Between Everything and Us

by Rebecca Paula

  “All right,” I say. “Then do your worst, but get me the hell out of here.”

  Matisse

  With Thanksgiving break bearing down on me, I put on blinders to the rest of the world. There isn’t enough time to do anything except work, maybe eat, and sleep a few hours. I’m basically running on caffeine and shrimp ramen.

  You would think that being roommates would make it harder to avoid Beau, but I haven’t seen him. I guess he’s avoiding me, too. I’ve only heard him around the apartment the past two days. Reagan was yelling at him, and Noah was yelling back at her. I stayed out of the drama, just thankful there wasn’t a roommate meeting afterward.

  I swirl my paintbrush through the teal paint and stare back at the canvas. It’s so unfinished and raw. I’m not sure where I need it to go, but if it stopped being a hot mess, that’d be a start. My professor made it clear the other day that she thinks I’m capable of better work. That’s nothing new, but hearing it toward the end of the semester is nerve-wracking, especially with the looming portfolio deadline for the internship. I nailed my essay, cleared that hurdle. I even surprisingly aced the phone interview with McKenna’s assistant. But putting together an impressive portfolio is another challenge altogether. I have no clue what Aiden McKenna is looking for in an intern, at least artistically. I’m an ace at getting coffee. At least I’ve got that part down.

  The brush is wedged between my teeth when a hand curls gently over my shoulder. I startle, dropping it into my lap. The paint seeps into my sweats. I’m cursing under my breath, trying to clean it up when I remember the first problem—the hand.

  Beau’s lips are moving when I look up, but I can’t hear because Marcus Mumford is serenading me. I stare, frozen. I haven’t seen him in weeks. God, he’s so fucking hot. Seriously, no one should be able to pull off sweatpants like he does. It’s unnatural talent.

  I yank out my earbuds, lean over to the desk, and pull out the jack so the music fills the room. I don’t trust myself alone with Beau. I need noise, distraction. Anything to drown out the small, gleeful voice in my head—he’s back.

  “What are you working on?”

  So that’s how he’s going to play it? No hi or how have you been or sorry I disappeared?

  When I don’t answer, he continues, “I’d try a bit of blue there.” Beau reaches for the canvas, his hand curled awkwardly to avoid touching me, to point at the sea of watercolor blooms I’ve painted, tipping the traditional composition of a still life on its head. I’m playing with perspective on this piece and vivid color. Always color.

  “You can try to get out.” I swish my brush angrily through the cup of water, the teal paint spiraling out until the water is laced with bright ribbons.

  Beau sits next to me on the floor, our knees touching. He studies the painting for a minute, then pulls his knee away. “I could, but I don’t want to.” He never takes his eyes off my shitty project.

  If I weren’t so tired, I might get up and leave, but I’m exhausted and starving and so very stuck. My stomach grumbles. Beau softly laughs beside me. I swing my gaze over to him, to that face I’ve missed, those familiar eyes that warm me up like a shot of whiskey.

  “You’ve been avoiding me.” His voice is a low whisper, our eyes locked.

  I nod. “So have you.”

  “There was something… I wasn’t,” Beau begins, knocking his fist against my paint-splattered carpet.

  If it wasn’t for the way his words stop and start, I might call him a liar. Somewhere, between those lines, lies the truth. And I believe him. That’s what has me worried. I’ve never believed the rumors about Beau or the way he pretends to be that bad boy girls chase after. He’s not that at all, and because I understand, I feel like I’m being set up to fail.

  “It was pretty clear you didn’t want me around,” he says. “Last time you slammed the door in my face.”

  I shrug, then stare back at my painting, upset that it’s broken. My eyes burn from exhaustion, and my stomach is so sour from lack of sleep that I feel as if I might be sick.

  “Can you go? I’m tired. Some of us actually have classes and grades that matter. I can’t think straight, but this—” I wave to what should be a still life. “—needs to be finished in two days.”

  “What do you want to eat?”

  I scrunch up my nose at his question. “Huh?”

  “I’m hungry, too. Thought we could get takeout.”

