by Lexi Whitlow
They nod.
Coffee—good coffee—can smooth over a lot of rough edges. Greg and Paul both brighten once the caffeine begins to kick in.
When Chloe finally shows we’re only fifteen minutes late to pick up the truck. Greg drives us in a ten-year-old Honda with its loud muffler and slipping clutch.
Her storage unit isn’t large, but it is full; mostly with boxes of books. She owns more books, I’ll wager, than ten average college juniors combined. Chloe is a reader. I’m not surprised.
With four of us working we clear the space in no time, loading the truck with boxes and bins. Two hours later, Chloe’s apartment is stacked with boxes of books, art supplies, and the balance of her few other Earthly possessions. It’ll probably take her a few days to sort through the chaos, putting the apartment together, but I for one, am glad she’s moved in.
“Are we done?” I ask.
Everyone nods.
“I’m starving,” I say. “Somebody said something about pizza.”
“On it,” Chloe replies, lifting her phone from her hip pocket, calling in an order for delivery.
I produce my wallet, handing Greg a twenty. “Keep the change if you go get us a twelve pack? You keep what we don’t drink.”
“Done,” Greg agrees beaming, digging for his keys.
“I’ll be back in fifteen.” He heads for his derelict Honda.
Chloe retreats to her apartment to survey the damage, while Paul and I linger on my front porch, waiting for pizza. He keeps his peace, considering me from a careful distance. The expression on his face tells me there’s a lot going on in his head. He doesn’t strike me as a bad guy. He cares for Chloe, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s a positive mark in his column. That said, I can tell by the way he’s circled around me all day, he either doesn’t know what to think of me, or he’s already decided to dislike me.
“So how did you and Chloe meet?” I ask.
His eyes turn to the shattered structure across the street where he and Chloe lived for at least two years. Today it’s an open-air, hulking skeleton. The bulldozers will be here on Monday to take it down to sticks and dust.
“We met at Freshman orientation,” Paul says. “Before our freshman year. Neither of us could afford the dorms, and since we were local we could pull off the ‘living at home’ rouse, without actually living at home.”
“You’re from Richmond?” I ask. This surprises me. He seems way more big city than Greg or any of Chloe’s other friends.
“I’m from Richmond,” he assures me. “I grew up on St. John Street, in the Projects.”
The Projects?
“Public housing?” I ask, eyebrows raised. I know most of that is east of town. I did my research. It’s rough. One of the highest crime rates in the country.
He nods, narrowing his eyes.
“I bet you have a story to tell,” I observe. “How’d you end up making friends with Chloe?”
He gives me a chilly smile. “She was the only one at orientation willing to offer a brother a place to sit in the dining hall. She didn’t treat me like I had a disease.” He lifts his head and looks around. “Chloe’s easy to love,” he says. “She’s been through a lot, so she’s decent to people. She knows what it is to hurt, to be hungry, alone, to be cold.” He levels his eyes on me. “So honestly, I have no idea what she’s thinking, hooking up with someone like you. You got ‘privileged white-boy’ tattooed across your forehead. It’s blinking, like a neon sign.”
That’s more than I anticipated and worse than I expected. And he’s already put together that we’re ‘together.’
“You’re right,” I admit. I can’t argue. “I’m the walking, talking, embodiment of everything you say. But, I’m more than that too.”
His expression screams, ‘enlighten me.’
“I met Chloe when she was thirteen. I was fifteen,” I say. “Her mother was headed to rehab and my mother was determined I was going to be some kind of boy-genius and take on the world. Chloe and I both wound up under the guidance of Guy Harvey, her father. We were just kids.”
I give Paul my most honest, ‘awe shucks’ smile. “I’ve been head over ass for her since I was fifteen-years-old.”
What’s he going to do with that intel?
He shakes his head, a grin wrapping his face. “I’m so sorry for you, bro,” he says. “Chloe’s too smart for that shit. Teenaged love is like a career as a curbside drug dealer. That shit doesn’t last. It dies young.”
He’s way too young to be that cynical, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.
