Between Everything and Us

by Rebecca Paula

  This is her mistake, though. In prying for an answer, I know that what I’m about to do is exactly what she doesn’t want. Mati thinks she wants me to drop the name game, but if I do, that’s one less reason she can hate me, and I’m starting to suspect that list is growing short.

  “I have a name.” Her voice falters. “Use it.”

  Mati blinks a beat that mirrors my suddenly speechless mouth. I should be an asshole. She wants me to be an asshole. That’s expected, and Mati only wants to live what’s planned out.

  But I don’t.

  I tap my fingers over the counter, then slowly say, “Mati, can I have the sugar?”

  The sugar skates across the counter, the sound of glass scraping across the chipped laminate almost covering the surprised inhale Mati sucks in. She doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t look at me, either. Only dashes for the hallway as though I started a fire in the kitchen.

  Matisse

  I’m skirting a party in a crowded apartment like a coyote with rabies—pathetic and on the verge of social death. I don’t know anyone here except Stephanie, who’s the only reason I came. She’s opening in the morning and forgot her keys. I told her I’d drop them off after closing.

  That ten-page paper for my humanities class, those chapters I need to read for French, the extra hour of sleep I could’ve possibly grabbed, wait for me at home. I try calling her again, but she doesn’t pick up.

  I scan the crowd, not surprised when I spot a pompadour and Ray-Bans.

  Beau never stays within the lines. He’s not just my roommate; he moves through Portland as if it’s his city, as though all the people at this party are his best friends, as if he invented beer pong, even. He’s that drop of water that runs and seeps into the paper, smearing the other watercolors until they’ve run wild as well.

  I don’t notice that I’ve stopped to watch Beau roll a white Ping Pong ball over the back of his hand until someone bumps into me. The beer I grabbed when I walked in runs down my hand and seeps into my skinny black jeans. Beau stretches his left arm behind him, then tosses the ball over his head. It doesn’t seem very coordinated, and it sure as hell doesn’t look like it’s going to land in the only two cups remaining for the opposing team.

  Team.

  I blink again, piecing together that Beau is battling solo against a group of girls. My stomach sinks when he grins at them, then leans back to say something to another girl behind him. It’s too noisy to hear what, but like always, he’s won over everyone in the room. She curls her hand over his shoulder and nuzzles against his ear for her reply.

  The ball splashes in the cup on the left. He raises his hands into the air, then swings them down to point directly at me.

  I choke on my beer, refusing to lower my cup when he gestures for me to come closer. Maybe I can blend in—I feel just as red. He peers over his sunglasses, his cup glued to his lips, while he flags me on like it’s no big deal. That wild drop of water that’s so oblivious to the way it ruins the plans of the colors that came before in careful strokes.

  Mati.

  Remembering the way he spoke my name a week ago in the kitchen sends a warm thrill through my limbs. We shared a secret that morning. Beau’s the only person in my life to ever call me Mati. I’m Matt or Matisse, even Evans, but never Mati.

  My feet start carrying me through the crowd toward him, but my brain catches up. I duck behind a tall frat guy making out with a girl, then sneak out until I’m in a hallway toward the back of the apartment.

  “You go to Sutton, right?” A male voice breaks through my racing thoughts. “I think you’re in my biology class.”

  I spin around, an annoyed smile on my face. “I don’t take biology.”

  “No, I guess not.” A guy with broad shoulders and moppish blond hair grins down at me. I’m tall, taller than most girls, but this guy is a giant.

  “Not the most inventive pickup line.” I take a nervous sip of beer.

  “Is that what I’m doing?” he yells by my ear.

  I pull back, studying his face. He looks like a jock—strong lines and odd proportions. “You tell me.”

  “I’m Cal. Should we get you a refill?”

  I grip my cup a little tighter. I’m not so sure about Cal.

  “You keep your cup. We’ll track down the keg.”

  People part around him as he leads me toward the keg in the kitchen, and I’m left staring at his back and some serious biceps. We get refills, then I follow him farther into the apartment, where it’s quieter. I mean that relatively. It’s a pretty loud party.

