Between Everything and Us

by Rebecca Paula

  After my failed attempt at being a freshman at an art school in Chicago, I don’t need any more distractions in my life. I don’t want to disappoint anyone again, not even myself. My time in Portland is going to be different

  I’m going to be different.

  My parents don’t comment on the art I have stacked against the wall or the painting I have on the easel by the window, but rather on the vivid orange stain set into the ratty carpet. If they look close enough, they’ll notice my rug is practically a palette. I always forget to screw the caps on my oil paints when I paint.

  “The Christmas lights and the tapestry could be a fire hazard,” my father says. I fight back the urge to jump on my bed and rip them off the wall to make him happy. My mother circles around the tiny room, studying the photos I have taped to the walls and the collection of orchids and African violets on the window ledge above my desk.

  “How’s Aubrey?” she asks, folding her hands in front of her. The dirty glasses perched on her nose don’t fight the image of her as an aging scholar. Give her a gown and a witch’s hat and she’d be the spitting image of Professor McGonagall.

  A floorboard creaks by the front door. I hold my breath, waiting to hear his voice, waiting for him to come strutting down the hallway to ruin my life. But the door closes and things go quiet.

  I relax, taking the first true deep breath of the morning, and check my phone again.

  “Who was that?” my mother asks.

  I grab my purse and the folder of work I need to drop off to my art professor for the open house. “My roommate,” I say, smiling now that I don’t have to lie. “We have twenty minutes before we have to be on campus. We’re meeting Aubrey there.” I extend my arm, ushering them out of my room, confident now that this morning might not be a total disaster.

  But my hands are still burning, and I can feel the hard pressure of his body against my palms. I can smell the bourbon on his breath, the motor oil staining his gray T-shirt. Can feel the rumble of his words against my skin.

  Damn stupid dimple.

  Beau

  My head’s still throbbing, and I’d be lying if I don’t admit that getting kicked out of the house has me spinning. I blame Mati.

  I decide to waste some time at the coffee shop by the house, close to campus. I hope to hell I don’t see anyone I know. Actually, bring ’em on. Let them line up so I can tell everyone off for once. I’m too hungover to care about their reactions. I’m tired of the rumors spreading about me.

  I rub my eyes to bring the coffee board into focus, but the words don’t clear up. I grin at the barista instead and ask her what’s good.

  “I don’t know.” She leans closer, circling her fingers over the countertop. Her long nails are filed into daggers. “What are you in the mood for, Beau?”

  Shit.

  “Coffee,” I say deadpan. “Medium, milk only.”

  She nibbles at her lip ring, eating me up with fuck-me eyes. “Boring.”

  Not news to me. “It’s what I like. How much?”

  She rattles off a price, and I pay, shaking my head in disbelief as she scribbles her number over my cup in three different spots.

  “In case you change your mind…or if you decide to remember me.”

  My hand pauses as I’m about to slip my credit card back in my wallet.

  “This summer…the party at Hunter’s garage.” Her smile widens at my lack of response. She slides her hands over the counter, arching her back to bring her boobs front and center. “The couch, upstairs.”

  I spent half the summer on that couch, and there had definitely been more than one party. I’ve got nothing, but I’m a fucking good liar. “I remember,” I say with a wink. “I’ll see you around.”

  My phone vibrates, saving me from any more awkwardness. I settle into a chair in the corner, tucked away from the rest of the busy coffee shop.

  “What do you want?” I answer.

  “Reagan says you’re a manwhore now,” my sister rushes out.

  I almost spew coffee over the small table.

  “Why are you talking to her? We broke up, Quinn.” I rub my brows, dying a bit inside that my baby sister wants to grill me about my sex life. Or lack thereof, not that many know that part. It’s easier to let people believe what they want and easier for me to pretend. “Time to move on, find someone else to talk to.”

  “Well, you broke up with her, but she’s still my friend. I like Reagan plenty.”