A few moments later the pizza arrives. Chloe bounds out of her apartment, a fist held high with greenbacks. Not long after, Greg returns with cold beer.
The four of us pile in to the steaming, cheesy, banquet, chasing salty goodness with cheap, weak beer. No one speaks for a few moments, our hunger focusing us on the meal. Once the first pangs are sated, Greg looks up from his slice, addressing me.
“So, is it true you’re dating Liza Johnson? I heard that. It’s going around school. What’s that like?”
I nearly blow beer out my nose, choking on half-chewed pizza.
I glance at Chloe; she’s gone wide-eyed.
Paul smirks knowingly, then shifts his steely gaze across the street.
“That’s not true,” I say, swallowing. “Not at all true. Who said that?”
Greg shrugs. “I dunno. A couple people. It’s the latest rumor going around.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” I tell him.
He chuckles. “Liza’s not so bad,” he says. “A little uptight, but for an older woman, I’d do her.”
“You’re welcome to her,” I mutter under my breath.
“You’re such a pig, Greg,” Chloe observes coolly. “The thing is, even though she’s an ‘older woman,’ and therefore, in your opinion, must be desperate to get laid, she wouldn’t give you a second glance. Her standards are higher than you.”
Did she just give me a back-handed compliment?
Greg grins. “But not as high as yours, Chloe,” he says. “Rumor has it that Prince Harry is finally off the market, so I think you’re shit out of luck. You’re gonna die an old-maid.”
“Better an old maid than somebody’s last ex-wife,” she quips, licking pizza grease from her fingers.
Good to know how she views marriage. Her role models haven’t been great.
Greg rolls his eyes. “So bitter, Chloe. So bitter.” He puts the last crust of his pizza down, taking a slug of cold beer. He wipes his mouth and stands up. “This has been great. A pleasure, as always, serving you Miss Harvey, but I have to get to the studio and develop some film, make some prints.”
He winks at Chloe, and for a split-second I feel a twinge of jealousy tense my gut. Did they have something? Is she into him? Is that what all this banter is about? Then it occurs to me that half—more—of the guys at school are into her. And why wouldn’t they be? She’s smoking hot, confident, smart, and talented. They guys must sniff her in packs.
And yet she let me…
My cock stirs at the merest thought of her taste, her scent. I need to think about something else.
“I gotta get to school, too,” Chloe says. “I’m at the bar at five and I have to do all my contact sheets before work or I’ll never get the prints made by Monday. Plus, Professor Chandler wants hand-rendered marker comps for Design class; he hates computers.” She cuts her eyes at me, glaring, smirking. “And I still have to work on my lithos for printmaking.”
“Yeah, me too,” Paul says, taking his last bite.
“Can I give you a ride to school?” Greg asks Chloe. “I’m going straight there.”
Again, I feel that twinge prick at my gut.
“I’ve got some stuff to do at school, too,” I say, heading him off. “I’ll give her a lift.”
Greg and Paul both shoot an odd look in my direction. Greg shrugs. “Cool,” he says.
When the guys are gone and it’s just me, Chloe
, and a pile of empty pizza boxes, she lays me out with that adorable, judgy expression she can conjure from nowhere. “You’re turning into my personal chauffer service,” she says, teasing. “People will talk.”
“Let ‘em talk,” I reply boldly, grinning at her. “They’ve got nothing better to do than imagine things they wish they were doing themselves.”
She rolls her eyes. “You are such a bad influence.”
She gathers up the pizza boxes and walks around to the side yard, depositing them in the city bins. I love watching her walk, her long legs, clad in cut-off jean shorts, glowing golden in the sunshine. Those legs… wrapped around my shoulders…
She turns, raising her eyes against the sun, peering up at me. “I’ll go grab my stuff. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Driving to school, I feel emboldened. “I’ll make a deal with you,” I offer. “I’ll do your contact sheets while you work on comps for my class, and maybe when you get off work tonight…”
“I can’t,” she cuts me off sharp. “I’m straight to the studio tonight.”
Okay. Next tack.