  “So what’s your name, Girl-Not-in-My-Biology-Class-but-Goes-to-Sutton?”

  Beau

  After crushing two rounds of beer pong, I’m thirsty. I drink two red cups, giving the other team a slight advantage, but I know I have this in the bag.

  What I don’t have is Mati. Wherever she is now. I wasn’t expecting to spot her in the crowd, her face crimson, those green eyes of hers wide and wild. She doesn’t seem like the type to party on a school night, definitely not at a stranger’s place. This apartment belongs to my old hockey captain, who’s two years older, so for Mati to be here… Well, it’s spontaneous and so unlike her. At least I thought so.

  I win two more rounds of beer pong before I grow restless from the same old shit. I’ve been to at least a hundred parties exactly like this one, everyone doing the same thing, telling the same stories, asking me for the same shit.

  Some people by the door are starting to scatter, and someone yells, “Cops!”

  Nothing like watching over a hundred people shuffle around in a three-story walk-up, trying to find a way out. I spot Hunter in the corner, his arm wrapped around a girl with an impressive teal Mohawk and diamond studs in her cheeks. He waves for me to follow.

  I’m about to bail with them until I catch sight of the hallway to my left and remember that Mati is here somewhere. I shouldn’t leave without her.

  I push and shove through the hallway and spot her making out with some meathead in the corner. So that’s her type? A guy who looks like Drax?

  “Let’s go, hot lips, the cops are coming.” I know I’m going to regret it instantly, but I wrap my hand over her upper arm and tug until she breaks away.

  Mati tries to shake off my grip as my other hand rests on the small of her back to guide her forward. She peeks at me over her shoulder, her brows drawn until she laughs and drags her feet.

  The guy who was sucking her face off straightens. “Get your hands off her, bro.”

  It’s been a while since I’ve thrown a punch, and I’m not drunk enough not to care if I get my ass kicked. “She’s not twenty-one, fuckhead.” But I do really want to punch him for touching her.

  I don’t wait for his answer, but I laugh when Mati giggles, then her face falls.

  “Stop pushing me around, Beau.”

  She wiggles around too much. “I’ll stop pushing you as soon as—”

  The music cuts out, and the quick quiet is followed by the sound of police at the door.

  “Fuck. A little faster, Mati.” I try to steer us toward a bathroom farther down the hall.

  “I’m wearing heels. I’m going as fast as I can.”

  I push into the bathroom and lead her to the shower, ripping back the curtain to reveal a half-naked couple going at it.

  We’re in luck; there’s a window. I shove it open and crawl out onto the fire escape. I lean back inside for Mati, fighting back a smile when I catch her staring at the couple, transfixed by their lips and bodies. She seems so disconnected that some weird pressure fills up my chest. I meet the meathead’s glare, then haul Mati outside with me. I try to throw her over my shoulder, but it’s been a long day and I’m getting tired. She awkwardly slumps against me as I try again.

  Her head bobs against my back as I climb down the rungs. “He’s following us, if you’re trying to see.” I hear her head knock against the rungs. She curses in that fucking amazing New England way. “Be quiet,” I say.

&
nbsp; “Can’t get caught?” Mati whacks me in the neck with her elbow as she rubs her head.

  “Are you drunk right now?”

  “I might be. Are you?”

  I wish she didn’t make me laugh so much. We jump down to the ground as the jock quickly follows, whispering for me to put her down. I ignore him.

  Cops have busted out the search lights and flashlights. Everyone from the party is scattering, trying to escape.

  “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “I’ll get us out of here.”

  “Not your first time outrunning the cops?”

  I duck down and pull away a loose section of chainlink fence behind the apartment building. It leads out to a series of nicer houses. It’ll be dark on the other side, and we should be able to skirt away without getting seen.

  “You aren’t giving anything up tonight, are you, Mr. Grady?”

  “Jesus, how much did you have to drink?”

  She whacks my ass. That’s answer enough. She’d never do that sober. Hell, she couldn’t look me in the eye after I said her name last week.

