My bed is entombed up in plastic wrap. The pillows, the comforter, everything.
Today kicked my ass, and this is the last thing I needed. I ball my fists up and spin around. “Think that’s funny?”
They burst out laughing again.
“Of course you do,” I snap. I storm up to Beau, his arms braced over the back of the couch, his chin resting on his arms, facing me. “You’re an asshole, Beau. You really fucking are.”
Hunter and Ethan laugh again, but Beau’s face falls. I can’t look at him. Not without wanting to yell and scream and kick.
I retreat to my room, then attack the bed, clawing at the stupid plastic wrap. It won’t unstick.
“Mati, I didn’t mean—”
I whirl around, faced with Beau holding a wad of paper towels in his hand, trying to sop up the mess on the floor. Now my carpet is going to smell like expired milk. “Bullshit. You meant it. This didn’t happen by accident.”
He stands and waits a beat, then closes the door behind him so we’re alone. “I didn’t think it’d make you fucking cry.”
I hate him so much right now—hate his bloodshot eyes, his empty arms. I hate that I really want him to hug me when I don’t even know why.
I shrug and sniff back my tears. “Whatever. Go away, Beau.”
“It was a joke.”
I rip at a few more strips, but they must have used thirty boxes to wrap up my bed. I hardly make a dent. “It always is with you.”
He’s always laughing, always grinning, always treating his days as if life is nothing but fun.
“Want to go out and grab a pizza? Or a beer? Or something…” His voice trails off when I pause at the side of my bed, shoulders drooped, head bowed.
He’s so fucking clueless. “No. I don’t.”
“I can clean this up and—”
“Do whatever you want, Beau. I’ll stay at Aubrey’s tonight. I’ve had enough of this. Enough of you.” I wave between us, feeling everything collapse inside of me. “I had a really bad day, like top-shelf fucking awful shitty day, and I come home to this mess. It’s my room, these my things. But you don’t care. You got a laugh out of it, right?”
“I’ll clean it up.” His voice is low and raw. “I’m sorry, Mati.”
“Sure you are.”
He scratches the back of his neck, then slowly glances back up at me. “You can have my bed for the night. I’ll make you something to eat. I didn’t mean—”
“You’re so stupid. I don’t need you. I don’t need your apology. And I sure as hell don’t want to sleep in your bed. You have enough company there, and I don’t want to make a crowd.”
It’s an ugly thing to say. I know it as soon as the words leave my mouth. I sink down to the floor and bury my head in my arms, my knees tucked tight to my chest. “Get out,” I say again, my words stifled.
The door closes, and I instantly regret everything.
***
Aubrey meets me in front of the elevator bank at her dorm, signs me in, then hugs me as soon as we step inside. I wasn’t sold on attending Sutton, uncertain that I could pull off this whole college thing again, but leave it to my best friend with the Superwoman tattoo on her forearm to convince me otherwise. Present-Me silently thanks Six-Year-Old Me for making friends with her back in Camden. I’m relieved to see a familiar face after today’s shitstorm.
“Roommates suck,” she says, smoothing a hand over my head.
I bite back a frustrated groan as more people crowd onto the elevator on the next floor. “Mine do.”
“Well, Sammy isn’t one of my favorite people at the moment, either.”
I don’t think I could ever room with a theater major. Literally too much drama. I’m not sure how Aubrey has put up with Sammy for three years. “No?”
Aubrey shudders. “She unplugged the fridge over the weekend, which had chicken wings inside. She remembered tonight.”
Thursday. Gross.
“So you don’t have food to feed me?”
The elevator opens to the seventh floor. I’m a little jealous of her when we walk down the hall for having a floor full of friends. I miss dorm life.
“We’ll get you some. You’ll feel better in the morning after some sleep.”
She’s being nice, I know, so I keep my mouth shut. Come morning, though, I’ll still be the lost girl with a two-year plan that should realistically take five.
