by Ginger Scott
At some point, while reading, I started to cry. There’s a single tear waiting to fall from my eye, and I let it go. I read the entire message twice and then I delete it from my phone because I don’t want to be tempted to read it again, and I don’t want Rowe to see it. I know there’s a chance she’ll realize what she’s done eventually, but I will never bring it up. These words were private—not even meant for Josh. But reading them was just the slap in my face that I needed.
Before I can stop myself—maybe before the sense has enough time to settle in my head—I sprint from the ball fields, through campus, and to the dorms. I take the steps two at a time until I get to our floor, and I’m not even careful or quiet when I pound on her door. Light shines underneath it, so I know I’m not waking anyone; I take a deep breath when I see the shadow interrupt the light.
“Nate, it’s okay. I’m not that embarrassed. But if you bring it up again…” She’s talking through the door, and I can tell she’s looking at me through the peephole. I brace both of my arms on either side of the frame and press my forehead against the wood.
“Just open the damn door, Rowe,” I say, unable to contain the need building inside of me.
“Nate, I’m leaving tomorrow. Let’s just talk when I get back.”
“Rowe, I swear to god, if you don’t open the door I’m going to break it,” I know I’m probably frightening her, and I don’t want to. But I need her to act—I can’t have her hide, not now.
When I hear the lock twist, I grab the handle and turn it to push her door open before she or I have any time to react and think better of what I’m about to do. She’s wearing a dry shirt but the same small cotton shorts, and her hair is still damp and long against her back. Her eyes are wide while she stumbles backward a few tiny steps as I barrel into her room. I scan it quickly to make sure she’s alone, not that it would matter or stop me, but she is.
I close the distance between us quickly, and before she has time to protest, I reach my fingers deep into her wet hair with both of my hands, lifting her face toward mine just enough for my lips to touch hers, and I kiss her hard. I can feel her body shake at first, and her hands press lightly against my chest, but they stop fighting me quickly. I suck at her top lip until it’s firmly between both of mine, leaving just enough space for my tongue to brush against hers, and when I feel her tongue move against mine, I pull her even closer into me.
Her hands grab at the back of my shirt, almost like she’s fighting herself, until finally she submits, and I feel the smoothness of her palms and fingers trail up my back, to my chest, and over my shoulder until she’s grabbing my hair, pushing my mouth into hers even harder.
I walk her backward until her body is pressed flat against the wall, and I hold her hands hostage against it, her arms trapped along the sides of her body, while I press kisses along her neck and chin. I don’t want to push things, but I need to make sure she feels me, everything I’m feeling. I know I shouldn’t have read that message she sent, but I’m glad I did. It was all the proof I needed that there was this opening here, however small, and I need to step through it, crawl inside her heart. Otherwise, she’s just going to continue to fight to keep me out.
My body is pressed against hers, and I can feel her aching for me, so I slide my hands along her collarbone, trailing my fingers down her neck and shoulders until my thumbs find the hardness of her nipples. When I touch her there, she moans, and my will to stop nearly dissolves.
“Where’s Cass?” I breathe heavily into her ear.
“Out. With Paige.” She’s panting, her hands digging into my shoulders and her forehead pressed against mine, her eyes closed tightly.
“Look at me,” I say, needing to know she’s feeling this. I don’t want her forcing herself to do something. I want her to want to be here, to remember this, to obsess over it until she comes back to me. I want her to want more—more of me.
“I will wait for you,” I say, and her breath catches quickly, her eyes watering almost instantly. “Do you hear me?”
She nods yes. Her movement is small, but it is there.
“For as long as it takes. Forever if I have to. I’ll wait forever, okay?” Everything base and male inside me wants to lock her door and strip her clothes away so I can taste and touch every inch of her body until I come undone inside of her—but, I know that asking anything more from her would be me being selfish. And she already feels selfish enough for both of us. So I’ll wait, just like I said I would.
I kiss her one more time, this time slower and more gently, letting my thumbs brush across her cheeks while her lips quiver under my touch. I step away from her, and see her phone sitting on her desk, so I pick it up and program my number in with her contacts and then hand it to her so she sees.
“I want you to text me when you land…so I know you’re okay,” I say, squeezing my hands around hers and kissing her knuckles before I back out of her room and go back to mine.
“You get shit figured out?” Ty says when I walk in, his back to me and the light on at his desk while he flips through a yellow legal pad full of notes.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I did. I’m just gonna hit the showers. I’ll be back in a few,” I say, grabbing my clean sweats and the long-sleeved T-shirt Rowe wore the night she slept in my arms.
I pause at the division in the hallway, and I look at the door to her room, the light still shining underneath. I hope she’ll sleep tonight, but if she doesn’t, I hope it’s not because of regret. I walk quietly down the hall—careful not to make any noise that would make her look outside—and I hang my shirt on her doorknob. Then I step away silently until I’m sure the coast is clear. I let out a heavy sigh, and make my way to the showers.