“Dinner tomorrow?”
“I have to work,” she says.
Shit.
She turns to me, a pained expression marring her lovely features, a furrow etched across her brow. “Hayes, I… I just don’t have time… for a boyfriend-like thing. Or whatever it is that you want it to be. School comes first. It’s always going to be that way.”
I nod. I know this. But it still punches me in the gut like an un-gloved fist.
“No deal then, but I’ll still do your contact sheets.” I offer her my best, defeated smile. “Maybe at some point you’ll have a little time, and you’ll come knocking?”
She hauls in a deep breath, then releases a solemn sigh. “Manage your expectations,” she says. “I’m probably going to disappoint you.”
I reach over, slipping my hand around hers, threading my fingers into her fingers. “You can’t disappoint me unless you tell me to bug off. You set the pace on this, whatever this is. I’ll follow your lead. I know it’s… really complicated.”
Chloe Harvey is going to test every ounce of my resolve.
Chapter 11
Chloe
I forgot about the party.
It’s the first Saturday night in months that I haven’t had to close the bar. On the way home I was thinking about getting some study time in before much needed sleep. I’m caught up on everything, ahead actually, except for Art History which I’ve been struggling with since the beginning of term. Fall break starts in just a few days and Art History is my last mid-term exam. I need to ace it, or I’m going to wind up in low-C territory for the semester.
Hayes’ house is lit up like a Christmas tree. The music is loud. Despite the chill in the air, people are hanging around on the front porch, even spilling onto the sidewalk.
I knew about the party, but in the mid-term crush I blanked on it. I haven’t seen Hayes except in class for a few days. He’s been in a mood about Liza Johnson loading up his schedule with extra responsibilities. I think he’s also in a mood about us. We’ve been stealing time here and there, fooling around, but there’s so little time to go around. I think he’s losing hope, fearing I’m stringing him along. The truth is I’m exhausted and freaked out by the fact that all I can think about is him.
A couple times I fell asleep in his arms, and nothing in my world ever felt so safe or so good. Those moments are few and fleeting. I usually don’t get home from the studio until near dawn. He has meetings at eight in the morning most week days. I work at the bar every weekend. We’re lucky if we can steal a few hours together on a Saturday or Sunday morning, but over the last several weeks even that’s proved impossible because of the Faculty Show going up at the gallery, and the weekend hours he’s required to put in with the planning committee to get ready for it.
Tonight, I’m just going to chill. I’m going to go to Hayes’ party and try to stay awake, blow-off studying, and act my age, for once.
A keg is on the front porch with a circle of guys crowded around it. One of the guys pumps the keg, drawing a frothy beer into a standard-issue red cup. He hands it to me with a smile. His face is pink and his eyes glazed. By the look of him and his friends, they’ve been here awhile. I make my way through a crowd at the door, noting that the entire graduate school must be here. I recognize a lot of faces, but I don’t know many of them personally. Inside, I’m relieved to see friends; juniors and seniors from the design program, along with a few I know from printmaking and other art classes. There’s even a smattering of faculty present.
Mike Kraus from the library is in the corner with Bart Chamberlain, from ceramics. All the Design faculty are here, including Liza Johnson, who’s holding court like a queen with a group of grad students. I don’t see Hayes, but I do see Paul. He’s in the hallway talking to a guy I recognize from the painting department.
I’m not big on loud, boisterous parties. I feel exposed, especially on my own. I beeline toward Paul, who sees me coming and grins, holding out an arm. He’s got a good buzz on, just like everyone else in the room. He hugs me and pulls me close.
“I didn’t think you’d make it. You never come to parties!”
He introduces me to his friend and I quickly realize I’m the third wheel in their pre-hook-up exploratory chat. I squeeze his hand, kiss him on the cheek, and tell him I’m going to mingle. Instead of mingling—which I don’t know how to do—I hunt for Hayes. He’s not in the living room. I check the dining room and kitchen; not there either. There’s another keg on the back porch with a crowd of students loitering around it, spilling into the back yard in clusters of three and four. He’s not in the yard or on the porch.