I’m sitting on Aubrey’s bed twenty minutes later, scrolling through my phone, when I cave to another poor life decision. I type Beau Grady into Facebook and hold my breath.
Why am I doing this?
“You okay?” Aubrey asks from the opposite end of her bed. She tickles the bottom of my foot, and I kick, forgetting that she’s painting my toes. A smear of purple cuts across my big toe. “Stay put, spazz.”
I stick out my tongue and click on his profile. I’ve lived with him for over a month now, and I’ve never done this, never wanted to know. But after tonight, I’m sort of curious. I want to know why he would do something like that when I thought we were getting along.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing?”
I shake my head. It’s middle school all over again. I don’t want to be caught.
Beau’s profile has a picture of him on a couch in a backyard somewhere, at what looks like a party. He’s leaning forward, a beer clutched in his hand, his legs spread wide. A piece of his hair drapes over his brow, skirting the top of his beloved Ray-Bans. My eyes trace the line of his arms under another plain T-shirt, his sleeves drawing my attention.
“Okay, spill. You’re grinning.”
“No, I’m not.” I try to pull my foot away, but Aubrey holds on strong.
“I’m not finished.” She paints another toe, then says, “You can tell me, you know.”
I act dumb. I just had my heart stomped on tonight, and I’m back, searching for the piece of his story that fits. Because that’s the thing with Beau—he isn’t all he seems. At least, I don’t think so. “Nothing to talk about.”
I click through the rest of his albums, surprised that he’s tagged in photos of the college hockey team and then a few where…
Beau was a model?
“I love you to pieces, Matt, but you can’t lie for shit. You have the most expressive face I know. So fess up—why Beau?”
“It’s nothing. I was just…”
“Curious,” she finishes for me.
“No, he’s an asshole.” I say it for me as much as I say it for her. I know Aubrey won’t like the idea of Beau and me. She sides with my parents on the distraction front. Well, most of the time.
She caps the polish and scoots over next to me to check out the phone.
“I hope people blackmail him over these photos.” She points to one where he’s shirtless, holding a hockey stick. It’s a professional shot and he looks good—like really, really good. He has abs, with that V that cuts across the hipbones to draw your attention south.
“You should hand this out on campus or something,” she continues. “Maybe tape them all over his room.”
He’s tagged in a lot of photos, but he doesn’t have many albums of his own, nothing shared anyway. His profile album only has the current photo and another with a brunette on his lap. Her face is hidden, but I’m hit with an ugly feeling—jealousy—because the look on his face is sweet. Romantic, even.
“You know the rumors about him?”
I shake my head, my finger tapping a nervous rhythm over the keyboard as I scroll down his wall. It’s nothing but recent messages from girls. The older posts aren’t public, I guess.
I resist the urge to friend him. We’re not friends. We’re not going to be friends. Beau is responsible for one fourth of the rent, same as me, and that’s all.
Reagan’s roommates rules are burned into my brain. No roommate drama. Hooking up with Beau would be nothing but roommate drama, another complication, more distraction. He’s the last thing I need in my life right now.
&nbs
p; I toss down my phone, my hands nervously playing with the strings of my hoodie. I’m not going to let anything happen. I’m not going to go against the plan.
I ask about the rumors anyway.
“Oh, they say he knocked up the dean’s daughter freshman year. And that he was going to be the youngest captain on the hockey team, but he started acting weird. He left the team and stopped going to class. People think he’s a junkie.”
“He’s not,” I say automatically. I don’t know why I jump to his defense.
“Maybe not.” Her phone rings, but before she answers, she faces me. “He’s trouble, Matt. He’s got a reputation, and I don’t want you to get sidetracked because of him.”
“Who’s trouble?” Cole clings to the doorframe, leaning into the room so casually. He looks just as good as the first day I met him in the coffee shop a few weeks back. “Hi,” he says. His voice is like a warm hug, and for the first time tonight, I feel a bit better.
