by McKinley May
"Guess it's just me and you, Baby Blue." I lift a brow. "Unless you wanna join them?"
"So tempting," she says sardonically, "but I think I'll pass."
"Good choice. Odds are they'll get kicked outta here within the hour."
"That's generous." She swivels her head, watching as Mark does the chicken dance on the table top. "I give them thirty minutes tops."
With a grin, I motion for her to follow me. "Come on."
I lead us through the busy establishment, scouring the place for somewhere to sit. It takes a few minutes, but we finally find an unoccupied spot.
The pink, heart-shaped table is squeezed into an isolated corner of the ice cream shop, one small bench behind it. A sparkling chandelier dangles over the private space, a few rose-scented candles burning in the center of the table.
Kinda awkward for the two of us, but everything else is taken.
"This okay?" I tip my chin at the booth. "You better say yes 'cause the only other option is eating outside on the curb, and I'm pretty sure both of our asses would prefer the cushioned seat."
When I smirk, she emits a contagious laugh.
"This is perfect."
We squeeze onto the upholstered bench seat, side by side on the red vinyl. Sydney gets comfy, sets her cup on the table, then gives me an appreciative glance.
"It's so quiet and cozy back here."
"Yeah." I nod in agreement, the hustle and bustle of the main room just a distant white noise. "It's nice, huh?"
"It is." Her eyes venture from the chandelier to the candles before landing on our lower bodies, just inches apart in the small booth. "It's very...intimate. Sort of feels like we're on a date."
My chest instantly squeezes at her undeniable observation. A deep, yearning feeling forms in the pit of my stomach, a crazy thought accompanying the sensation—part of me wishes we were on a date right now.
What the fuck, dude?
The other part of me strongly disagrees. No fucking way I should be having that reaction to the thought of wining and dining Sydney Steel.
I clear my throat, push the intrusive feelings aside, and jerk a thumb at her ice cream.
"You gonna eat that monstrosity or let it melt everywhere?"
The abrupt subject change works.
She digs into the concoction and takes a massive bite. After she swallows, she puts on a show with exaggerated moans and ridiculous exclamations, like it's the absolute best thing she's ever tasted.
"Mhmmmm mhmm! Amazing. Incredible. Life changing!"
I roll my eyes at the spectacle. "You're so full of it, Steel."
"It's not an act!" She pushes the cup in front of me. "Try it."
"I'm good. Thanks, though."
"Cammm."
"Sydddd."
When I imitate her begging voice, she lets out a gasp.
"Oh God. Do I really sound that whiny?"
"Nah." I shake my head. "You sound much worse."
"Do not!" She grins and pokes my side. "Now you have to try it just to make up for that comment."
She grabs her cup, fishes out a bite, and holds it in front of my face. "Here. It's really small. It won't kill you."
"You just don't quit, do you?"
"I'm not a quitter, Cameron. You should know that by now."
"Stubborn as shit." I smile and shake my head.
"And proud of it!" Her laughter rings in the air. "Now open up!"
Opening wide, I let her shove the spoon inside. The combination of cinnamon and fruit and chocolate is just...not palatable.
After a beat, she pushes her head forward, awaiting my verdict.
"Welllll? What do you think? Good? Great? A frozen masterpiece that should be a staple at all ice cream shops nationwide?"
I rub my jaw. "I choose D: None of the above."
Her face drops in mock defeat and I nudge her shoulder.
"Chin up. It's not as nasty as I thought it'd be," I assure her. "Just not something I'd ever put in my mouth again."
"It'd be better with the Reese's," she insists. "You'd be singing a much different tune if you had the full package."
"I'm sure I would—"
My sarcastic response is interrupted by a square piece of paper falling onto our table.
"What's that?" Sydney asks.
"Dunno." I pick it up and flip it over. There's an image of a college-aged guy and girl, both smiling up at me. "Looks like a Polaroid picture."