  “Not as much as you think. I’m good.” She hiccups, even as I set her on her feet once we’re on the other side of the fence.

  Something about the other guy steadying her, once he climbs through to join us, pisses me off.

  “Thanks for the ride, Beau.”

  I spin around and hold a finger to my lips, and she laughs. I swear the ground gives out for a second. It seems that tonight Mati stopped living by a clock, and it might be the fucking hottest thing I’ve seen in a while. The way she tosses her hands into the air and spins, throwing her head back into the night to laugh. It’s too dark to see her eyes, but I swear they’re bright, a glimpse of what she could be if only she’d shed the shell she’s retreated into.

  I make it five steps before I stop. “Are you okay to get home?”

  “She’s fine,” the guy answers.

  That just pisses me off more. “I wasn’t asking you,” I say coldly.

  Mati floats between us, holding out her arms, glaring at me instead of the idiot she’s decided is a good life choice for the night. “I’m fine. I’m a big girl. Run along, Beau.” She shoos me with her hands, a mocking smile on her face. I don’t like that, either.

  I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t, but I still think…still feel…

  “Text me if…”

  I hear her mutter to the guy something about me being her roommate, something like he shouldn’t worry, that she’s still bringing him home with her. I don’t even get to turn around before she circles her arms around his oversized neck and kisses him.

  It’s a kick to my fucking stomach.

  Matisse

  Cal and I are making out on my bed. He’s probably a nice guy—I’m just not in the mood to talk.

  His kisses are clumsy, or maybe it’s my mouth. Either way, our teeth collide and my face is too wet from his sloppy kissing.

  I’m a twenty-year-old who wants—no, needs—to get laid. I was hoping for better.

  He slants in to run his tongue over my lips just as I try to peel off my shirt. Our heads bash together. Shit. The shirt flies across the room and somehow topples a painting I was working on. In the dark, it sounds as though the house is starting to collapse while my easel and supplies crash to the floor.

  Cal jumps and tangles himself in the butterfly mobile hanging from the ceiling. He lumbers around like Frankenstein confronting fire. Sounds about the same, too. I clamp my hand over my mouth, but the laugh leaks out and that only makes him more flustered.

  “What the fuck? What are these?” He swings his meaty arms around, ripping a few strings I have tacked to the ceiling.

  “Cal,” I whisper. He stills, butterfly strings wrapped around his arms and head. “I think you killed them.”

  “What the hell are they?” They crumple under his hands as he tears them away from his body.

  It’s been a year and a half since a guy’s touched me, and this one is concerned about paper butterflies.

  I still his hands in mine and slowly untangle the strings. “Kiss me again, Cal.”

  He does, before his hands slip lower to my breasts. He cups them over my bra and squeezes. At first it feels good. Except then it doesn’t. He paws at them as if desperately trying to field a softball.

  “Take it off,” I urge. I figure the butterflies threw him off his game. Maybe he’s momentarily forgotten boobs aren’t stress balls.

  “Yeah, okay. I can do that.” He reaches around and fumbles with the clasps. “Are you going to moan for me?”

  I reach around to undo the clasp myself, but we’re tangled up awkwardly and our weight shifts toward the edge of the mattress. We spill onto the floor in a heap.

  It’s quiet when we both sit up, stunned. We look at each other, blinking, our shoulders rising up and down until we both start laughing. It builds slowly until we fall back onto the carpet, trying to catch our breath.

  I wipe at my face, feeling a wet smear over my cheek, then break into laughter again when I notice my hand comes away covered in blue. Seems I’ve fallen over a stray tube of paint, and as usual, I forgot the cap.

  Cal takes off his shirt and motions for me to scoot closer. He tries wiping the paint off my face and my hands before he realizes he’s only making the problem worse. With a grunt, he tosses the T-shirt behind him on the floor, giving up. “You’re room is pretty dangerous.” And the way he says it, with a sly grin, makes me remember why I spent so much time with him in that hallway back at the party.

  Then he has to ruin everything again.