  “I don’t want to see you or eat food. With you.”

  Beau drops his head into his hands and messes up his hair until it stands on end. He sighs, messaging his temples as though it’s painful for him to be here beside me. “It wasn’t what you think.”

  “I know that.” I clear my throat, hating this next part. “Now. I’m sorry.” But this ugliness creeps up inside me, and I keep talking. “If you want to date her, don’t let me stop you.”

  He gives a dry laugh. “I don’t date anyone.”

  “Of course you don’t.” Shut up, Matt. Shut up. “That would mean you’d have to actually learn a girl’s name for a change.”

  “I learned yours, didn’t I?”

  That thing that happens whenever he touches me—it happens. I’m warm, dizzy, and consumed. Surprised. His hands aren’t even near me, but his words drill straight into my chest, stabbing where he most likely aimed them. At my heart.

  I rush to my feet and organize the art supplies on my desk, keeping my back turned to hide my warm cheeks.

  I hear him walk to the doorway, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he says, “Stop being such a girl, giving me the silent treatment and being jealous. I’m trying to apologize.”

  Being a girl? I can decide for myself what to do. “Stop being such a prick.” I whirl around, the water sloshing in my glass.

  “But I’m told that’s my best feature.”

  I should be used to how he talks like this, how he can gets under my skin, but I’m not. And now that he has, I can’t fight back my smile. “You suck at apologies.”

  “So do you.”

  I stroll up to him, ignoring his wicked grin. I lean close, watching his eyes widen as I lick my lips. “I want Thai,” I whisper.

  I slip around Beau, aware that he’s following me into the kitchen. I dump the water down the drain and pause before I turn on the faucet. “And I get to pick the movie.”

  “I don’t remember this being a negotiation.”

  I wash out the cup while he orders, then grab two beers from the fridge. “And I’m in the mood for something really mushy, too,” I say once he’s off the phone. I hand him his beer. “Very girly.”

  Beau chokes on his sip of beer, a grin spreading over his lips as he lowers the bottle and stares me down. Quiet, watchful.

  “Terms of Endearment maybe.” My voice drops lower. “Or The Notebook.”

  His arms tense as though he’s fighting back the urge to reach for me. The air in the kitchen suddenly burns my lungs. He misses his mouth for the next sip, beer running over his lips and down his chin. I want to lick it away, taste his lips. I want to kiss his face until I forget the stupid roommate rules.

  “Missed a spot,” I say, tapping his chin before I dash out of the kitchen.

  I cue up Dirty Dancing, but he only raises his eyebrows, laughs softly, and then, once it arrives, dives into his carton of pad Thai.

  The inches separating us make it feel as though he’s on the other side of the room—it’s too far. His heat wraps around me, and with my belly full, sleep threatens to finally knock me out. I take a long sip of my beer before Beau wraps his arm around my waist, hauling me closer to erase that distance. His other cups over my eyes.

  “You can’t see how they’re dancing,” he whispers. I melt against his chest, too tired to think better of it. “You’re too innocent.” He lets go, and I place my drink on the table. “What are you making me watch?” His question shifts from a soft teasing to something that sounds a lot like wonder.

  I gaze up at him, the movie fading ou
t around us. It’s just the two of us then, the soft light of the TV filling up the dark living room. I’m aware of everything, of how his hand stiffens against my waist, how my heart drums in my ears, how my mouth has suddenly gone dry.

  I wiggle out of his arms and retreat to the opposite side of the couch, cuddling under the blanket. When the movie is finished, he gets up and takes our empty beer bottles and containers into the kitchen.

  “Thanks for the food,” I say, pausing by my door. “And for putting up with—”

  Beau stalks toward me, a faint outline as he cuts through the dark apartment. He crowds me up against the doorway, and I completely forget what I was about to say. I barely remember to breathe.

  His fingers dance over the fringe of my bangs, then trace that annoying curve of my bob that hugs the apples of my cheeks. I wish it would straighten out, but it frames my face like bold parentheses.

  His lips ghost over my skin but never touch. I sink back against the wall for support.

