by Piper Lawson
Both are legitimate.
My gaze scans the outline of the next building over. If the people inside it are as caught up in their own drama as I am, I pray for their poor souls.
It would all be easier if I didn’t want to fuck her again. If the feel of her squeezing my fingers, arching into my mouth didn’t make me imagine how perfect she’d feel coming around my cock.
A knock comes at my door, and I glance up. A woman in glasses stands on the other side, looking official and irritated. I hold up a finger as my phone buzzes again.
Rena: Beck says you have a debate Wednesday.
She wants to talk at my first debate? Hell no. If it’s about the app, fine, but if she wants to discuss what went down between us in front of a bunch of high school kids I’m responsible for…
There are better times.
Like in the dentist’s chair.
While I’m giving a formal presentation.
During a liver transplant, hers or mine.
Wes: I’ll be busy with teenagers. Another time.
Rena: I’ll see you there.
I rub my fingers over my temples.
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I set the cell phone on my desk and answer the door.
17
Rena
“How many teams are at this thing?” I ask Beck as I drum my fingers on the steering wheel.
“Six. Each debate is thirty minutes with breaks in between.”
I do the math in my head. “So, if you win…”
“We’ll be there until ten.”
I groan inwardly as I find parking near Baden that’s not fifty bucks an hour. I grab the bag in the back seat and shift out of the car.
Beck raises a brow. “What’s that?”
“Dinner.” I hold open the top to show him the brown boxes.
“Aww, you brought me food.”
“For luck.” I hand him a box, and he tries to open it as we walk, nearly succeeding in dropping it on the pavement.
“You’re not here for me. You’re here for Wes,” he says, and I slap him. “Ow.”
“Don’t call him that. He’s your teacher, and he has like ten more years of school than you will ever have.”
“I said I’m going to be an actor. I’m still going to college,” he retorts, glancing at my outfit. “Did you wear that on purpose?”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Nothing. You look good.”
I smooth down my fitted jeans and reach back to tug on my ponytail. My ankle boots are the same ones I wore Friday night, but Beck doesn’t know that.
We navigate the hallways to the main auditorium. I follow a few steps behind Beck as he beelines for a group of students in Baden colors in one corner by the stage.
A familiar voice says, “Come on, let’s prep.”
I catch Wes’s gaze over the teenagers’ heads, and I wave. He grins back at me, and I resist the urge to press a hand to my chest.
Oh, boy. He’s wearing a suit, charcoal with a matching tie that makes his eyes look more blue than gray. He made an effort to tame his hair but gave up, and I’m glad he did because he looks like he just woke up.
My fingers itch.
I feel as if everyone can tell I’m checking him out as I take a seat in the front row.
By the time Wes drops into the seat beside me a few minutes later, setting his book bag next to him and loosening his tie imperceptibly, I’m craving his company. “You mad I came?” I ask.
“Figured I couldn’t stop you. No point being upset about it.”
The half-smile he sends my way isn’t the same one he flashed the teenagers a second ago.
This one feels grown up.
And ours.
My heart skips. I think I might be broken.
He brushes a finger over my cheekbone, and it takes a shallow breath for me to realize he’s tracing the scratch. “Better?”
“Yeah.” I think Wes’s eyes darken, but in the low lighting it’s hard to say. To put space between us, I hand him a box. “This is for you.”
“Dinner? You didn’t need to do that.”
Wes opens the box. “It’s the vegan special,” I supply. “With extra steak. If you’re anything like Beck, you didn’t have time to eat.”
“Thanks. That is some impressive grilled zucchini.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, and I feel like I should’ve put an entire empty chair between us, not just a take-out entrée.
Our conversation’s interrupted by the first debate starting.
They announce the topic: “How important is arts education?”
“I’m not sure Beck will stay awake long enough to answer this one,” I caution under my breath.
Wes’s mouth twitches at the corner. “He might surprise you.”
Sure enough, my brother’s leaning in. As I watch, I notice that he’s not the most accomplished debater—sometimes he trips over a word or speeds up when he needs to slow down—but he’s trying.
Wes sets aside his dinner halfway through.
“You don’t like it?” I whisper.
“It’s great. I’ll finish it in a sec.”
And he takes notes.
For a guy who doesn’t give a shit about Baden, he’s pretty into this. I hide my smile.
The first debate ends, and Baden’s declared the winner.
Wes shoots out of his seat, doing a fist pump. I stand too, because his energy is contagious, and reach over to grab him in a hug.
We both freeze.
He holds out a hand, and I shake it. “Congratulations, Coach.”
“Thanks.”
Warmth buzzes up my arm, and it continues even after he drops my hand and goes to talk to the team. It’s so different from the buzzing I usually feel, the kind that twists in my gut and makes me want to claw at my stomach.
This kind is nice.
After Haley left this weekend, I’d decided Wes and I needed to talk about how he swooped in all white knight turned dark, rescuing me and Scrunchie before blowing me apart. But now, I’m not sure what I needed to say. Maybe we can go back to the way things were.
