Between Everything and Us

by Rebecca Paula

  We’re roommates. Only roommates.

  “I was having a bad day,” she says, studying the speedometer. It’s the closest I come to chasing numbers now that I’m finished with hockey and school. GPAs don’t mean much when you spend your days in bed.

  “I didn’t mean what I said the other night.” Mati spins around and tosses my T-shirt at my face. “And I guess I’m sorry for that.”

  She glances over my shoulder, biting her bottom lip as I snap the folded T-shirt against my shoulder. I laugh in spite myself. I’m a fucking wreck, but something about me intimidates her. I can’t figure her out.

  I stretch, pain radiating throughout my body as I do. I slip the shirt over my head and pull my shit together.

  “It’s whatever,” I say with a shrug. I try to play it off, grabbing the ratchet from her hand. Truth is, she was right, even if I didn’t want to hear it.

  Mati pads over to the tool bench I built with Noah. She pushes herself up to sit on it and places the giant sombrero from our party last weekend on her head. It swallows her up. It’s not that Mati is small—she’s tall and willowy—it’s just that I’ve always liked everything opposite before now. And I hate that it takes her wearing a stupid costume prop for me to figure that out.

  “I feel like I need a margarita with this on.” Mati straightens it, adjusting the strings underneath her chin. “Maybe a piñata, too.”

  “Straight tequila would be preferable.”

  She swings her legs back and forth, humming along to the Black Keys. It’s a good thing she’s a painter; singing isn’t a strength of hers. But it’s cute and I hate myself for thinking so.

  “How are classes?” I don’t really care about the answer. I just want to hear her talk.

  “Oh, they’re fine, I think.”

  “You don’t know?”

  She stops swinging her feet. “Why do you care?”

  “Making conversation, Mati.” I walk around to the bench. “Since we’re talking to each other again.”

  A smile spreads across her lips, those red lips that I want to kiss.

  “Why are you upset?” she asks quietly.

  I swat my hand out and tip the sombrero over her eyes. “I’m fine.” It’s easier to lie when I don’t have to look her in the face.

  She straightens the hat. “Classes so far are a lot like my classes freshman year two years ago.”

  I skip the obvious question. Too many details and this impossible distance I’m trying to keep between us is going to be obliterated. “How’s that?”

  “Do you remember? It’s been so long since you went to class.”

  Her teasing washes away the panic seizing me again. “I wasn’t always a dropout. I remember fine.”

  “Then you remember they’re pointless.” Her voice grows sad. “What was your major, Beau?”

  I help her with remove the massive sombrero instead of answering. I need exactly eight credits before I can graduate and start my masters for the accelerated program. I know my major—had a plan, even, had a purpose—but it’s not something I want to get into right now. It’s a far stretch ever imagining I could be a counselor responsible for guiding troubled teens on a hike when I can’t hold a damn wrench.

  She taps her index finger over the tip of my nose. “Always Mr. Mysterious.”

  I wonder if Mati has been drinking tequila because this isn’t like her. Usually her contempt toward me is blatant, not that I mind this Mati. This is who I was hoping the real Mati would be like if she ever paused for a minute from bowling over everything in her path. And that freaks me the fuck out—that today she’s quiet.

  “Forestry sciences. I wanted to be a wilderness education counselor.” I move the hat off to the side and help her down, my hand curling over her hip. “What’s your major again? Being a pain in my ass?”

  She rests her hand against my shoulder, not stepping away. “Charming as ever, too,” she whispers.

  I tell my hand to let go, but I only hold on tighter because she sways closer and bumps against me, lost studying my face. I want to stay here, feel this, watch her watching me forever. “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

  Her eyes widen and shift focus to my mouth. They trace my lips until I have to fight back a groan. Mati gives the perfect fuck-me eyes.

  “It doesn’t matter—” She pauses, her fingers pressing hard into my shoulder. “—because we both know you won’t.”

  I slide my hand to the small of her back. My palm fits against the gentle curve there. “Mati?”

  “I don’t have time for this.” Her words tumble out in an awkward rush. “I don’t want complications.”