  “Fuck,” he groans, ducking his head by my shoulder. His hand grabs mine, our fingers interlacing when he lifts them up over our heads and tethers us to the wall. “I can’t. But I…” His breaths are as uneven as mine. “God.”

  I arch my body to try to fit against his. I’m a moth, buzzing drunk as it bounces and collides into a light, fixated on the warmth. I want so badly to touch Beau, to kiss him, to fall into his trouble.

  “I missed you.” His lips brush the curve of my ear, and I shiver. “And I’m sorry.”

  I close my eyes at the promise of his kiss, at the mere hint of something incredible. My free hand rises and hovers over the waistband of his sweatpants, ready to skirt his abs if only he’ll kiss me. I need some boundary, some definition of what’s been building between us since the start.

  Beau’s thumb grazes the inside of my wrist in a burning sweep, a marker before his lips lightly touch my throat, hesitant. My pulse speeds up as his mouth travels to my jaw, then my cheekbone.

  Ethan or Reagan—someone—turns on the TV in their room. I wait for a door to open, to have to explain why Beau has me pinned against my door, why we’re about to kiss each other until our lips are numb. Maybe the danger of being caught pushes me. Maybe it’s my own frustration or the fact that Beau doesn’t seem to care much about being caught either. But I can’t stand here and melt and stay stalled. Beau will wash away my colors.

  My free hand tugs his chin toward me, toward my lips.

  My mouth is gentle against his at first, the feel of his lips over mine so overwhelming that I freeze. His hand tightens and hauls me closer, tilting my hips up to meet his. The shock of him against me draws me back to the moment, to the sensations of him. I softly lick the line of his lips until his mouth parts, and he swirls his tongue around mine.

  In between breaths and lips, in between kissing and falling for Beau, I give in to the possibilities of us. He moves like oil paint dries—slow—as if he might change me and needs time to decide the final picture.

  Our hands fall to our sides, and he grabs my ass in the other, pulling me off my feet to rest against his hips. I rock against him. Shamelessly. Heat rolls through me until I release a small sigh into his mouth.

  I’m hot and frustrated. God, I want this to keep going. I don’t care about the rest—about the complications, about rules, or whatever else I should to be worrying about.

  I reach behind me and open my door. “Beau,” I say, my whisper shaking. “Come inside.”

  His mouth stops, pulls away, and then suddenly I’m freefalling into disappointment and landing on my feet.

  “Or don’t,” I say, hoping no one hears. “Don’t go, though. Please.”

  Beau backs away, shaking his head. I wish I could see his face. He’s left me speechless again. He’s gotten under my skin like a bad tattoo, and as much I want to remove it, I can’t without leaving a scar.

  “I can’t,” he whispers before his bedroom door softly closes, then the Black Keys drown out the ringing in my ears. I’m left in the dark hallway, my hands shaking, my knees weak, like I’m back in middle school and swept up in a hopeless crush.

  “I missed you, too,” I answer, knowing he won’t hear.

  I crawl into bed, crushed and still turned on, my heart racing. I knew this was going to happen. I knew and still… I could have sworn tonight he meant everything.

  His bike roars to life in the garage, and then I hear him race out of the driveway until the sound disappears into the night. And I’m left in my bed, left by Beau, left alone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Beau

  Assholes don’t ditch a girl who’s kissing them. I suck at apologies. But I got scared.

  There’s a reason I started hooking up with girls, and it’s not because I’m some fucking hornball. It’s easier if something goes wrong, if I suck in bed. It’s easier because there isn’t a repeat performance. I don’t have to get close to anyone or share the truth or even explain why I can’t get it up sometimes. I don’t have to make excuses for when I’m exhausted or can’t follow along with something or when the world blurs.

  Hiding behind hookups is easier.

  Mati isn’t easy. She’s a walking complication that’s got me twisted up inside. I don’t know if it’s a good idea anymore, don’t know what the hell I was thinking last night, but it had a lot to do with the simple fact that I like Mati Evans and want to kiss her. I want to have her like any other guy my age, without obstacles or explanations or awkwardness. She deserves better. I can’t even apologize without fucking it up and ditching her.