She squints. "Where'd it come from?"
We glance behind us, just now noticing the plethora of pics taped to the wall. Some are shiny and recently taken. Others are obviously old based off the subjects' fashion choices and the faded coloring of the photos. Despite the multiple decades these photos cover, each of them have one thing in common: they're all taken in this exact booth.
Sydney plucks the image from my hand, grinning at the happy couple cuddled up with their desserts. "Awh, how cute. It says it's from 1972. Jeez. This place has been here for a while."
"Oh shit." I point at a Polaroid a few rows up. "I think that's Liam and Ellie. See them?"
She follows my index finger, beaming when she recognizes our friends. "It is! They look like babies! That must've been their freshman year."
"I wonder if anyone else we know is up there."
"There are so many pics," Syd says in awe. We continue scanning the images. "Check out this guy with the '80s hair-do. He's on a date with four girls. Four!"
I laugh. "What a stud."
"Stud? Ugh. More like total player." Sydney playfully scrunches her nose before spotting another eye-catching image. "Now this dude's a stud. That is one impressive handlebar mustache. He must've been the leader of a motorcycle gang back in the day..."
As the night progresses, we chat about soccer, commiserate about classes, and make up ridiculous shit about the couples in the Polaroids. Sydney's elaborate stories and hilarious vocal impressions have me laughing so hard I think I'm good on core work for the next week.
To the surprise of absolutely nobody, the boys are asked to leave the premises after forty-five minutes of obnoxious behavior. Weston tracks down me and Syd to let us know it's time to leave, but we tell him we'll walk home. He offers to drop Bev off at Coach's—I owe you one, W—and starts to head back to wrangle the kids. Just before he goes, he takes a long look at the heart-shaped table, hits me with a warning glance, then pretends to light a match.
My response?
A not-so-subtle scratch of my temple with my middle finger.
After he leaves, Baby Blue and I enjoy the rest of our evening.
Hours go by, at least two or three based on the melted wax candle on the table, but it feels like minutes. Conversation flows easily, laughter bounces off the walls, our natural camaraderie with one another evident.
Syd's just a fucking blast to be around.
I'd never get bored of hanging out with this girl because she's so damn entertaining.
And that has her confession from earlier playing in my mind on repeat.
I don't even realize I'm staring her down until she gives me a funny look.
"What?" She cocks her head. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Because," I begin, "I still think you're fucking with me."
"About the ice cream flavor? No." She shakes her head. "I really do think it's the perfect combi—"
"Christ." I cut her off with an amused chuckle. "Not that."
"Oh." She releases a flustered laugh before her dark brows pull together. "Then what is it?"
"How the hell have you never had a boyfriend?"
My blunt question has her eyes going wide in surprise.
"Um, I don't really know," she admits as she scrapes the remnants of her dessert from the bottom of her yellow paper cup. "Maybe because I'm such a tomboy? That's definitely a possibility. Boys weren't exactly lining up to date me in high school. Usually when they approached me, it was to talk about sports, like 'good game last night' or 'you wanna join our fantasty footb
all league?'." Her shrug is one of defeat. "I've always felt like one of the guys, not the one the guys wanted."
I frown. "Their fucking loss."
Sydney gives me an intrigued glance. "What do you mean?"
"If I'd gone to your school, I would've pursued you like crazy."
"Cameron, come on." She rolls her eyes, laughing like she thinks I'm just messing around. "No you wouldn't."
"Yeah I would, Sydney," I state without an ounce of hesitation.
My serious tone has the disbelief in her gaze immediately dissipating. She tilts her head, navy eyes studying me for a moment.
"Really?"
"One hundred percent," I respond. "You're confident, beautiful, talented as fuck. Any dude with half a brain would kill to have you on his arm."
Damn.
I shouldn't be thinking these thoughts, let alone voicing them out loud, but shit.
It's the freakin' truth.
"What about now?" she asks softly. So softly I barely hear her.
