will be conducted before our transfer route to Chicago. Thank you for riding Amtrak. We hope you enjoyed your stay.”

  Then the blazing sound of the train horn reverberates around the room, and Shay shoots upright, slamming her head on the overhead light. When she catches sight of me, she flails backward and overcorrects, and I have to reach out and grab her before she lands hard on the train floor. My hand snags her back pocket while she scrambles for anything to keep her on the bed…which happens to be Woody himself, who almost shoots off right then and there in his overexcitement.

  I let out a strangled laugh, trying to hoist her back up. “It’s not a handle,” I joke, and her eyes bug right out of her head and she lets go. There’s a loud riiiip, then a thunk. Shay’s gone, and the only thing I have left is the back pocket of her jeans.

  Shay makes a noise I can only describe as a constipated bear growling in the woods, and I lean up on my elbow, peering down at her sprawled-out figure on the car floor.

  “Sanka, ya dead?”

  “Yeah, man.”

  I grin at her quoting Cool Runnings with me, then she rolls onto her stomach, and I bite my fist to keep from laughing.

  Her back pocket is missing, since it’s currently in my right hand, but the force of the tear ripped her jeans, and now there’s a nice view of her upper thigh and the bottom half of her white underwear.

  “You want to ask for my pants now?” I ask, and her hand flops to her butt, and when she realizes what’s going on back there she flips around, neck blossoming red as she hides her ass from me.

  I push myself off the bed, being careful as I make my way down to her. She leans against the door, head falling onto her knees as she pulls them up.

  “This. Is. A. Nightmare,” she mutters into her now-ruined jeans. I hold the pocket out to her.

  “We could tape it back on.” I offer. She smacks my hand away, looking up with a hint of a smile on her lips. But it’s not her lips that I’m looking at for long. While she slept, her hair covered most of her face, but now that I’m getting a good look…

  I reach up and smack the overhead light switch on the wall. The bridge of her nose is bright purple. Under her eyes looks like she’s been bludgeoned with a sledgehammer.

  “Ah shit…” I mutter, nearly reaching out to touch her but too afraid to damage her more. “Are you okay?”

  She kinks her neck from side to side. “Think so. I’ve fallen out of bed before.”

  “That’s good…but I was talking about your nose.”

  She gives me a look like I’m spouting Greek, then nudges me out of the way to look into the mirror over the pull-out sink. After about ten seconds of staring, she lets out an exasperated sigh.

  “I’m going to be a walking bruise by the time we get there.”

  “I think you already are.”

  She’s not amused by my comment, but honestly, neither am I. That probably hurts like hell. And as I’m looking at it I feel hot smoke creep up the back of my neck. I don’t like it. I don’t like seeing her bruised and in pain. Even knowing that it came from crashing into a toilet.

  She shakes her head at her reflection, then turns to me, gesturing for her glasses, which she left up on the bed. I pray they’re still intact as I swing my arm up to grab them for her.

  “Next time we share a bed, you get the edge,” she says, sliding her glasses into place. She’s laughing, and it’s dousing the unexplained flames going up my neck. I avert my eyes from her bruised nose and scratch the back of my head.

  “You want to share a bed again, huh?”

  “Hypothetical ‘next time.’ ”

  “Then hypothetically, next time, if I start falling off the mattress, am I allowed to cop a feel?”

  “That was a total accident.”

  “Mistook it for my leg? It happens all the time.”

  “Didn’t realize you had chicken legs.”

  “Ouch.” I grab at my chest like she’s torn my heart out, but my neck finally feels normal again, so I’m cool if she’s okay enough to insult me.

  She presses up against the wall, hiding her butt and looking pointedly at my carry-on. I crouch down and unzip the main pocket, letting out an exaggerated breath as I take the Marvel pajama bottoms from their spot. Holding them like they are something sacred—because they are—I turn around and bestow them upon Shay…who whips them out of my hands.

  “Thank you.” She sighs.

  “You’re welcome, but don’t bundle them like that.” I put my hand on her wrist and step in close. “Be gentle. They are very delicate.”

  She pushes her lips together as they twitch upward. “Would you like me to give you two a minute to say good-bye?”

  I stare down at the pants. These are the pants no one sees me in. They’re the ones I drink booze and play video games in and the ones I wear when I feel like shit. They’re healing pants. So…hell, yeah, I’m attached to them. In fact, one of the one-nighters thought she could get away with wearing them the morning after. I took one look at her and said she had crossed the line. Never did see her after that.

  Yet here I am, letting Shay wear the magical pajama pants, knowing full well she’ll end up ruining them in the next twenty-four hours. Keeping one hand on her wrist, I let the other pet the fabric good-bye while she stifles her laughter next to me.

  “Hey, we all have our things,” I say, defending myself…and my pants.

  “I didn’t say anything,” she says, carefully tucking the pants against her chest. My fingers tumble down from her wrist to her elbow, and her eyes follow them.

