Class is cancelled this morning, which was a mere act of intervention because I don’t have a paper to hand into my humanities teacher. I spent the weekend driving back to Montana after my dad called to say there was a problem with Isla.
I was living parallel lives now. From the moment I set foot on campus, I was living another person’s dream. I move through the days, trying to keep my head above the water, trying to keep out of trouble, trying to stay sober enough to deal with what Portland demands of me. Most days, I think I succeed at fooling everyone into believing I’m there and not somewhere else in my head, hating myself for what I left behind in Montana, berating myself for the things I’ve stolen from the ones I love, and crushing what little hope I had of happiness. I have a habit of writing stories in my head, in pretending to have another life instead of being present in mine. Being present is some bullshit. Like life is an actual gift. I’m here and shouldn’t be. It’s been that simple for a long time now.
Since I’m technically on deadline, I need to be sneaking in some writing. It’s not like I’m going to win an award for student of the year. It’d help if I actually did the reading and homework assignments, it’s just that while the rest of Sutton College groans about schoolwork and balancing one part-time job, I’ve lived years beyond them. It all seems petty and a waste of my time for a piece of paper I don’t even care about.
Except, I do care about it. Kind of. In getting my diploma, I’d be proving everyone wrong who’s given up on me along the way. I’d be showing my father I could do more than get into trouble. I’d be showing my mother that I could be a writer just like she always wanted, with a degree from her alma mater.
I stretch over my bed, staring up at the empty ceiling as the noise from the rest of the frat house echoes through the paper-thin walls. I haven’t seen Reagan since that night in the kitchen a week ago, but I’ve dreamed of the way she held her breath as I stood close, at how she draws into herself in anticipation. It’s the hottest fucking thing to watch Reagan slowly spin out into a girl of blood and bone instead of a wolf.
My phone rings and I answer, desperate not to give any more time to thoughts about Reagan.
“So you don’t answer emails but you answer your phone,” comes the voice on the other end.
I should have just let my thoughts spiral out of control and let the shame of jerking off to the memory of Reagan lie claim to me. It wouldn’t be the first time. Now my agent has me cornered.
“School’s been busy.” I sit up, clearing my throat, trying hard to forget the memory of Reagan’s perfume. I stand, stretching my hands until they brush against the ceiling. “But I got your emails, Amy.”
“We need to start promo for your next release. The publicist should be contacting you soon to arrange everything. And in the meantime, I really need your next draft before you send it over to your editor. I might have notes to make on it and—”
My desk chair spins as I kick it clear across my small room. It collides into my closet doors, which shudder and sound like a knock. “Yep, soon. Listen, I really need to get to class.”
“Do you need an extension, Noah?”
“No, I’m going to make it all work. But I’m going to be late for class…”
“Get back to my emails then, will you? I don’t want to have to keep hunting you down. I think we need to have a serious conversation soon about your pen name. I think it’s a real missed opportunity for you not to come forward with these books. Especially with the movie option on the table for One Way Out. I think it’d help a lot of kids to know—”
I cut her off with a short “Bye.” We’ve had that conversation one too many times. If people want to idealize Asher Stone, they’re free to, but if they knew it was actually me? Well, that’d change everything. I’m no saint, definitely no role model. And now I’m failing out of school because I don’t have things under control like I should. Junior year is going to be my last if I can’t get my head out of my ass and figure out how to move forward instead of just fucking things up.
The frat house is a massive old craftsman mansion, its white siding now grayed and missing in patches. The yard is filled with furniture and empty beer cans. The beer pong table from last night’s party with the sorority house across the street is still littered with half-filled Solo cups, others knocked over and blowing back and forth like tumbleweeds of the college experience. There’s almost twenty of us who live here, another eight who don’t technically live here but do. Free beer usually doesn’t scare anyone away from a potential fire hazard. I’m one of a few who have their own room. That’s probably for the best since I’m not a fan of roommates.
There’s always a lot of noise here, and some days it makes writing hard. I don’t have much privacy even with my own room because everyone just invites themselves in. But there are advantages to the frat, too, like the endless distractions when I want to get lost from myself for a while.
Like the game of beer pong I stumble upon after I hang up from speaking with Amy.
The white Ping-Pong ball whizzes over my shoulder and collides into a living room wall plastered with posters of John Belushi and some almost naked Maxim girls. Ben, president of Kappa Sigma and really the only frat brother I get along with, raises his hands into the air.
“Where’s your focus, Burke? I’m crushing you.”
I laugh, chucking the ball back at the line of beer cans by his side. “Apparently I’m at a handicap. You have the advantage of not having morning classes today.”
Shit, classes. I toss the paddle onto the table and wave to Ben, running up to my room to grab my keys and wallet. Reagan’s going to chew me a new one for being late. I hop into my truck and call to apologize/get my ass chewed out for being late. Instead, I’m surprised when another voice answers her phone.
*
Twenty minutes later, I’m turning the corner at the dentist’s office when I see Reagan, her mouth stuffed with gauze, blood dried at the edge of her mouth, after getting her wisdom teeth removed.