  My other hand slips up to rest against her stomach, cinching the fabric of her shirt in my fist. She slams her eyes shut at my touch, her breath escaping in staccato beats, mirroring my own.

  The garage smells like damp earth and oil, but I swear we’re standing out in the dark, lost in the woods under the endless cover of stars.

  Even though she’s right, even though I am a complication, I can’t shake the feeling in my gut that we’d be a good one. “You’re wrong,” I whisper. Her eyes pop open. “You’re exactly the type of girl who wants complications.” I rest my forehead against hers, her sweet coffee breath washing over my mouth. “And you have no clue what I want.”

  I pin my thumb at the start of that pink smear over her sharp cheekbone, smiling as her eyes meet mine. I slant in to kiss her when my thumb stumbles in its path, my hand trembling. I swear under my breath and yank it away.

  “Forget it.” I scratch the back of my neck, avoiding her, avoiding another reminder that this can’t happen. “I’m sure you’re busy conquering the world and all.”

  “Is that what you think I do?” Mati stays by the bench, her hand resting over the fading imprint of mine. “Roomie?”

  I laugh in spite of myself. Something about the way she waggles her brows. The force of those narrowed green eyes draws me in and tosses the world around. A storm. Hurricane Mati.

  “Does it matter what I think?” I have to stuff my hands into my pockets because I’m falling apart. I hate this, hate myself. Why the fuck do I have to want her as much as I do when I can’t have her? I shouldn’t.

  “Of course.” For all her resolve, the lie still seeps out of those words. She shakes her head and walks toward the door. “Stop throwing shit, Beau. I have work to do.”

  I’m a dumbass for doing it, but as soon as the door closes, I start my bike and peel out of the driveway, in a big hurry to run out of road, to find some beach, to breathe some air so I don’t self-implode.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Matisse

  I stick out at the Halloween party. Compared to the other costumes here, my short flapper dress is still too long since it covers my ass.

  “Let’s get a drink,” Aubrey yells over the music.

  I nod and follow her, elbowing my way through the crowded frat house. House music blares over the speakers, strobe lights flashing from the low ceilings. I was absolutely not going to come, but Aubrey threw a dress at me and gave me a few shots, so here I am. For better or worse.

  She flirts with the guy working the keg, waving me on as I watch. She makes it look so easy. It’s not that I don’t know how to flirt. I think I’m pretty good at it when I need to be; it’s just something that I have to force myself to do.

  It doesn’t matter what I do because we both know you won’t.

  Okay, most of the time. I don’t know what was wrong with me in the garage the other day.

  Aubrey hands me a beer and searches the crowd, yelling that some of the other girls from our humanities class should be here.

  I give her a thumbs-up, taking a big sip of beer. It’s cheap and tastes terrible, but I don’t care. I don’t think I care much about anything tonight. For a change. It’s exactly what I need.

  We find them and start dancing, not paying attention much except to the music and the silly gossip of who’s at the party and who’s done what
to whom.

  The room is sort of swaying, and it’s hot enough to cook a Christmas ham when Aubrey sends her elbow into my ribcage. When I don’t look right away, she steals away my cigarette holder. A few beads of sweat drip down my back. I stop dancing to follow her not-so-subtle point to Cole across the room.

  “Go talk to him,” she mouths.

  It’s too awkward now. I’ve had his number since I slept on his couch a few weeks back. He was perfect and nice. He even made me breakfast before I had to leave for class the next morning.

  I shake my head and turn my back to him. I don’t want Cole tonight, don’t want the comfortable nice boy. I don’t want to do much of anything except to have fun for a few hours.

  The music fills me up, and I close my eyes, pretending to float in the bursts of yellow and orange behind my eyelids. I used to go out dancing in Chicago. Nothing felt as good as pushing my body to keep moving until it hurt to breathe. I always felt so alive when I returned to the dorm the next morning, exhausted but exhilarated. Dancing was a selfish thing to do then, and it is now. It’s selfish, but I feel amazing.