  I probably shouldn’t be touching her. We’ve never had the touchy-feely type of friendship. It’s rare that we hug, let alone have long, meaningful physical exchanges. Is this meaningful? I’m still touching her. I can’t let go. Don’t know what’s come over me, but I like the feel of her skin, I like the way my favorite piece of clothing is pushed against her chest, and I’m trying to tell my hand to drop from her damn elbow, but my hand is not listening.

  “I have to pee,” Shay suddenly blurts, slowly pulling from my grasp. Oh shit, I freaked her the hell out.

  “Oh yeah, morning piss,” I say like a moron, then I turn around and run smack into the door. She doesn’t laugh at me, which I’m pretty sure is worse than if she did, and I sneak into the hallway before we have any more awkward exchanges.

  3:04 P.M.

  Shay is wearing my Marvel pants. But she’s strapped on her torn jeans over them. The baggy fabric of my pants peeks out by her waist and through the rip by her butt, and she’s tucked the bottom of the legs into a pair of oversized socks I recognize as mine. She looks insane. Like the People of Walmart.

  Adorable.

  “What’s the plan?” I ask when we get to the main platform at the station, trying not to laugh at her attempting to walk without tripping over fabric. Shay hmms and brings her pinkie nail to her lips. Her head keeps turning over her shoulder at the security personnel—the ones who are guarding each train like it’s made of gold. It doesn’t look like we’ll be able to sneak another ride unless Shay has some brilliant plan, because I got nothing.

  “I’m open to ideas,”
she says, then laughs when I give her the blankest of stares. “I can still call my agency.” She points to the ticket counter, where a Melissa McCarthy look-alike is sitting on the phone.

  “We’re not doing that.”

  “That’s all I’ve got. So unless you decide to offer up more than a cross-eyed shrug, then that’s what we’re going to—”

  “Let’s buy a ticket.”

  “With what?”

  “My card.” I dig into my back pocket and pull out my wallet. I have exactly three things in here. My maxed-out credit card, my license, and a cherry-flavored condom.

  “You said you had no money.”

  “I don’t.” I lightly grab her by the wrist, making sure she’s right by my side while we move the ten steps to the ticket kiosk. The place is so crowded I wouldn’t be surprised if she was swallowed up somehow and taken away from me. “But if Landon got my message, he might’ve wired some money into my account.” I tap on the screen and select the next train out. “Worth a shot, right?”

  She sucks in a breath, making her back straighten so she’s maybe half an inch taller. She comes up to my shoulder now. “If this works, I’m not sure if I’ll be happy or feel like an idiot for not thinking to try it sooner.”

  I nod, and she swipes the card, my gut dropping as the little loading wheel spins and spins on the screen. I’m not even sure if the train will get us closer to Alabama or not, but if it works, I’ll call it even on the ride I just took for free and then take a cab out to the nearest airpo—

  Card not approved. Please insert another form of payment.

  Shay’s posture slackens, putting her back to her normal height. She gives me a pursed-lip half smile and hands my card over.

  “It was worth a shot.”

  I flip my wallet back open and slide the card back into its spot. Useless piece of shit.

  9:58 P.M.

  After a few more failed attempts at swiping the card, Shay straightens her shoulders and marches straight out the front door. She stops on the sidewalk out front, setting her hands on her hips and sucking in a large breath.

  “I just need fresh air,” she mumbles to herself. “Need to think. Need to think.”

  She thinks for twenty more minutes before cussing herself out and taking off down the road. I’m in no mood to get separated, so I follow her, not saying too much because I can see the vein in her neck get more and more prominent the longer we’re at a standstill. And I still don’t have any ideas other than to sneak on another train. But she shot that in the crapper when she told me the only train heading to Alabama leaves tomorrow night and it’s a two-day ride.

  We walk around for what feels like hours, but who the hell knows how much time has really passed—man, if I didn’t have actor calves before this week, I definitely do now—before she finally makes eye contact with me.

  “Don’t you dare try to stop me.” Then she pushes past me back toward the train station.

  I raise an eyebrow, then realize what she’s doing. I grab at her wrist and whirl her around.

  “You’re not calling your agency.”

  Her gaze drops to my hand, her chest rising and falling with suddenly labored breathing. I let her go slowly, the fear of touching her far outweighing the fear of her taking off.

  She meets my stare for half a second and then hikes up the large pants and bolts to the train station.

  Damn it, I should’ve kept ahold of her.

  11:00 P.M.

  “Shit.”

  “What?”

  She looks at the train station, the inside dim and very vacant.

  “Do train stations close?”

  A bomb crashes in my stomach, and I follow her up to the doors and give the handle a giant pull.

  “Apparently this one does.”

  The clock above the train station rings eleven times. Shay shakes the door again.

  “It’s locked,” I say, plucking a leaf from the tree out in front and tearing it up slowly at the veins.

  Shay slumps against the glass, sliding down until her knees hit the cement. “You’ve solved the mystery again, Scooby.”

  “I always pictured myself more of the Shaggy type.”

  “Long arms, hollow head…”

  “The comedic relief.”

  “Alert me when you’re being funny.”

  I blow out a breath, searching for any train personnel in the dimly lit station. “I believe you were the one who said I can do comedy.”