  “Maybe I should go?”

  I shake my head and tug him back onto my bed. “You should stay. Maybe kiss me some more.”

  “You’re funny, Girl-Not-in-My-Economics-Class-but–Goes-to-Sutton.”

  I slip my hand around the back of his head and draw him down for a kiss, and that’s enough to get things moving in the right direction. Well, until he starts dry humping me.

  “Wait, what are you doing?” I still his hips against my thigh, not turned on, but still beyond sexually frustrated.

  I don’t know how Beau does this every night.

  Shit. I don’t want to think about him right now.

  “Grind up against me.” Cal rubs himself against my body, his cock pressing into my hipbone. “Doesn’t that feel good?”

  Then I do a horrible, terrible, very bad thing that is a disservice to all womankind—and start moaning. That only eggs him on, and at this point, I have to keep going now that I’ve started. It’s not like it doesn’t feel good—it does. But dry humping is never really sexy beyond sixteen. I want something more than this, something better than having to pretend with a guy.

  I slap my hand over the mattress and really go for it, moaning and shaking, pretending he’s so good that I’ve just come with my pants still on. Cal eats it up, a smug smile on his face when he pushes up on his hands.

  I force on a smile. “That was nice.”

  If I had had a real orgasm, that wouldn’t have sounded like a question. And I wouldn’t have used the word nice. Sex and nice don’t belong in the same sentence. But Cal doesn’t show a sign of caring, so there’s that at least.

  “Can I have your number?” He climbs off my bed and shrugs on his shirt. I frown when he doesn’t toss me my bra or shirt. Jerk. I lean awkwardly off my bed and grab a sweatshirt from the floor.

  “It was nice meeting you,” I say instead.

  He shrugs. “You too, Girl-Not-in-My-Philosophy-Class-but-Goes-to-Sutton.”

  “Matisse,” I grumble.

  “What?”

  “My name’s Matisse.”

  “Hmm.” He nods, but he’s already halfway out my room. “I’ll see you around.”

  I don’t think so, Boy-Who-Can’t-Learn-My-Name.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Matisse

  I trudge through the front door, drenched and cold, to the sounds of Call of Duty and yelling. I’m used to it. I normally don’t even mind,
but today was so shitty. I want Mumford & Sons and painting. That’s all.

  I’m hit by a wall of stale weed first, then a couch full of rowdy guys.

  “What’s up, buttercup?” Beau asks.

  I kick off my shoes, ignoring him.

  “Hit play. What the fuck, Beau?” his friend Noah says, throwing a handful of chips at him.

  Great, another mess to clean up.

  On the table, a pile of empty beer cans and a shitload of half-eaten food crowd around a bong. It must be nice to have nothing else to do but sit around and get high all day.

  I shuffle into the kitchen and open the refrigerator, staring at the nearly empty shelves as if dinner might magically appear.

  “Where are you going?” Beau calls out from the living room. Our roommate Ethan and their friend Hunter laugh.

  I don’t feel like cooking, and even if I did, I’m on a tight budget since Sarah didn’t need me to nanny the boys this week. I settle for a yogurt and a glass of water, ignoring the tasty-looking leftovers Reagan’s labeled with sticky notes and permanent marker. You’d think she’d have her own fridge upstairs, but nope. I’d kill for some takeout, but if I order takeout, then I won’t have enough to cover my share of the electric bill.

  I’m really starting to resent yogurt and ramen. And having to pay for utilities.

  When I walk back out into the living room, the boys are laughing and roughhousing. I wish they’d be quiet. I wish I had gotten housing in the dorm where I’d have one roommate instead of three and their herd of friends who trash the place and never shut up. If only I’d gotten in my housing forms in on time, I’d be rooming with Aubrey. I’m lucky I found this apartment listing last minute.

  It’s eerily quiet when I approach my bedroom. I glance behind me at the couch, met only by the backs of their heads. I shake off the feeling of dread welling up in me, enter my bedroom, and freeze. My water and yogurt tumble to the floor, splashing over my feet.