I’m almost sit cross-legged, forgetting my wet toenails. I awkwardly stretch my legs out again as if I were stretching, then fold my hands in my lap. “Hi.”
“This your room?”
I shake my head, motioning for Aubrey to continue her call. She sounds all flirty, and judging by her smile, I might be staying here alone for the night.
I join him out in the hall, blinking under the harsh fluorescent light. He’s dressed up, and I’m wearing paint-covered yoga pants and a worn hoodie. Way to make an impression.
“I’m friends with the RA.” His words are soft, uncertain, even with the small hint of a smile toying at his lips. “Is this your dorm?”
“No, I live off-campus. Here to visit my friend, Aubrey.”
He leans back to peek into Aubrey’s room, narrowing his eyes. “You want to get something to eat?”
“Still feel bad?” I’m teasing, but his nervous laughs gives away that he actually might. “I don’t really want to ditch her tonight. Maybe another time.”
Aubrey pokes her head out of the room, cupping her hand over the phone. “I’m going out. Want to come?”
Some things never change—some things as in having a friend who’s actually figured out how to balance life and school. I hate being third wheel on Aubrey’s dates. I hate being perpetually stuck on the edge of everything, always closer to being the outsider than the cool kid.
“Go ahead. I’m fine.” I brush it off, plastering another fake smile to my face.
She frowns, then disappears into her room.
“Bad night?” Cole asks.
I roll my shoulders, exhaustion slowly creeping into my bones. “You can say that.”
Cole scratches his forehead, keeping his eyes pinned to me. “Listen, I get it if you don’t want to hang out, but I’m harmless, remember? Brokenhearted.” He taps his index finger over his chest. “I was going to practice at the school’s studio, but I need food first.”
Cole seems like a good place to call home. He seems like he’d give a really good hug, and that’s exactly what I need tonight.
“Okay.”
***
An hour later, we’re in a practice room with a fancy piano and some guitars. I’m sitting next to Cole on the piano bench, stuffing a piece of pizza in my mouth as his fingers slowly ramble over the ivory keys. The music is pretty, soft. I like that we don’t necessarily need to talk, that we’re comfortable with this closeness, these music notes.
I didn’t bring anything to sketch with, and I wish I had. There’s a gorgeous arch to his fingers as he stretches them over the white-and-black keys in no real rhythm, no certain path.
“Are you going to tell me your name?” His voice is low over the music he’s playing. He has this sweet Southern drawl that oozes out between each syllable.
Another detail I missed. The fear creeps up inside me that I’m missing everything, that I’m messing up my second chance. I need to slow down, but there’s no time.
“Matisse.” A long string of cheese stretches, then snaps when I pull the pizza slice away to continue. “It’s manifest destiny.”
He stops playing and bumps against my shoulder as he reaches for the pizza box on top of the piano. I don’t lean away from his touch.
“My parents are art scholars,” I confess. “I guess they thought it’d be a good fit.”
“And is it? Do you like art?”
“Do you like music?” I’m surprised how defensive I sound.
“I love it.” His wipes his hands clean on the napkin, then returns to playing something slow, jazzy. I like the way the notes build and fill in the silences between us. I like the way I forget, for a little while, that I don’t know what I need to do with life.
“I love flowers,” I whisper.
His notes grow softer, his humming ends as he pushes a pedal to dampen the music. “More than art?”
“I’ve always wanted to be a florist, to have my own flower shop. I don’t think I could ever stop painting, but sometimes, I don’t love it. Not lately, anyway. Not when I have to paint what others want to see and stay inside the lines on their terms.”
“I get that.” He stops playing and turns to me. “Like how I love music but am studying politics.”
I know the answer but ask anyway. “Parents?”
“Back in New Orleans, my dad’s involved in government. I pissed him off by not going to LSU, so this was my way to make him happy, I guess. I promised I’d choose a practical major.”
“Do you think we’ll figure it out?”