  Silence greets me instead of a witty comeback. I rip my gaze from the deserted platform to Shay and then suck in a breath.

  “Whoa…are you ok—”

  “I’m fine,” she says. But she’s not. She pinches the bridge of her nose, slamming her eyelids shut. She lands on her butt, wrapping one arm around her knees. Her voice sounds wet, and her back shakes and shakes and my chest starts to tighten around my suddenly thumping heart.

  “Are you crying?” I ask, mostly out of shock. Shay doesn’t handle stress with tears. She handles it with anger, humor, and occasional abuse. Aside from the almost-cry in the car the other day, I’ve never seen her lose it like this.

  “No,” she says.

  But she is.

  (Sort of.)

  She blinks up to the sky, like titling her head back will force her tears to waterfall behind her eyes instead of out of them. Her voice has a slight croak to it when she says, “Jace…?”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m going to use the F-word.”

  I raise an eyebrow, and when I don’t say anything she lets her gaze drift to me.

  “Failure.” She shakes her head. “I. Am. A. Failure. I can get something about ninety percent of the way finished…and then…” Her lips rumble as she makes a horrible sound effect of something exploding…or shitting…I’m not sure.

  “Hey,” I say, taking a step closer to her, “we still got time.”

  “We’re in Missouri. The train is out, and unless I sprout wings from my spine, we aren’t flying either.”

  “We’ll think of something. Two days ago we were stranded on the side of the road in California.” I try to grin, but I can tell already it won’t cheer her up. “Now we’re here.”

  She rolls her eyes up to mine. “Okay, say I do get you there. I’ll still lose something.”

  I jerk back. “What?”

  Her bottom lip quivers a tiny bit, like she didn’t mean to blurt it out. Then she sighs and says, “You don’t need me, Jace. And when you get this job, I’m afraid you’re going to figure that out.”

  “Uh, come again?” My brow furrows, and I can feel something stirring up under my skin. It pushes at my heart and sends messages to my lungs to put a pause on the breathing for a minute. Is she saying that she’ll lose me? And why do I suddenly hope that is what she’s saying?

  “I’m a shit agent. What in the world have I done for you?”

  “You got me an exclusive screen test for a giant movie. I’d say that’s pretty badass.”

  “And look how well that’s turned out.” She waves her hand at the darkened station behind her. “And I didn’t get the audition…You did.”

  “Pretty sure I knew nothing of it.”

  “You don’t need me. Your acting speaks for itself.”

  “But someone has to send in the tape.”

  “Any good agent would’ve done that once they heard the news. I’m sure I’m not the only one who did.” She shakes her head at her knees, and I’m having a hard time figuring out what’s going on because normally we fight with sarcastic insults, not compliments. I don’t know how to handle them. But she’s crazy to think that I don’t need her.

  And that thought kicks me unexpectedly in the ribs.

  “You’re a brilliant actor, Jace,” she all but whispers at her feet. “And you may talk big, but I honestly know that if you knew how good you really are, you wouldn’t waste your time with a failure like me.”

  I blink at her, rub the back of my neck, and ease toward her. I’m not good
in situations like this. I don’t know how to respond except with a sarcastic comment.

  “Is this how you get when you’re hungry?” I blurt stupidly, but I get the tiniest of laughs out of her.

  “Honest? Yeah…we can chalk it up to lack of food.”

  And then those tears that I thought had waterfalled back inside of her start to form in the corners of her eyes. She swallows hard. I swallow hard. She licks her lips, and I can’t help but watch the motion like an alcoholic who’s spotted the last bottle of wine. I want to take those lips, drink them up…and hope that it heals the painful words that tumble out of them next.

  “I’ll always be the Elmo Girl,” she says, sniffing and turning away from me. “It’s been seven years, and everyone still only sees me as that. My parents…my parents still see me as that.”

  She buries her face, hiding the vulnerability I know Shay doesn’t like feeling. I know because I don’t like feeling it. I hide behind sarcasm and jokes when really I get everything she’s saying. Every damn day I wish I wasn’t a failure. That I wasn’t some nobody hoping to make something of himself. I wish I could read without messing up. I wish I could say all of this out loud, but at the same time I don’t know if I can. Because the paths leading to what I want are starting to get blurry.

  No…my vision is actually getting blurry.

  I’ve never wiped a girl’s tears away. I never felt like I could. That always felt like something a boyfriend would do. Or a brother. Or someone who meant something or more than what I could offer. I never empathized with a girl before. Never wanted to drown in her sorrow with her. I always wondered who would do that to themselves.

  But a tear rolls down Shay’s cheek, and it feels like it’s rolling down mine. Her breath hitches, and I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe. My heart is slowly ripping in my chest, and it catches me so off guard that I stumble a bit. I have to grasp onto the glass door and guide myself down next to her.

  I meet her eyes.

  I wipe her tears.

  I erase them one by one with the pads of my thumbs.

  I say, “You’re not a failure,” meaning every single word and knowing that it probably won’t be enough. Because I get it. For the first time, I know exactly how a girl feels when she breaks.