"What?"
Blinking up at me beneath thick lashes, she bites down on her bottom lip and repeats the question.
"You said you would've pursued me back then. But what about—"
"Everything all good over here, folks?"
We both flinch at the unexpected interruption. A man in his mid-sixties is at the head of our table, wearing a Mr. Freezy's apron and a big, bright smile.
"Everything's great," I assure him. Sydney nods in agreement and his toothy grin grows bigger.
"Fantastic." He pulls out a vintage Polaroid camera. "Let me get your picture for the date wall. A gorgeous couple like yourselves will go front and center."
"Oh no, we're not a cou—"
"Go on," he demands, ignoring our reluctance. Lifting the camera to his eye, he motions us together. "Squeeze in now."
Leaving no room for argument, we obey his commands.
What harm will one little picture do?
Sydney scoots closer, her coconut conditioner flooding my senses and sending a surge of electricity down my spine.
As she tucks herself against me, so close I can feel the vibrations of her heartbeat, I finally realize Weston's "playing with fire" analogy isn't exactly far-fetched.
Because I'd be a damn liar if I said I didn't feel that spark. That flicker of heat deep in my chest, a small flame burning, slow and steady.
But whatever.
Not a big deal.
I can blow out the blaze anytime I want.
"Say Mr. Freezy's!"
I wrap an arm around Sydney's shoulder, pulling her even closer. Her breasts are flush against my side, her hand splayed across my abdomen as we smile for the camera.
Yeah...
I'll blow out the flame.
Just not today.
16
Everyone in Huntington Hall is staring.
Forks stacked with syrup-soaked pancakes and spoons overflowing with yogurt pause in mid-air, their owners dumbfounded as I make my way through the crowded cafeteria.
It's not actually me their mouths are gaping at, though.
It's Crimson.
The perplexed glances and slack-jawed expressions used to make me uneasy.
Like, for reals uncomfortable.
But after enough breakfast trips to the cafe with my eccentric roommate, the excess attention's become second nature.
And on this particular morning?
We are drawing a lot of excess attention.
Her ripped-up, polka-dot clown suit, the fake blood dripping from plastic fangs...
Crimson the Killer Clown is every child's nightmare come to life.
I thought I was immune to her scary costumes—constant exposure will do that to ya—but this one is seriously jarring. It has made for a very entertaining morning; the reactions of others have been hilarious.
A professor screamed bloody murder and dropped her coffee on the floor the second we entered the cafeteria. She gave us a wide breadth as we ambled past, her face paling at the sight.
When Crimson held out her plate for a helping of scrambled eggs, the older gentleman working the station nearly jumped out of his shoes. He served her with shaky hands, then crossed himself with the spatula as he sent a prayer up above.
And now, as we take a seat at a small table for two, an innocent-looking girl can't tear her terrified eyes away from my roommate.
"What are you looking at?" Crimson glares at her spectator. "Is there a problem?"
I still don't know if it's an act or if she's truly that unaware of the effect her personal style has on everyone else, but she always seems genuinely confused at the strange looks she's garnering.
"No! I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me!"
The girl quickly switches her attention to her bowl of oatmeal, inspecting the golden grains like they're the most fascinating thing she's ever seen. Anything to avoid confrontation with Crimson the Clown.
A wise move on her part.
"How was your History test last night?" I ask as I dig into my plate of waffles.
Crimson removes the lifelike fangs and sets them on the table. When my face twists into a grossed-out grimace, she gets the hint and wraps the teeth in a napkin.
"It was fine." She stuffs a piece of bagel into her mouth and chews. "I cast a spell beforehand, so I'm anticipating a 100% when we receive our grades back this afternoon."
"Nice. Mind giving me a little magical assistance for my Algebra exam next week?"
"I'll see what I can conjure up."
As we eat our food, we fall into easy conversation about school.