“I don’t need anyone to bring me home,” Reagan says, her words lost between the wads of gauze. “I’m standing, right? I can go home on my own.”
That’s the thing about Reagan—she’s full of fire not because she is spirited, but because she wants to watch the world burn.
I don’t owe her anything. Yet, here I am. A knight in Converse to take her home since she refuses to call anyone else. I step farther into the office. “I have to take you home, Reagan.”
“Oh you, not you.” She waves her hand, shooing me. Her eyes are unfocused as she attempts to glare at me. “Go away. I’m just going to make a run for it.” She points to the hygienist. “Just don’t tell her. They took my teeth. They’re mean.”
“Sure thing, Four Eyes. Stay put for a sec.”
I sign her out with the receptionist and get her into the truck—well, pull her into my truck because her hand and eye coordination isn’t great on painkillers. Her voice isn’t either as she tries to sing along to the radio.
“You’re a bad idea.”
I glance over to her, checking my mirrors before I slip into the left lane and stop at the light. “Why’s that?”
“I know a juvie record when I see one.”
“Maybe you should stop talking. It’ll hurt less,” I say, not speaking entirely about her teeth. I drive her to the bungalow and help her out of my truck, ignoring how she leans against me so perfectly that she fits into a space I swear is just for her.
“I’m fine, Noah…Burke. They ripped my teeth out but I’m A-OK. They kept telling me no, but I’m totally—”
She yanks herself out of my grip, then pukes over my shoes the minute we step inside.
“Yeah, you’re totally fine,” I say, chucking my shoes out the front door. I lead her around the acrid pile of puke and guide her into the bathroom downstairs in the bungalow, propping her up on the edge of the bathtub. She slips a bit over the narrow porcelain.
“You need nicer shoes anyway.” Reag
an weaves, her heading tilting side to side while I grab a washcloth from the closet. “I can do this myself.” She grips the tub, then bends forward. “You took out your nose.” She draws back, weaving a bit. “I mean your piercing.”
I’ve known her two years and this is the most wasted I’ve ever seen her, and that’s a good thing. The girl is a mess. “Don’t touch,” I say, bending down to straighten her up. I pull her hands away from her cheeks, afraid that I might hurt her. “You can’t touch your cheeks, got it?”
She nods, then groans. “I feel like shit.” She leans around me, at least making into the toilet this time.
It’s another hour before I get her settled into her bed with something cold to drink and some ice cream. My favor is finished, or so I think.
“You’re leaving?” she asks. It’s even harder to understand her with her face sandwiched between two ice packs.
“Yeah, I have to buy some nicer shoes.” I sit on the edge of her bed and take a steadying breath.
“I like your nose better now.” She swipes her index finger under my nose where my piercing used to be. I got sick of looking at it last night and took it out. “I like your mouth too.” She lays her hand over my knee. “I was kidding about the shoes, asshat.”
“I’m not. You puked all over them.”
Reagan rolls her hips away from me and pats her hand over the mattress. “She left me, you know.”
“Who?”
She tries to tug me further onto the bed but I don’t budge. We’re not crossing that line. I’m not sleeping with Reagan. I didn’t think I’d have to deal with changing bloody bandages or puke either, but she’s full of surprises like that.
She’s quiet for a bit, then makes a soft sound as though she’s crying. “I have a sister, Noah, and she’s missing. I bet you didn’t know that.”
I hate how Reagan has been drifting in and out of lucid thought. Just when I think she’s okay, she says something that makes me think she’s not entirely here with me. Dreams and secrets—our shadowed pasts—are better left unspoken.
That doesn’t stop me from climbing onto the bed though, or how she rests against my side and insists I read her something. Instead as she drifts off to sleep, I break my own rule and tell her about a boy who fell in love in a library with a girl who hated the world.
Reagan
I text Noah to meet me at Zola later that week once I can talk again and keep some food down. I haven’t seen him since I puked over his shoes, which is probably for the best. I don’t remember much from that afternoon but I have this vague memory that I liked him being around more than non-painkilller me would like to admit.
He walks into the bookstore, the sun to his back, and somehow commands my attention. His hair is tucked under a beanie. His skin is still somehow tan from last summer. He’s honey and whiskey and such a hipster that I should want to jump from my seat and run out the door. But I stay put, drawing my focus back to my book, trying to erase his lips from my memory.
“You don’t look like a chipmunk now, so that’s good.”
I flip him off, never looking up, even as he laughs. I find myself trying to cover up a smile. “How are the shoes?”
Noah sits down opposite me and kicks his feet up onto the table, showing off a new pair of Converse. “They’re decent.”
I can’t believe he’s wearing a cardigan. More importantly, I can’t believe he actually looks good wearing one with a T-shirt. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about him…
“Okay, where’s your paper?” I hold my hands out onto the table and stretch. I’ve been holed up in the bookshop all day shelving new releases before his appointment.
“Wow, right to business. You were so chatty the last time we were together…”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Well, I was on painkillers. I can’t be held responsible for that.”
“Or my shoes.”
I lean back into my chair and sigh, spotting the girls at the counter watching the two of us with way too much interest. “Fine, I’m sorry I never thanked you for helping out—”
“It’s fine—”
“—but I totally could have handled that on my own.”
