Anything More Than Now
By
Rebecca Paula
ANYTHING MORE THAN NOW
Copyright © 2016 by Rebecca Paula. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.
For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher, Rebecca Paula.
Cover design by Maggie Hall.
ISBN: 9780990739555
Anything More Than Now is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For information about the author, visit www.RebeccaPaula.com.
For Jonny. Always.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Note to my readers
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Prologue
Noah
Freshman year
She was nothing, then everything. That’s how the minutes collapsed to shape my world.
With a highlighted philosophy book clasped in my hand, I’m left in the middle of the crowded library at Sutton College while Reagan Landry stands outside, her face tilted up toward the gray sky as a soft rain falls and puddles around her black flats. Usually she’s curled up on the worn upholstered chairs, lost in a book and tangled up more than a yogi. Usually those blue eyes of hers are hard, and the same with the line of her lips. But in the rain, all of that melts away to gentleness. I think there’s even a hint of a smile, and that shores up my courage to have a conversation with her, maybe even get her number like I’ve been wanting to do since second semester began a few weeks back.
I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet—to try to give a part of myself away again—but if my new frat brothers have anything to say about it, I need to leave my room and stop reading so much. It’s probably easier for them to have a social life when they haven’t buried their hearts back at home. I’m just the frosh asshat trying to make the best of the sharp learning curve of being in college, caring enough to get to class on time, and keeping my nose out of trouble so I don’t break probation.
People say it is what it is. This is what it is for me—a day, an hour, a minute at a time of relearning who I am again after the accident last year, of learning how to live for someone who isn’t here anymore.
Reagan comes through the door and peels off her raincoat, shaking it off as she walks behind the library checkout counter, books piled high to be reshelved and sorted for holds. She left the glimmer of someone brighter at the threshold; she’s back to being stormy, being rough at all her edges, and surrounded by her armor of choice—books. She glances up to the steady drip from the ceiling beside an old wooden beam a few feet away, following the water as it plummets into a janitor’s bucket, and frowns.
My hand flexes at my thigh. She’s wearing thick-framed glasses, a flower-printed dress, and ballet flats with bows. I’m jeans and tattoos and piercings, the taste of bourbon from my coffee still biting my tongue. I have a long juvie record and I bet she’s never missed making honor roll. We’re from different planets. Well, all except how she slips away to get lost in a book. It takes someone who loves words to recognize that in someone else—in how reading is the most addictive escape from reality.
It makes me wonder what she needs to find between those lines.
She stands behind the counter, already lost inside a book in front of her as she waits for a student to check out. She peeks up at the water dripping, then loops her index finger around a string of deep brown hair and twirls it mindlessly before flipping the page. Her eyes scan the lines, slowly at first, then quicker as the page draws to the end, then flicks to the next with her purple nails.
“Hi,” I say, nervously tossing my book onto the counter.
Beneath her pilled gold cardigan, her shoulders stiffen. Reagan stuffs a rabbit-eared bookmark into the chapter then spreads her arms out over the counter, leaning forward as she assesses me. Her long bangs frizz over the top of her glasses, but I’m stuck staring at her mouth that glistens with fresh lip gloss. “Noah, right?”
I nod while taking the student ID out of my wallet. I toss it onto the counter as well, tracing over the words I’ve practiced in my head since I stumbled on her reading in the back corner of the library in October, quietly humming. I fell recklessly for that girl, even if I don’t deserve her.
Reagan scans the book, then my ID, and hands both back to me while the library slip prints out. “You read a lot.” The water switches from a steady drip to a double-time beat in the bucket.
I gesture to the book in front of her. Her hands move over its cover, the cover of my book actually, as if she’s itching to fall back into those words once more. “I’d say the same about you.”
She shrugs, sliding the slip of paper over the counter. Her eyelashes brush against her glasses as she gazes down. Citrus perfume clings to her, mixed with the smell of fresh rain and ink. Our fingers touch, briefly, just long enough for the world to end and my heart to stop beating. Her deep sapphire eyes flick up to meet mine, then cut away—a declarative end to whatever sentence was about to be written between us. She slowly pulls her hand back and traces her collarbone in a nervous arc with her fingertips. “Well…”
“I was thinking,” I start. The rest of my thoughts die out when she looks back up at me, her tongue sweeping over her lips. I wish there wasn’t a damn counter between us. I wish I could put words to the quiet pull between us. “Would you want—”
Woosh.
The ceiling plaster seeps open to a softball-size hole, exposing the roof and sky above. Shingles and plaster plummet down over the bookcases as the water rushes in and pools over the worn teal carpet. Reagan holds her hand up, her eyes full of apology as she races around the counter to the drenched bookshelves. Apologies, far too new for something that never had a chance to start. Whatever that was that just happened.