To the kind of friendly working together.
Plus the occasional sneaky look, innocent brush of hands and other body parts, and thinly veiled compliment.
With a sigh, I sink into my chair and watch the next group prep.
But the second I spot a familiar form approaching, my good mood evaporates.
As the next two teams take the stage, my dad takes Wes’s seat, setting his briefcase on the floor at his feet.
“The new faculty is impressive,” he says, leaning over. “Dr. Robinson came to us due to family circumstances, but he’s quite a find.”
“I bet.”
My father shifts in his seat, kicking Wes’s half-eaten dinner—from my favorite take-out place—underneath the chair.
“It’s extraordinary you’re taking such an interest in school activities.”
I sneak a look at him out of the corner of my eye.
Sometimes I’m not sure how this man created me.
Physically, there are similarities. The shape of our eyes, our chins.
It’s the rest that baffles me.
“I thought you’d be happy,” I say at last. “You always wanted me to take school more seriously.”
I turn back to the stage and watch Beck’s second round.
“Brought down by cloning,” Wes groans in agony after Baden loses. “I wrote my undergrad thesis on it.”
“Sorry, Dr. R,” Beck says, slinging a jacket around his shoulders.
I pack up the garbage as Wes reaches for his book bag.
“We’re going out,” one of the other kids says to my brother. “You want to come?”
“I’m grounded,” Beck says glumly.
“Ask Dad,” I say.
My brother’s brows draw together. “What? He’s here?”
“He’s…” I scan the gym. He left the front row seat twenty minutes ago, and I ha
ven’t seen him since. It’s a relief. “Err. I was sure I saw him. Tell you what, if you can get yourself home by ten thirty, you have my blessing.”
Judging by recent events, I have zero authority to authorize these things, but Beck blows me a big fake kiss anyway. “You’re gold.”
My brother turns back to Wes and signs something to him. Wes grins and signs back.
The final two teams take the stage behind Beck, and my brother flips them off before starting down the aisle toward the door. Wes and I exchange a look.
“Sportsmanship has never been his strong suit,” I offer.
“It’s good to have things to work on.”
We walk through the back of the gym and out into the hallway.
It’s bright, and I blink a few times. The floors are white tile instead of linoleum, the near-empty halls lined with black lockers.
“I see why Beck thinks the sun rises and sets out of your ass,” I say. “You’re nerd cool. The signing? It’s like you know everything.”
“Careful. That might go to my head.”
“I thought we’d reached steady ground with the complimenting thing. But in that case, I’ll stop complimenting you.”
Wes’s brows draw together. “That seems extreme. How about you warn me? So I can guard against the ego rush.”
“Deal.”
As we pass a trash can, he holds out a hand, and I pass him the garbage. He tosses it.
I check my phone. “It’s almost nine. Decide how you’re going to celebrate your victory?”
“We won one and lost one. It’s almost like we lost two because we didn’t make it to the final round.”
“Here’s how I see it: while you were supervising six Baden students—and their parents—no one got drunk or high on prescription painkillers, no one set the school on fire, no one caused a spectacle, no one got pregnant. That’s worth celebrating.”
Wes grins, and the simple gesture has a disproportionately large effect on my chest. “Well, by those standards, it was a rousing success.”
I take a breath because, somehow, I’m short on oxygen. “Beck told me he wants to be an actor.”
“It’s good he told you. I don’t think he talks much about it.”
“No, but he told you. He trusts you.”
Even if Wes isn’t the cuddly type, he’s the rare kind of earnest that makes you want to believe in basic human decency.
Wes cocks his head. “You have to trust someone. Human beings are social. You keep everything under wraps, you destroy yourself a day at a time.”
He shrugs out of his jacket and slings it over one shoulder as I drag my finger along the lockers.
I pull up in front one. “This was mine. Sophomore year, Evan Hatcher carved my name and a heart into it.”
And a dick, but that’s beside the point. If it was a request it went unanswered, because we only dated three weeks.
I take in Wes’s face. “Why do you look so surprised?”
“I’m not surprised some boy carved your name in a locker. I’m surprised there was only one.”
Despite his wry expression—or maybe because of it—the words slice my heart. “I don’t sleep with every guy I meet, Wes.”
He curses. “That’s not what I meant.” His throat works as if he’s trying to come up with the right words. What comes out it, “Friday was a mistake.”
The pain spreads from my heart to my ribs, an ache I know won’t go away soon.
“You’re right—it was a mistake. Because you don’t do casual. And I’m busy enough dating guys from your app.”
The words spill out, as if saying them quickly will convince me they’re true. Make me forget I still want him.
I still want Wes.
I ignore that thought and force a smile. “We’re friends.”
“Friends.” He holds up a pinkie finger, his gaze solemn.
We link fingers, and I know the word’s a lie. For me, if not for him.