He runs his hand over his mouth, attempting to hide a smile or maybe stop the laugh flowing from his throat, but either way, I find myself wanting him to move his hand so I can watch his lips. “You’re unfuckingbelievable. Has anyone ever told you that, Landry?”
I shrug, biting my lower lip and focusing again on my book. “We should…”
“How about something to drink?”
I point to my coffee on the table. “I’m set. Stop wasting time.”
Noah raps his knuckles against the table, then stands. It’s a struggle to keep my eyes on the book, especially as he leans forward and whispers, “It’s not wasting time if it’s something you want.”
He slides his paper over to me, then leaves to order a coffee.
“So, what’s wrong with me now?” he asks as soon as he returns.
Besides enrolling in the most conceited, MFA-type of English class offered at Sutton College, I can’t answer that. I honestly can’t figure out why he’s even in tutoring. Noah understands how to write; copy editing is another story. His understanding of the abstract is where I begin to understand his confusion. It’s hard for a realist to pick apart the world.
“This is confusing.” I underline a sentence dissecting the theory of modern poetry. “You can like the language of poetry all you want, but how does that relate to the modern world? You need to be focusing on that argument. The dissected structure is what works so well.”
He rounds the table and sits beside me, reading over what I’ve underlined with my red pen. His thumb plays over the lip of his coffee cup, his brows drawn in focus. And again, I’m left questioning all my life decisions.
My face warms, and I shift in my seat. “Did you remember to bring the money?”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded envelope. My name is scribbled across the front. I fight back the urge to trace the long swoop to the capital R, giving my name more significance then it deserves.
“Poetry is language, Rea,” he continues, pulling me away from the money on the table. “That’s why you read it and it makes you feel something. Words and language I think are two different concepts. It’s why there are great poets and shitty ones. They can take the ordinary in this world and make it…”
I roll my eyes. So maybe he’s not a realist, but I sure as hell wouldn’t have pegged him as a romantic. “I’m a lit major and I think you just made me throw up in my mouth a little bit.”
“That’s a first. Usually it’s my shoes.” I elbow him, and he laughs. “You don’t understand though, do you?”
“I get it just fine. But I’m talking about your paper. Your argument has nothing to do with what the actual mechanics of poetry mean to the modern reader.”
Noah thinks about what I said, tapping his pen over the tabletop to a jittery beat. When he doesn’t say anything, I take a sip of coffee and focus on reading his revised paper again. His hand stops mine as I circle back on a sentence, about to comment on his annoying habit of relying on dangling modifiers.
“Why did you decide on Portland?”
“I like the rain,” I admit without pause. It has something to do with the way he drops his voice to a husky whisper, how his thumb skims the back of my hand in a slow, burning sweep. It’s a move that shows interest, that shows he’s invested…it’s beyond a flirtatious touch. And if I’m honest, it leaves me with a knot in my stomach.
“Didn’t you grow up in Florida? It doesn’t rain there?”
I’ve decided that we’re really good at reading between the lines. I’ve also decided that when he looks at me—and I mean looks—wherever I go in my head to push people away crumbles. And then it’s just me and him, those burning eyes of his searching for an answer he trusts I have hidden away.
“It’s temporary there. Here it’s…”
He licks his lips, intent. “What? The rain’s like what here?”
I lean close, closer to him, closer to his mouth. “It’s promised. It’s a sure thing. And it lasts.”
“There’s your poetry, Rea.”
*
I only have a few hours free today, so Greg agreed to meet me at Zola after tutoring Noah. It helps to be somewhere familiar, but still scary when the guy who’s supposed to find your heart strolls up looking nothing like you expected.
I grab a table tucked away in a corner in the back of the shop, and am anxiously scribbling over my coffee cup as Greg approaches. Instead of the GI Joe silver fox I pictured, I’m approached by a dollar-store version of Jon Hamm dressed in jeans and a blazer. A pair of expensive sunglasses hang above the top button of his crisp dress shirt, his shoes polished and buffed.
We skirt through introductions and dive straight into business.
“We’ve talked briefly about everything over the phone, but I find it helps to meet in person and go over the details, find out a bit more about the involved parties.”
I nod, wringing my hands in my lap. The last time I did this, I was a sophomore and that guy basically ripped me off. Or that’s what I want to believe. It’s hard to think that someone you love is no longer around, or worse yet, doesn’t want to be found. It’s harder yet to be the one left behind.
I proceed to tell Greg everything, opening myself up as though I have a knife to my wrist. One breath I’m closed off, the next I’m the sixteen-year-old girl who woke up under a bridge without her sister beside her.
Chapter Three
Reagan
It’s cold in my room upstairs, but I’m too stubborn to turn the heat higher and break my utility budget for the month. I shiver, flipping another page of Cosmo while I sit twisted up in my desk chair. The second draft of my senior thesis sits off to the side of my desk, waiting to be edited, along with the reading due for my contemporary German literature class flagged with my notes, and the story submissions for Ampersand waiting to be read.
Anything More Than Now (Sutton College #2) Page 3