  Hearing the words like and Reagan in the same sentence isn’t a common occurrence. She’s a bit of a bitch, and she’ll be the first to tell you. She laughed in my face the first three times I asked her out freshman year. Still can’t figure out why I went back a fourth time.

  “That’s over. Now moving on…”

  “I worry about you,” my sister cuts in. “How are you feeling?”

  These words usually piss me off, but coming from Quinn, it’s a different reaction. I sink further into my chair and adjust the beanie on my head, eying the barista, who I should remember, as she points me out to another coworker.

  “I’m good, Q. No worries there. How’s school?”

  My sister starts a verbal barrage of teenage drama—who’s dating who, what this person said about another, something about a boy who likes her.

  Wait.

  “Stop there.”

  Quinn gives a nervous laugh. “He’s nice.”

  I bet he is. I try my best to not be an overprotective brother, but it’s hard when she’s in another country. I still think of Quinn as the annoying brat who tagged along when I played hockey with neighborhood friends. She always drank too much hot chocolate, and I’d have to leave early so she could go pee at the house. And then she’d whine about being too cold or not being able to join in. There was always something, anything, so I’d pay attention to her. And I did—still do—because she’s my kid sister and I adore her. Even if she is a pain in my ass.

  “Then tell me about him.”

  “No, it’s okay. You’re busy.”

  I’m busy doing nothing. I’d rather be in bed, but after Mati kicked me out, there’s no point in going back. I’d only sit in my room and get pissed about things.

  “I’m never busy for you, bug. Go on, tell me about him. What’s his name?”

  “I don’t like him or anything.” Her voice is shaky. It’s the damn cutest thing ever. “Ben’s in my chemistry class. We’re lab partners.”

  “Ben?” I want to write his name down so I don’t forget in case I need to fly up to Canada and beat him to a pulp for hurting my sister. I let her babble, though, let her continue with her declarations of not liking this boy when she clearly has a crush. “Wait.” I grab my phone to double-check. I wish the world would finally come into focus this morning. “It’s Friday. Why are you calling me? You should be in class.”

  The line goes quiet.

  I sit up in my chair, on edge. “What’s the matter?”

  “You have to promise not to tell Mom or Dad…”

  I hold my breath because, if I don’t, I’m going to sound exasperated. I’m not ready to sound like a parent. “Yeah, sure.” I don’t give her a chance to doubt that answer. “Tell me.”

  “It’s nothing, really. Only I got into a fight yesterday…”

  I’m torn between applauding and hopping on my bike to head for Vancouver.

  “Some of the girls at school have been teasing me. And they spread some rumors, and then Ben…”

  I wait. I have nothing but time, anyway.

  “Well, he heard and told me because he didn’t believe what they said. And then I confronted them and started yelling at one of the girls. She tried to hit me, but a teacher caught us. So I got written up and couldn’t go to class today.”

  “Holy fuck, Quinn, you got suspended?”

  “Well, I have some demerits, too, and I think they were trying—”

  “How many?”

  “A few.” Her tone is defensive, as expected. Since I’m no angel, I kee
p my mouth shut. “They were all for stupid reasons.”

  They probably were, but the point is that my parents pay a shitload for her to go this high school. I’m sure they know all about her suspension; they just don’t know how to deal with Quinn. They never did. She’s not a bad kid, only eerily smart. Like genius-Mensa smart. Her IQ at fourteen was 146.

  “Well, I’m glad you stood up for yourself, but next time talk to a teacher first or something, okay?”

  She sniffles over the line. I can imagine her tucking her rainbow hair back behind her ear. It’s a nervous habit, like how she chews on the ends of her sleeves. In a lot of ways, Quinn never grew up.

  “Ben won’t talk to me now. He says I’m too dramatic.”

  I’ve been nervously sipping my coffee throughout our chat to hold back what I want to say instead of what a good big brother should say. And now it’s nearly empty.

  “Give it the weekend. Everything will blow over.”

  “I miss your face, Beau. Come home.”