  I open my eyes to search for Aubrey and find Beau instead. His lips are extremely close to mine before he slants closer to say hello in my ear.

  A ridiculous handlebar mustache crowds his mouth like a wooly caterpillar waiting for winter to strike. It tickles me as he pulls away, brushing against my cheeks. I giggle and reach out to touch it.

  Beau smiles, and the mustache falters as though it’s going to unstick itself and fall to the floor.

  “What’s your costume?” I ask. Our bodies are almost touching. It was hot before, but now I’ve been transported to the face of the sun. I’m going to be a puddle of tassels and sequins soon.

  I wipe my brow, then arch my back to lean away, hungrily chugging my lukewarm beer.

  “A hipster,” he says.

  “Of course you are. Original.” For whatever reason, I wink at him. I raise my cup to my mouth, but his hand curls around mine, our eyes locking, and I freeze. He pulls the cup away from my mouth and takes a sip, never releasing my hand, never looking away.

  My pulse thrums against my throat, beating in my ear like the bass of the music. There’s a rhythm to it, even if it does falter briefly when his fingers graze my knuckles.

  He drops his hand, and I lean back in, erasing the small space between us. My hands are burning from his touch, burning from wanting to touch him again.

  “What are you doing at a frat party?” I ask.

  “Noah belongs to the frat.”

  I didn’t peg Noah for a frat boy. He doesn’t look the part at all, with the nose ring and the British crown tattooed to the front of his throat. “Noah goes to school?”

  “Sometimes.” Beau licks his lips, my eyes glued to his tongue as he does.

  I catch myself thinking about his tongue licking me, tasting my skin. I want that, too.

  “Look at you, flapper girl.” He reaches for a strand of my hair and pinches it between his fingers, smiling. “It suits you. This costume.” He tips forward so his nose brushes against my forehead, his voice a slow rumble as he says, “You’re the cat’s pajamas.”

  I playfully shove against his chest, but maybe the room spins or maybe I’m making a huge mistake because I don’t let go. He rests his hands against the small of my back again. We don’t move away from each other. I know I should let go and step back, but I’m stuck in some lusty game of mirror with Beau.

  And his cute quip? It feels a little more than a joke. He watches me now as if he’s drowning and I’m his only source of oxygen.

  It’s hopeless off of this dance floor because I know what’s going to happen. I know that he left last week after our near-kiss in the garage and never once called me, never left a note. There’s truth behind the rumors—Beau is trouble.

  “Introduce us, Matt,” a few girls call out behind us. I do, not missing how Beau keeps his eyes on me, his hand flat against the small of my back. I hate how his palm fits so well there, how I melt into his touch.

  My beer is clutched in his other hand. Empty. He’s talking over my head to the other girls, charming as usual, but I’m still stuck on the beer, trying to ignore the way his touch sends me spiraling.

  “That was mine,” I protest, spinning around.

  He twirls the end of his mustache like an old movie villain. I can’t fight back my laugh. He looks ridiculous. “Then we’ll have to get you another.”

  “We?” I’m a little confused or a little drunk. Or both maybe. Probably both. He looks as if he’s reading my mind—close to bending down and kissing me. I wouldn’t mind that. Right now. In front of everyone. Not one fucking bit.

  But Aubrey is pulling me away before that good life decision. The lights flash overhead, bright white before darkness. Beau fades in between a few flashes, and then he’s gone, lost. I blink again, and Cole is standing in front of me, his hand outstretched with a beer, that smooth smile on his face.

  He leans in to speak into my ear, but unlike Beau, he leaves a huge gap between our bodies. “Were you going to say hi?”

  Aubrey sends her hip into mine, her way of telling me to take the beer.

  “Sure,” I sputter. I need to get some fresh air or something. Or another drink. “Hi.” My voice is low and flirty, which surprises me. I’m not sure I want to flirt with Cole.

  He playfully knocks his hand against my arm. “How’s my favorite barista?”

  His fingers brush my shoulder when I giggle at his misplaced flattery. “I’m sure you say that to every barista in Portland. Probably the ones who don’t call you a dick.”