My new best friend, Beau, strolls in earlier than we agreed on last night after I helped out at hockey practice. He waves at me, yelling as if he’s going to save the day, and jumps up onto the bookshelf, holding the bucket while Reagan tosses the books to a line of students who pass them over to an empty library table.
And I’m frozen, watching Beau do something I can’t—he makes Reagan smile as they get drenched from the rain. She laughs as he pulls her up onto the counter with him, their feet splashing in the puddles, their mouths etched with a feeling I haven’t felt in years.
She was nothing, then everything. And as I stood trapped in my past, she made a future with Beau. A week later, they start dating and I’m stuck being third wheel.
Chapter One
Reagan
Two years later
Icy water seeps into my flats as I rush across the Sutton College campus, ducking under trees along the stone paths while the Portland rain picks up into a downpour. The water hits the back of my neck,
then slides down the slope of my spine, unforgiving in its January chill. I shiver, checking my phone for the time.
I tuck the folder of page dummies for the student newspaper into my coat, then make a run for the Little Building, out from beneath the shelter of the line of old oak trees. I’m in my senior year and still don’t understand why it’s called that since it’s the tallest one on campus, a huddled collection of brick buildings that look as though they belong more in Amsterdam than here. Not that I’ve been. I’ll be lucky if I ever get as far as New York.
I push through the heavy front door and hand over my ID to the student behind the stained counter plastered with memos and reminders. As usual, the guy doesn’t look at me. He’s too busy checking out Reddit on his laptop and drinking a Red Bull. His headphones hang around his neck, blaring some New Age indie, almost making up for the ridiculous neon green tie he’s wearing just to be ironic. The Sutton College student population mostly consists of a generation who believe they’re all special snowflakes.
I roll my eyes as he hands over my ID, then race up the old marble steps, thankful for the iron treads that stop me from falling on my face in front of everyone pouring down the narrow staircase after class. I’m pushed and shoved, and because I’m a bitch, I shove right back and make my way to the small office of The Sutton Tribune.
I shudder as I step into the windowless room, waterlogged and a little underdressed for the cooler day. I didn’t have the money to do laundry this week so I had to break into my summer clothes. Leggings can only do so much with a summer dress to keep you warm.
“Oh, no, it’s you,” says Josh, one of the paper’s three copy editors. For a junior, he looks about thirty with his beard and plaid vest. He pushes back in the wheelie chair, forcing his eyes to bug out for effect as though I’m Attila the Hun.
I toss down the folder of copy filled with red pen edits. Morgan laughs behind Josh, filling her mouth with a handful of M&Ms. “Yeah, it’s me. Where is everyone else? I can’t stick around today to hold all of your hands.”
Morgan sticks her tongue out at me, then ducks her mousy-brown head to focus on her laptop, thoroughly invested in pretending to write her column that was due yesterday. She hasn’t figured out the meaning of deadlines yet, but this is just another way to keep busy for me. As editor-in-chief, I take pride in the paper, but not as much as the literary magazine I started freshman year. Ampersand even won an award last year, perking up my résumé enough that I might actually have a shot at scoring a publishing job in New York City this summer. That’s the dream anyway.
“Don’t be too mad at me, Reagan. I have a job for you if you’re still looking for extra money.” Josh bends down and digs through this backpack, ruffling through papers and notebooks until he finds a small slip of paper. “He said he needs a tutor for English or poetry or something. Anyway, I don’t have time so I told him someone would meet him at Zola this afternoon.”
I don’t really have the time to take on private tutoring either. I already tutor in the student center as part of my campus job. And when I’m not there, I’m either working at the library or at the Zola Bookstore off campus. “This just says ‘Nick. Dumb jock.’”
Josh shrugs. “I was in a rush when he called.” Morgan snickers behind him, rustling her M&M package to dig out the last few.
“Tutoring shouldn’t be a blind date.” I crumple the paper up.
“You have an hour to decide. He’ll be at the bookstore at two.” Josh readjusts his vest, then settles back into his desk chair, combing over more articles for this week’s edition of the paper. “And besides, when was the last time you were on a date?”
Connor strolls in next, followed by the rest of the newspaper team, saving Josh from my wrath. By the way they all waltz in, chatting about their plans or complaining about their hangovers from the weekend, you’d never guess the paper was due to our advisor in five hours.
My phone vibrates, and I ignore it, opening the folder instead to hand out the edits to everyone.
“I get that it’s the start of the new semester, but everyone’s writing this week sucked. We can do better.” Someone muffles a laugh, and I snap my attention up, scanning the room. I get it. I do. I’m Reagan Landry, the bitch. I’m the girl everyone loves to hate. It’s not news to me. “So get it done,” I say, ignoring the sinking feeling in my stomach as Morgan whispers to Josh about grabbing pizza later. I get passed over again.
Connor salutes me, getting a chuckle out everyone.