  “I have classes. I can’t.” I hate myself for lying to her. It comes so easy, too, but if I tell the truth, then my parents will be riding my ass soon about dropping out. I’m not in a rush for them to find out.

  “Fine,” she says with a pout. “I still miss you, though.”

  “Sure you do, pissant.” I take the last sip of my coffee and recline back into my chair. “I miss you, too.”

  “You do?” Her voice lights up.

  “Of course. But try to stay out of trouble, okay? I don’t need to be bailing you out of jail. I was hoping that could wait until you’re twenty. At least.”

  She ignores my teasing. “And you’re really okay? You promise?”

  I haven’t been lately. Not at all. I’m on the edge of slipping into another total relapse. My body doesn’t appreciate the way I spent the summer couch-surfing, out almost every night drinking. I’ve pushed my chances, and I think there’s going to be trouble soon. Hospital-worthy trouble. Crutch-worthy trouble. Or worse.

  But I don’t know for sure, either.

  I’m living my life on a clock where I can’t read the time. I don’t know when I’ll self-implode, only that it’ll happen at some point.

  Multiple sclerosis doesn’t care that I’m only twenty-two. I’d much rather pretend the day I woke up two years ago and couldn’t feel my legs never happened. I’ve tried my best to pretend that I haven’t been dizzy lately, unable to focus on things, confused.

  “I’m fine. Feel great, actually.” I head out to grab my bike at the house. I need to get out of this city, need to find some fucking air. “So no worrying.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Matisse

  I forgot about the false sense of security professors give you at the start of a semester. You read the syllabus the first day and think, Sure, I can totes handle this. Reality? I need a caffeine IV and someone to cram more hours into a day.

  I’m stuck at the coffee shop for the next four hours when I should be reading a million pages for history and starting a paper on color theory. My theory is that I’ll be passed out after this shift and have nothing finished before class tomorrow.

  “What can I get you?” I’m not in the mood to be personable. Especially not to some asshat who’s talking on his phone. I raise my eyebrows and ask again. When he holds up his hand, annoyed, I lose the thin thread of patience that comes with only three hours of sleep. “There is a line behind you, sir. If you’re not ready to order, then please step aside.”

  He lowers his phone and leans onto the counter. At first I back away because, hello, personal bubble. But then I actually snap out of my bad mood and realize the guy’s hot. Like “let’s make out now and forget everything” kind of hot.

  “Not a sir,” he says. The corner of his mouth curves up.

  No, he most definitely is not. I shake my head, ignoring the aggravated huffs behind him. I point to the sign in front of the register. “No calls while ordering, then…dude.”

  Dude? I’m such a loser.

  The person on the other end of his phone call is yelling. We both stare at each other, until I smother a laugh and he breaks away, running a hand through his short mahogany hair. He squints one blue eye closed, scanning the menu above my head.

  “Give me…” He looks down and smiles, then back up to the menu. “What’s good?”

  “It’s caffeine. It’s all good.”

  He shrugs, then grabs his phone and hangs up on whoever’s decided to chew him out. “Give me a latte with rice milk at 140, I guess.”

  “Name?” My tone is bored, even if I am intrigued.

  “Want my number, too?”

  Seriously? Just when I thought maybe I should keep talking to this guy he dives right into tired clichés? “Dick, it is.” I scrawl the word in caps across the cup, then pass it off, avoiding further eye contact. Jerk. “Next?”

  My charming customer skills reflect the sad lack of dating in my life perfectly. Hot guy tries to flirt, and I shut him down because I’m the most unromantic girl on the planet. I swear.

  Dick doesn’t leave. He claims a table for two by the window instead. He doesn’t touch his coffee, either, too busy quietly arguing on his phone again. I catch glimpses of him between orders. His shoulders are drawn down as if he has the weight of the world on them. A girl eventually strolls through the door, scans, and rushes over to Dick in her Uggs and fake-fur vest. She plops down in the chair opposite him, then grabs the coffee he has set in the middle of the table.