Despite the fact that my roommate is a little on the, uh, strange side, we've actually developed a friendship. We couldn't be more different if we tried, but that just makes our relationship all the more interesting. She teaches me about her extensive collection of crystals and incense, I fill her in on my soccer training and work-outs, and we have a standing tradition of eating breakfast together every Friday morning before our 9:00 a.m.'s.
After the necessary boundaries and room rules were set in stone, things between us have been fine and dandy.
Well...as "fine and dandy" as they can be when rooming with a self-proclaimed witch.
I'm still worried one of the experimental concoctions brewing in her creepy cauldron is gonna poison us before semester's end.
"I have something for you," Crimson suddenly announces. She shoves a hand inside her massive pocket and retrieves four or so rectangular pieces of paper. "Here."
Before I can decipher what they are, she starts to explain.
"They're tickets for Midnight Massacre Haunted House. Good for any weekend in October."
"Oh! Awesome. Thanks!"
"The crew's been preparing day and night for the last few months and now it's finally time to frighten the public." A venemous sneer curves her lips. "I'm looking forward to scaring all the children."
"Yeah, emotionally scarring kids for life is quite the adrenaline rush," I mumble with a sarcastic laugh.
She points a claw at the tickets in my hand. "Invite your brother or your teammates or—"
Her sentence is interrupted by a brown paper sack hitting the table right in front of me. For Sydney is scribbled on the bag in black sharpie.
I look up, puzzled, but when I see Cameron walking past our table, that confusion morphs into intrigue. An involuntary smile pops up on my face as I watch him exchange a fist bump with Weston and Liam before taking a seat.
Crimson eyes the gift with suspicion. "What is that?"
"Not sure. Let's find out."
I open the crinkly sack and peek inside. The moment I spot the present, a light laugh escapes me.
"Well?"
I pull out the shiny orange bag and hold it up in the air.
"Reese's Pieces?" Crimson's forehead wrinkles. "I don't get it."
"It's kind of an inside joke. I guess you had to be there."
She shrugs. "Invite your boyfriend, too. Haunted house dates are underrated; you'd
be surprised how much bonding occurs when you're scared half to death."
"Boyfriend? No!" I immediately deny the label, my head shaking back and forth so intently I'm on the verge of giving myself whiplash. "Cameron Collins is not my boyfriend."
"Hmmm." Her skepticism is on full display. "I sense something more intimate between the two of you."
"Your spidey-senses are broken, then, because we're friends," I emphasize. "Good friends."
My eyes stray towards Cameron's table. I watch as he chats with the boys, trying to catch his attention so I can give him a very friendly thanks for the candy type of wave. A simple exchange of pleasantries between pals.
Yup, yup. Nothing to see but platonic friendship over here, folks!
But when his gray gaze meets mine, the lightning bolt of jitters that zips through my body isn't exactly platonic.
I point at the treat and mouth a quick thanks. He's still in mid-convo with Weston, but he manages to shoot me a subtle grin followed by a cute wink.
No...a sexy wink.
My heart starts thrumming wildly, an erratic, pulsing beat that's usually reserved for the middle of a soccer match.
Okay, who the fuck am I kidding?
My reaction's not platonic in any shape or form.
You know what else isn't very chaste?
The swarm of butterflies I get whenever he sends me a text.
My new obsession with Sundays and the way I look forward to them all week long.
And the nightly dreams starring the muscular goalkeeper? The ones I've been having for quite some time?
Yeah, those freakin' dreams are a far cry from innocent. The risqué things he does to me, the naughty acts I perform on him...
Mariana would die if she saw the pornographic visuals that plague my slumber.
I seriously shouldn't be having these dirty fantasies about my brother's best friend, but the more time I spend with Cameron, the more I find myself struggling to keep my composure.
Especially after his confession at Mr. Freezy's.
"I would have pursued you like crazy".
"Friends, you say?" Crimson's voice snaps me back to reality. "Are you sure about that?"