My chest tightens. “Okay, well, if you have questions, you have my number. I need to—”
“Get lunch?” Josh jokes.
Tuesdays are free lunch days if you know how to sneak into the conference room in the Little Building from the side door. The Kappa Sigma fraternity hosts a speaker from the community and the sandwiches are killer.
I ignore the dig. “You know what has to get done.” I don’t bother saying goodbye, they’re already talking to themselves and I wouldn’t get more than a mumbled response anyway. Tessa, my coworker from Zola, told me once I scare people, but I think I just don’t fit in. I’ve never found my place here at Sutton or even at the bungalow where I rent a room. Portland is another temporary home in a long list of places I’ve lived. At least here I’ve had a roof over my head for most of the last five years.
Two floors down, I try pulling on the conference room door handle, only to find it frozen in place. I yank it again, this time feeling an equal amount of force from the opposite side. I let go and step aside as the door cracks open to darkness. I step inside, colliding with another body. Two objects in motion do not stay in motion, but they sure do swear enough.
“What the fuck, Landry?” A voice asks in a stage whisper.
Behind the wall of muscle I’ve run into is a man on stage giving a speech about social responsibility to a room full of frat brothers. And somewhere to the left of this brawny chest lies my lunch.
“Out of the way, Noah.”
He pushes the sole of his Converse against the door to allow a slip of light to wash over his face, his eyebrow piercing flashing bright. In that fluorescent sliver, my breath catches, my eyes settling on the British crown tattooed across his throat. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m really hungry or the fact that he surprised me, but running into my ex’s best friend—literally—shouldn’t leave me staring into his eyes as if I’m going to drag him into a dark corner and kiss him until our lips are numb.
It’s a familiar feeling. One that sneaks up at the worst times. Two years ago, I was a girl busy in her own world who would catch sight of a boy who hid away in books while I was working at the library desk. Two years ago I thought this guy in front of me was shy, maybe even a little lost like me. Now he’s just an asshole who makes himself too comfortable at my apartment and eats all my food.
Even if he does have whiskey eyes.
Even if I want to trace my fingers over the shadow of honey-colored scruff lining his jaw.
Even if I want to feel the hair he keeps tucked under that gray beanie of his.
And that’s bullshit.
“Are you trying to blend in?” He grins, pointing to my raincoat. “It’s pink.”
“Magenta, actually.”
The sound of his laugh is so perfectly Noah Burke—empty and rough. It’s that hollow roar the waves make at Cannon Beach as the water swirls around the base of the rocks. Noah steps aside, and I make a beeline for the sandwiches, excited that this week the turkey club has made its grand return.
I grab a sandwich off of the plastic tray and spin around, colliding into him. Again. My free hand snaps up, pressing against his chest so neither of us have to move closer. He’s muscled underneath his black Henley. That same current that buzzed between us two years ago shocks me again now. Feeling Noah against me, having him so close, sends a familiar but unwelcomed tide of lust over me.
I take a bite of my sandwich just to focus on something other than the way he’s staring down at me, his head tilted to the righ
t.
“Sutton has a decent cafeteria,” he says. “And our frat paid for those.”
I sidestep him, making my way for the door. I’ve spent most of my life looking for my next meal. I don’t need him telling me where to go. He towers over my short frame, closing behind quick as I skirt around him to get out the door. “The frat has excellent taste.” I’m halfway down the hall, my flats squeaking over the wet tiled floor when he catches up to me. I stop, sighing. “Don’t you have a frat thing to be at?”
“I’ve heard enough.” He tears into a sandwich of his own, matching his long stride to my renewed fast shuffle.
I think he looks ridiculous with that septum gauge through his nose. “Of course you have,” I mutter. “Just admit it, you didn’t understand any of the big words that speaker was using.”
That same empty laugh of his rings out again, echoing in the empty cream hallway, the fluorescent lights humming above. “Are you done with that?”
I stop, confused, until he swipes the rest of my sandwich and takes a large bite. “Wait, that was mine!”
“You’re right,” he says with a wink, “the frat has excellent taste.”
He checks his phone, then jogs off across the brick path to Sawyer Hall, leaving me with empty hands and an empty mouth where an insult should be. But I’m still stuck on the way his mouth crowded to one side as he winked at me.
I tug at my canvas tote over my shoulder and heave a sigh, ducking my head down to race out into the rain once more. Out into the gray. Out into a world where another minute is a minute longer without finding my sister. But maybe, just maybe, if this extra tutoring job works out, I’ll finally have enough to hire a private investigator to find her.
Noah
I can’t find a parking spot for my truck downtown because nothing in this city fits something meant for the ranches of Montana.
Three weeks into the new semester and my jackass academic advisor is forcing me into tutoring. I haven’t even adjusted from being back from break and already the “you’re smarter than this, Noah Burke” chorus has begun.
Anything More Than Now (Sutton College #2) Page 1