After thirty minutes of cold water, I finally feel calmed down. I shut the water off, dry myself, and pull on my sweats to go back to my room. When I pass her hall, I pause, just to see, and the shirt is gone.
Chapter 17
Rowe
Nate was right. By the third play through, I had all of the words memorized to “Sweet Caroline.” The guy sitting next to me even caught me mouthing the words during takeoff and followed along with the ba ba ba part in the middle. It made me laugh, and before I knew it, we were soaring above the clouds.
I wouldn’t say I like flying. But I think as long as my iPod is fully charged, I should be able to survive my trip back to school. However, I would prefer to fly non-stop this time. My parents saved money with this flight, but I had to sit at a gate in Denver for about two hours.
Coming home was strange. I’ve only been gone for a month, but I feel like so much is different. Maybe it’s me. My mom did wait up for me, and we all sat at the kitchen table and ate slices of an apple pie she bought at Kraft’s Market.
Sleeping in my bed was strange, too. Before I left for McConnell, I didn’t think I would ever be able to find comfort on a strange mattress, in a strange city, with a stranger as a roommate. But I did. And now I think I slept better with Cass snoring a few feet away from me than I did here behind my own bedroom door.
But my best dreams came from the night I stayed with Nate. I wore his shirt to bed last night. I sent him a short text because it was late when I landed, but I think he had been waiting, because he wrote back right away, and said he’d talk to me in the morning.
I sent a text to Cass, too. She told me to take my time coming back, not because she wouldn’t miss me, but because she was having a full weekend of sleepovers with Ty. I wanted more sleepovers too, and was a little envious that I wasn’t there to take advantage of Nate being alone in his room.
The scent of my dad’s eggs and sausage spills down the hall and has me climbing out of bed early. I wheel my suitcase out with me, parking it at the laundry room, hoping someone will notice. When I enter the kitchen, my dad slides a plate my way.
“I see you brought laundry home for me,” he says.
“You’re just so much better at it than I am,” I smile as I douse my plate with syrup for my saus
ages.
“Yeah, yeah. That’s what your mother says, too. I think you two are in cahoots on this whole plot to domesticate me.”
“Honey, you came domesticated. That’s why I married you,” my mom smiles as she slides onto the stool next to me and digs into her breakfast. “Mmmmm, hey. What’s this?” My mom pulls at the sleeve of Nate’s shirt, and I can feel my face redden immediately. I’m not sure how to explain this, and I’m not very good at lying.
“Baseball shirt,” I say, quickly stuffing my face with another bite. I can tell by the way my mother’s eyebrow is cocked that she’s suspicious, and she waits until my dad’s back is turned to drill me a little more.
“It looks like a boy’s baseball shirt,” she whispers. I smile and shrug and keep eating, doing my best not to look her straight in the eyes. That’s how she gets me, the eye contact. I think it’s one of those skills from being a professor.
“Hmmmmm, we’ll talk about this more later,” she says, and I hope like hell we won’t.
My dad already has my laundry in the works, and my mom has settled into the large recliner chair in the living room with a stack of papers on her lap for grading. Normally, this is where I sift through the channels until there’s a movie or a game I want to watch on the screen, but nothing is capturing my attention today. I did bring home some reading, so I open my philosophy book to the chapter on logic and reasoning.
I’m able to concentrate for about thirty minutes, but my mind keeps drifting to my phone, waiting for it to be afternoon Oklahoma time. How quickly my life has centered around Oklahoma time. My mom is completely engrossed in her grading, so when the hour comes I can text Nate in private, I grab my book and head back to my bedroom.
Coming up with the right words seems impossible. All I thought about over the last forty-eight hours was our kiss—and how very much I wanted that to happen again. I can’t write that, though. I mean, I guess I could. But being forward like that doesn’t feel like me.
How’s the tournament?
That’s what I settle on. The lamest three words possible—I may as well be a sports reporter. I checked the schedule while I waited at the airport, and I knew there was a break between games. McConnell plays tonight, so I was hoping I could catch Nate during a lunch break.
After five minutes of waiting, I start to get antsy, so I pull out my purse and sift through some old receipts and scraps that I can clean out and throw away. When I stumble on his mom’s business card, I decide to check out her website. The first thing that flashes on my laptop screen when I type it in is a series of photos—intricate metalwork in brilliant colors, the pieces all twisted together to form bodies, some human, some animal. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.
She has three galleries, one in New Orleans and two in California, and the more I click into her pages, the more impressed I am. I could never do anything like this, not with these hands. I’m too nervous, and I question too much. Every single piece she showcases has a story. There aren’t any words written with the photos, but I can tell—I can read the story in every nuance and bend of the metal.
33! Miss me already?
Nate’s message brings my attention back to the here and now, and the playful tone of his words has an instant smile on my face.