  I’m an asshole and I’m sorry, I text her.

  My phone vibrates a few minutes later with a response. You’re sorry a lot.

  We should do that again. Do over?

  Nothing happened, she replies.

  If I stayed, something was definitely going to fucking happen.

  Are you still apologizing? Because I’m not sure…

  Yes.

  The quick exchange stops. Shit.

  I want to be friends, Beau. That’s all I have time for. No complications.

  This is where I should make a grand gesture or take her on a date maybe. What I want to do is find out where she is and go there, kiss her, take her somewhere quiet, and finish what we started. She can pretend all she wants, but we’re not good at boundaries, even if she does love her rules.

  I’m sorry, I text again.

  Where do you go when you run off?

  Tillamook Beach. I hate that I give that secret up, but she’s good at breaking me apart lately. Where are you?

  French class. Kill me now.

  We’ll try this “friends” thing, Mati, but that kiss…

  Was fucking amazing, she replies back. I know.

  “There a reason you look like a whipped bastard, Grady?” Noah asks.

  I shove my phone back in my pocket and start prepping an order of Khao Man Gai for the guy at the window, not realizing who it is until I hold my hand out for his cash.

  “Coach?” My voice cracks.

  “I’ve been trying to find you, but you’re not on campus.”

  “He dropped out,” Noah chimes in behind me. “Hey, Coach.”

  Shane Gaumond—Coach—is a man who lives up to his rough appearance. He’s a fucking bulldog in the rink and only stopped playing professional hockey after a taking skate to the jugular back in the ‘90s.

  “That’ll be six bucks even,” I repeat again, ignoring them both. If there wasn’t a line behind Shane, I might consider sending a fist in Noah’s direction. He might have saved me from a bad fight freshman year, but I’ve had enough of his shit. If he starts in on Mati, I might finally snap.

  “Here’s six,” Coach repeats, “and you can get your ass outside so I can talk to you.”

  “Sorry,” I whisper to the woman standing behind him. I take his money, then let Noah handle the customers and step outside. If Coach tells you do to something, you do it. It doesn’t matter if I’m on the ice or not.

&nbs
p; He tosses the food down on the picnic table in front of the cart and points his finger at the opposite bench. “Sit, Grady.”

  “Want me to bark, too, or catch a Frisbee?”

  His eyes narrow, and he points again. “Sit.”

  I do, but only to get this visit over with. “What do you want?”

  He stabs the pile of rice and chicken with his fork, not saying anything further. It really pisses me off.

  “Look, I’m at work—”

  “I want you to coach hockey with me.”

  I push myself up, my hands braced on the table. “I’ll make this quick and easy. Fuck no, Coach.”

  “And I’m going to ask again, but this time you’re gonna sit your ass back down and listen to everything I have to say.”

  When I don’t move, he slams his hand over the picnic table. “Christ, Grady, all I’m asking is for you to hear me out and not act like a fucking brat. Sit.”

  I catch Noah watching us out of the corner of my eye, then peek over my shoulder to the long line of people. “Fine, but make it short. We have customers.”

  “And you don’t want to upset them. Can’t lose your job now that you’ve quit school.”

  “I didn’t quit.” Not officially anyway.

  “I know what you’re doing, and you’re lucky I didn’t track you down earlier. You’re fucking everything up, son.”

  Son? Not even my dad made a big deal out of this. So to hell with the lecture. I tune Coach out and grab a cucumber slice before he drowns his plate with sauce.

  “All I’m asking is for you to help coach a couple of afternoons at the arena for the youth league. That’s it. And since you have time now…”

  “I’m not stepping in a rink again. I don’t care if you ask me to help coach the fucking Olympic team.”

  Of course, he doesn’t back down. Bulldogs never do.

  “Give me a good reason,” he says before taking a gulp of his soda.

  I stare at him, refusing to admit the truth, out in the world where people can hear. It makes it more real, makes it clearer to me that I’m scared shitless, and that’s really something I prefer to keep quiet.