  “What are you doing?” Stephanie says, walking up beside me behind the counter. She’s a sophomore at Sutton and a much better barista than I am. I’ve been put on cashier duty until further notice since I broke the espresso machine last week.

  “Oh, nothing. Zoning out.” I scrub the counter again with the wet rag, trying to keep moving because, if I don’t, I’ll fall asleep.

  “Oh, I know him. He’s in a band. They’re good. I caught them at this dive bar a few weeks back.” Stephanie rests against the counter, studying me. “He’s cute, right? You should go talk to him.”

  I glance up in time to see Dick reach for the girl’s hand, the saddest look etched on his face when she draws away.

  I never get the chance to watch the rest unfold because it’s busy until my shift ends. I’m walking out of the break room, shrugging on my parka, when I spot him at the same table, scrolling through his phone.

  He spots me and stands, then walks over, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  I raise my eyebrows, waiting.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. I pull on my backpack. “About earlier,” he clarifies.

  “Not a problem.” I head for the door, curious why he’s following.

  “Bad day,” he confesses. “Bad…breakup.”

  The cooler air outside feels amazing after roasting in the coffee shop. I drag in a deep breath, waking up a bit. “Sorry to hear that.”

  And weirdly, I am. He’s a stranger, but there’s something about the way he watches me, the way he’s opening up, that makes me curious. I relax, pausing to listen. Something tells me he needs someone to listen.

  “It was a long time coming. Never should have moved in with her.”

  Suddenly I picture Beau, quietly moving in with his boxes, that smug smile of his stretched across his face when I ran into him as I stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but a ratty towel that barely covered my ass.

  “You’re roommates?” I ask. My voice catches. I haven’t talked to Beau since Parent’s Weekend last week.

  “We were.” Dick scratches the back of his neck. “I had to hand over my keys today.”

  That explains the awkward tension that hovered around their table.

  “Can I get you a coffee or dinner maybe?” he asks.

  I can’t tell if he’s hitting on me. I’m going with not. Something about him screams sincere. “Can’t, sorry. Flooded with homework tonight.”

  “You go to Sutton, too?”

  “Art major.” I shri
nk back a bit from my spot on the sidewalk. I’m an art major at a small liberal arts school when I could be in my junior year at one of the best art schools in the country. But mistakes landed me here, in the Oregon drizzle, spinning through life with no sign of a steady horizon in my future.

  “You sure I can’t get you a coffee? I feel shitty for being such a douche.”

  I smile but don’t answer. This is what got me in trouble last time—distractions.

  “Can I get your name at least?”

  I freeze when I glance up from the sidewalk and meet his earnest blue eyes.

  A knot tightens in my chest when I say, “I can’t. I really should go.” It’s what I’m supposed to say, but not what I want to do.

  “Sure, no problem.” He tugs on his jacket collar, unsure of where to look. “Well, sorry again. I’ll see you around, maybe?”

  I give him an awkward wave. “Hope your night gets better, Dick.”

  I’m walking toward the bike rack when I hear, “It’s Cole.”

  I smile the whole way back to the bungalow. Cole fits him way better.

  Beau

  “You don’t have to bang down my door, Mati. You can just ask. I’ll kiss you.” I rip open my bedroom door to find her standing there, a little flushed. Then I glance over her shoulder to the disapproving frown of my father.

  Shit.

  “I didn’t raise you to talk to a woman like that, Beau.”

  I swallow and nod. Fuck. “I was kidding,” I say, then peer down at Mati chewing on her bottom lip, her eyes darting from side to side, unable to meet mine. “Sorry.”

  She quickly nods. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Grady.” And before anyone can say a word, she sprints off to her room and shuts the door.

  That leaves me staring down the executioner himself.

  “You know why I’m here?” my father asks. He still has his work boots on and smells of oil and dirt. When I was younger, I always knew he was home when I got back from school because of these smells—of blood and sweat, of the man who drove me around British Columbia to hockey tournaments at five in the morning. As if I didn’t feel like a big enough jerk already.