Not yet. Check with me later, maybe I’ll miss you then.
I start to rethink my message after I send it. After Nate told me he’d wait for me, I’m not sure he’ll appreciate my joke. I’m about to say that I’m kidding when he writes back.
Yeah, I don’t miss you either. I do kind of miss my shirt, though. That was a bonehead move—I should have given you one of Ty’s.
I’m so relieved he’s joking with me. I also can’t help but look down at the letters across my chest and run my hands over the fabric that was on his body before it was on mine. It still smells like him, whatever his cologne is, and I want to drown in its scent.
That would have been better. Maybe his shirts don’t smell so bad.
I pull the collar up and breathe in deeply while I wait for his response, unable to keep my lips from smiling.
Well, I did roll around in crap before I gave it to you. That could be what you smell.
He’s so damn fast with his response that I laugh out loud when I read it, quickly covering my mouth. I don’t want anyone interrupting me, and I would be content to lie here for the rest of the weekend and text back and forth with Nate.
I’m kidding. I don’t really roll in crap.
I laugh again. I miss him. I miss him a lot, and it feels good inside my chest to feel this way about someone. I wish I had a picture of him, so while I think of what to write back, I Google him on my laptop just to see what comes up. It’s mostly baseball pictures, and he’s usually wearing his mask, but I can still tell it’s him, and my head gets a little fuzzy looking at him.
Me: I just Googled you.
Nate: That’s creepy. I might have to report you.
Me: Just want to make sure you don’t show up in the tabloids with some bimbo while I’m gone.
Nate: Just Paige. I helped move some of her things.
Me: That was nice of you. No staring at her boobs.
Nate: Well, I am a bit of a boob man.
Me: Uh, yeah. I know.
Nate: You have nice boobs.
Me: Oh my god!
Nate: Sorry.
Nate: Not sorry :-)
Sometime during our texting, I crawled under my covers to hide. Nate has a way of making me blush in the most wonderful way. My heartbeat is kicking in every part of my body, but the rush is so addictive. I’m not sure what this feeling is, but I like it so very much, and I know Nate’s the cause.
Me: Can you talk?
Nate: Dialing you right now.
He really is, because my phone rings while I’m still reading his words. My heart skips a beat before I answer.
“Hi,” I say, biting my lip and burying my face into my pillow. I can’t wait to hear his voice, but I’m also scared because I have no idea what to say.
“Boobs.” He breaks the ice immediately, and we’re both laughing. I miss him even more. “Sorry, just had to one-up you. You know me.”
“Yeah, how’s that pink room working out for you?” I say back, falling easily into our routine.
“Splendidly, thank you very much. Ty and I are going to add more purple—we think it really POPS!”
“Did you just say splendidly?”
“Your issue is with splendidly and NOT pops?”
Oh my god, I love him. Oh my god! I love him! No, I don’t love him. But I could. I want to. Maybe I already do? I don’t know him enough. You’re supposed to know someone more, have dates and more kisses and hand holding, work up to love. I like him. There, that’s it. I like him—a lot. Shit! I’m not talking.
“Where’s your head at Thirty-three?” My head is up my ass, that’s where it is. I have to get a grip, so I sit up and carry my laptop over to my desk. Right, like a more formal posture will suddenly make me act normal.
“Sorry, I thought my dad needed something,” I lie. I hate lying.
“When do you come home?” His voice is suddenly softer, and I can tell we’re done making jokes, which suddenly has me sweating.
“Sunday, around three by the time the cab gets me to campus,” I say, my heart once again thumping loudly in my ear.
“Can I pick you up? I mean, I don’t really have a car. But I can borrow one. You know, from one of the guys? I’d…I’d really like to pick you up.”
“I’d like that, too,” I say, my forehead flat on my desk now. I should not have left the comfort of hiding under my blanket.
“Hey, Rowe?” His voice seems nervous, not like him.
“Yeah?” I’m not like me either.
“I gotta go. But…” I can hear him breathing. I can actually hear him thinking, and I’m with him, on the edge, just waiting for his words to be what I want. What I think I want. “I miss you. That’s all.”
“I mis
s you too,” I say, hugging my body tightly with the sleeves of his shirt.
This…is falling.
My head is trapped with thoughts and fantasies about Nate. We texted a few more times after his tournament Saturday, but nothing as meaningful as the words we exchanged that morning. I let down my guard with him, and it was scary, but I survived. And I want to let him in more. I want to let him in completely.
The Stanton Sunday morning routine is much like Saturday’s. My dad has my laundry folded nicely in my suitcase, and my mom and I are quickly polishing off my dad’s breakfast, being sure to gush about his amazing cooking abilities. It’s part of our shtick, pumping my dad’s ego so he’ll continue to take care of everything in the house. I don’t think we really need to do it, because my father is the kind of man who would do anything in the world to see his women happy. But we do it anyway, maybe more for us than him.