Maybe he’s upstairs?
I mount the staircase, headed up, hearing laughter from rooms above. When I turn the corner at the top of the steps, I see Hayes. He’s in his office, sitting on the stool at his drawing board, his open laptop behind him. There’s a girl, I think a grad student from the painting department, with her hand on his knee. She leans into him, laughing. He’s wearing a smile too; that heart-breaking smile that just lights up the whole room.
He’s got a drink in his hand. It’s a glass filled with something brown and certainly stronger than beer and a glow on his cheeks that tells me he’s worked up a solid buzz. The boy can hold his alcohol; if he’s glowing, he’s had a lot of it.
He says something. I can’t hear what. The girl laughs again and then leans into him, pouring herself over him. He doesn’t move a muscle to put more space between them. In fact, he seems to be enjoying the attention. The girl slips her free hand up to his head, threading her fingers through his hair at the back of his neck. She leans down, about to kiss him. That’s when he sees me.
He stiffens, blinks, and pulls away from the girl, his expression frozen.
The sound of the music in my ears subsides to a dull, throbbing drone. My vision narrows. My heart beats hard and fast.
I need to get out of here.
Before it even registers with me what I’m doing, I’m on the stairs, racing down.
“Chloe!” I vaguely hear him call from behind. “Chloe, stop!”
I keep moving away. I make the first floor and am paces from the crowd pinched tight at the door when Hayes catches my arm, swinging me around.
“Chloe, please,” his tone pleading, his eyes glazed, liquid with drink. “Please don’t go. You’re… you’re early, I didn’t expect you…”
“Obviously,” I snap back at him. I feel eyes upon us. People are looking, wondering what’s going on. He’s still got his hand wrapped around my arm. I snatch it away.
I’m hurt and angry. I don’t know which emotion to give vent to.
His eyes are cluttered with confusion.
“She’s just a friend,” he says. “It’s not what you think. It’s not what it looked like.”
More eyes on us now. The din of conversation surrounding us drops to hushed murmur.
/> “Right. Grow the fuck up, Hayes. Your adolescent boy is showing.”
I turn on heel to go, but don’t get a step further because he grabs me again, this time with force. He steps into me, pulling me to him, his arms coming around, his hand at my back. Then, before I even know what’s happened, he lays a deep, open mouth kiss on me, leaning into it.
I can taste the Scotch he’s been drinking. His scent sweeps up into my nostrils. I can’t breathe.
Everything goes quiet, even the music. A moment before it was loud and jarring—now it recedes into the background.
Oh shit. Oh no.
When he finally breaks off, he barely pulls back. Just far enough to level me with a glowering expression.
“Is that grown up enough for you? Or you want further demonstration of my maturity?”
Oh fuck.
The room is dead quiet. Every eye in the place is on us.
He just outed us in front of the whole school.
I manage to shove him away, escaping his grasp, stumbling backwards into a cluster of stunned grad students, sniggering at the show. Behind him, the girl from upstairs comes down slowly, her long bare legs flashing in the light. Liza Johnson rises from her center-court position in the main room, moving in our direction.
Hayes isn’t seeing anything – except me. He’s in a tunnel, his expression charged, waiting for a response.
“Jesus, Chloe. Say something. You’re killing me. You know that?”
Just then, Liza reaches Hayes’ side. Her hand falls to his forearm. The touch is nearly intimate.
He turns to the distraction, as if momentarily roused from his stupor, and seeing her, his expression darkens to rage.
I bolt. I shove through the scrum at the door and fly down the steps. I break into a run as soon as I hit the sidewalk, and I don’t stop. I run until my breath slices like broken shards in my lungs. Until my feet scream from the torment of running in cowboy boots. I run until I look up and don’t recognize where I am.
When I stop, the streets around me are dark and oddly vacant. The houses are small, tightly packed, with iron bars on their windows, spray-painted tags on the brickwork. The street is roughly patched, dimly lit. Ahead are empty lots and squat warehouses. Nothing looks familiar. I cast around for street markers.