Cole grabs my hand, his touch not hinting anything romantic. He doesn’t stroke my skin, doesn’t lace his fingers with mine. He places my hand on the piano keys, his warm palm tentative against mine, and we start playing a song together. Something uncomplicated, something slow.
“The thing about running from our problems is that they’ll always catch up.” We play a few more chords before he lets go and I try on my own. I can’t remember all the keys, can’t remember the rhythm, and I’m pretty sure I’m tone-deaf. I panic, wrenching my hands away. I stumble when I jump off the piano bench to get my things.
“It’s late. I should go.”
Cole plays the notes that I couldn’t. I’m jealous, frustrated. I want to be able to play that song. I want to know that I’m free to do what I want.
“What happened tonight?”
His question surprises me. “Had a fight with my roommate.”
“So where are you going?”
“I don’t know. I don’t…” My feet fall out from under me, and I slump against the wall. I didn’t think about this.
Cole stands and cleans up the space, letting me fall apart on my own. Except I’m not alone right now. “Come on, Matisse.” He holds out his hand when I look up. That wondering look is missing from his face now, replaced with a tangible sadness. He’s right; he is heartbroken. “I have a couch you can crash on for the night.”
I jump up and, without thinking, wrap my arms around his neck in a tight hug. “She’s an idiot,” I whisper.
He pulls away and bumps his shoulder against mine as we walk out of the studio. “So am I and so is he, but that’s all love is good for.”
Beau
“Motherfucker!”
I can’t hold onto a damn thing. Stupid fucking hand. I bend down and fumble to pick up the wrench. After a few tries, my awkward fingers finally grip its handle. I spin around and hurl it against the garage wall, then kick over my toolbox.
The burst of metallic tools scattering echoes around me, but I still feel empty.
I throw my head back and stare at the stained ceiling, breathing in and out as the Black Keys blare from my iPod dock. I wanted to fix one thing with my bike, one fucking thing, and I can’t even pick up a wrench.
The door opens behind me.
“Sorry for the noise,” I say, my voice thick.
I’m sorry I’m standing here in this garage when I could be anywhere else pretending to be a normal twenty-two-year-old. At least one who can hold a fucking wrench
.
“It’s never quiet when you’re around,” Mati replies. “I’m used to it by now.”
I guess we’re on speaking terms again after two long days of quiet between us. I wish it still was. I don’t want her seeing me like this. I’ve got nothing else except this garage and my bike. This is my space, my time.
My moment of falling apart. I’m not sharing.
I shuffle over to the wrench on numb feet. The door closes and I think she’s left, but I hear her behind me, picking up the tools on the floor.
“I can do that,” I snap.
She doesn’t flinch when I yell, only pushes onto her knees and drops her hands to her waist. Even if she wasn’t Mati Evans, she’d get my attention with that wild yellow top and those leggings. She has paint smeared over her arms, a bright pink smudge across her face. She always looks as though she’s fallen into a bucket of paint, but the heat in her eyes makes me second-guess that. Mati doesn’t fall for anything—she conquers it.
She points the ratchet at me, determined. “I didn’t say you couldn’t. I’m helping.”
I hate that word—help. I don’t need help. Sure, my hand is a bit shaky and my body is slowly coming undone, but I don’t need help. I’m going to work through it. I’m going to be fine.
When I don’t say anything, she shrugs and gathers up the rest of my tools, shuts the tool box, and rises. She stands toe-to-toe with me, waiting for an answer. I’m not going to thank her. I’m not thankful for her help. She just proved that I can’t pick up the damn toolbox that I knocked over.
“You have paint on your face,” I say instead, unable to look away. She’s framed in colors.
“I usually do.”
I clench my fists at my side. “We’re talking again?”
Mati backs up a step to examine my bike. The way her fingers run over the polished chrome causes my breath to catch. Shit. I think I just became jealous of a motorcycle.
I bite back the urge to flirt with her, to make a comment about those hands, because it’s for the best. The other night was a reminder that she has her path and I have mine.
Between Everything and Us Page 5