  “I only say that to the ones who spend a night on my couch.”

  I choke on my sip of beer.

  “Besides, you’re wrong. The other baristas never call me on my shit. That’s what I like about you, Matisse.”

  I brush over that comment and jump to answer his first flirtation attempt. That seems much safer. “Busy,” I say. I know it comes off sounding bitchy, but it’s not a lie. “I’ve been busy, but I’m good, Cole. How about you?”

  I have no idea what I want with Cole. There’s no point leading him on when I…

  Well, that’s the problem. I am busy, but I’m not sure that’s the only reason why I never called him after that night. I want to find the true reason, why thinking about Beau makes my heart flip in a nervous flutter. I need to find that lazy hipster who smells like heaven and has a mouth I want to lose myself in for a while.

  I know I should leave, except I don’t. I stay and dance with Cole. He’s polite all night, the perfect heartbroken Southern gentleman who keeps his distance. I’ve lost track of Aubrey and everyone else, so I catch a cab around four in the morning and head back to the bungalow.

  When I stumble in, I hear giggling from behind Beau’s door. My chest twists up, and I frown, tripping before my hands find the back of the chair in the living room to steady myself. I weave as I unbuckle the straps to my heels, laughing to myself as I close one eye and lob one at his door. His room grows quiet.

  I hop around, knocking a pile of books to the floor, then Ethan’s bong falls.

  Shit.

  At least it doesn’t shatter. I jump, trying to get the other heel off, but the room keeps spinning. His door swings open, revealing Aubrey, who’s sitting on his bed. Beau stands in the doorway, light shining in around him. All night I’ve been chasing him through flashing lights, dark, and the mess of in-between.

  Everything goes quiet except for the pained inhale that slices through my chest. My hand goes slack, and my heel plummets to the floor. I rush off to my room and slam the door. I pass out to the sounds of Beau and Aubrey trying to get me to open the door, trying to get me to listen. But there’s nothing to explain and I have to be up in a few hours to work.

  It doesn’t matter what Beau was doing with Aubrey because I shouldn’t care.

  I shouldn’t, but I do. And I hate myself for that, too.

  ***

  I’
m painting the next afternoon when someone knocks on my door. I ignore whoever it is and angrily swipe at the red oil paint on my palette. I’m probably messing this assignment up, but I’m too angry to do anything else.

  “Matisse Evans, I’m coming in, and you’re going to talk to me.”

  Am I? Aubrey sounds grown-up, as though she’s barging in to lecture a petulant teenager. It’s an interesting role reversal for us.

  The door creaks open behind me, her footsteps hushed against my carpet as she darts for my bed.

  I whirl around, the giant red paint blob flying off my brush and landing on the carpet. Again. I try my best to clean it up without smearing it into the carpet, but that’s pointless. A giant red spot spreads. I scrub until my arm is sore anyway.

  “All right, Lady Macbeth. Enough.”

  I fall back on my ass and rest against my easel, staring down my best friend in the world because I’ve been an idiot. Those feelings I thought I had so neatly tucked away poured out last night and not in a good way. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  And now I want to punch myself in the face because I’ve come full circle. I’m now more of a thirteen-year-old than I was at thirteen. No more drunken Halloween parties for me.

  “Fine, talk.” I wave my hand, gesturing for her to continue, but I keep going, my thoughts spiraling out of my mouth without a filter. “You kept pushing me to talk to Cole, and when I turned around, you and Beau had left. After Beau had found me. He found me, Aubrey.”

  “Is this you pissing in the sand?”

  I’m a real shitty friend for believing my eyes instead of my head. “I’d have to care in order to do that.”

  “Mmhmm.” She glances at my painting, then to my sorry ass. “Well, you do care.”

  I jump to my feet and stash away my paints. I wipe my hands on the dirty rag sitting on top of my French books, then fling it at my closet. “This painting sucks.”

  What I mean to say is everything sucks, but I’m growing sick of hearing myself speak. I don’t know what’s happened to the level-headed Matisse Evans. The girl I am now isn’t me.