Because somehow this simple connection is more intimate than what happened the other night.
A group of laughing students comes around the corner. Wes drops his hand but his gaze is electric on mine. “Want to get out of here?” he murmurs.
Those six words kick-start my heart. There could be a million kids streaking naked through the halls, and I wouldn’t notice. Nothing matters except the anticipation in his expression.
“What’d you have in mind?”
18
Wes
“You’ve been holding out on me,” Rena accuses as I push open the door and flick on the light.
I look around the place, remembering my reaction when I first saw it. The open-concept living room and fancy kitchen. The leather couch. The chandelier over the island.
She sets down her bag, and I lock the door after us, then I unlace my shoes. She steps out of her boots and goes directly to the brightly colored framed images on the walls.
“What is this?” she asks.
“Cambia cells. Under a microscope.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“Most things are, if you look close enough.”
Her fascinated gaze finds mine. “Did you take this?”
“Yeah. But before you get too excited, the extent of my artistic talents involves strapping a smart phone to a microscope.”
I took them years ago, found them in a box when I packed up my things to move back home.
I try to ignore the fact that, in this tastefully decorated space, she went for the only thing here that’s mine.
Rena crosses to the giant couch and drops onto it.
I go to the kitchen and open the door of the stainless-steel fridge. “You want a beer?”
“Sure.”
Her voice has me sneaking a look at her over the top of the island separating the kitchen from the living room.
I’ve been doing a good job tonight of acting like a guy who doesn’t notice every inflection in her voice.
Who hasn’t recruited an entire subcommittee of neurons in the left half of his cerebrum to deciding whether the “hot” descriptor should be revised to “beautiful,” elves be damned.
Who doesn’t realize the boots by my door are the same ones I’d stepped over when I left her place Friday night.
Instead, at the school, I found myself thinking other things.
Like how thoughtful it was of her to bring me dinner.
How much she cared about seeing her brother happy, or some semblance of it.
Neither of which comes close to this project she’s doing with me, for me. I know she thinks it’s good experience, and the sample’s interesting, but that can’t fully explain her generosity.
I’m not used to being in the presence of someone who takes time out of pursuing their own goals to care about what other people want.
“You need a hand?” she asks.
I blink, realizing she’s looking at me. “Nah. I got it.” I open two beers and pass her one. “Had a German roommate in grad school. He got me hooked on this.”
We clink, and I settle next to her. It’s a big couch, but I’m sure there’s an optimal distance. I wish I knew what it was.
“You ready for this?”
I lean in, reaching over her.
“For what?” Her eyes widen.
My fingers close around the remote and I hold it up. “I meant for this.”
“Right.”
Although now that she’s looking at me through narrowed eyes, I want to shift over her, shut that surprised mouth with mine, and say, “Sorry, McFly, catch you on the flip side.”
But I’m not going to.
When she looked up at me at the school by the lockers, reminding me exactly why we’re not doing this, it was the wakeup call I needed.
What we are, what we have, it’s not about sex. It’s how I feel when I’m with her.
Playing this thing out physically—even if she still wanted to—would only complicate things.
Still, I realized one thing tonight. If I’m thi
nking I can keep her from getting under my skin, I’m deluded. She’s already there. I know it with every smile and bob of her ponytail. With every joke that feels like it’s ours.
“What’re we watching?” Rena asks, pulling me back.
“Back to the Future,” I announce with relish, getting comfortable on the couch as I pull up the DVR.
“I’m surprised you don’t own it.”
“I do.” She raises a brow, so I add, “But it’s bad luck not to watch it when it’s on.”
We start the movie. In my limited experience, girls want to talk through the whole thing. Rena doesn’t.
“What’re you thinking?” I ask partway through, needing to be in her head.
“I’m wondering what it is about eighties movies that makes them so good today.”
“They have the same message—no matter who you are, you have the power to be anything you want.”
“No. It’s ‘Everything you thought you knew about the world is wrong.’”
“Or that all you need to save the day and get the girl is science and a cool car,” I decide.
I glance over at her, the jeans clinging to her curvy legs. Her face nearly free of makeup, and a smile lingering on her lips as she goes back to the movie.
She looks younger like this. It should bug me, because I’ve already got a few years on her.
It doesn’t.
Maybe because the ponytail’s back.
Or because her cheek has healed, leaving no trace of the mark from last week.
As if Friday never happened.
Which should be a good thought, but suddenly, I don’t like it.
At the end of the movie, she squares to face me, pulling her ankles up and reaching for her half-drunk beer.
“Well?” I ask, trying for casual as if I don’t care about her assessment.
“There’s one thing I don’t get. You wanted to be Michael J. Fox or the professor?”
“Easy now.” I grab her beer and tip it back, wincing as I realize the last gulp is warm.
“I didn’t say you aren’t a hot professor.” She grins.
“I might not be any kind of professor at this rate,” I say under my breath as I get up to take the empty bottles to the kitchen.
