Regretting You

by Hoover, Colleen

  The bell rings, so Jonah returns to his desk. But he seems distracted as he starts to explain the lesson for the day. He looks tired. He looks like he’s over it.

  It disappoints me a little. Sometimes I feel like being an adult is so much easier than being a teenager, because you should have it all figured out as an adult. You’re more emotionally mature, so you can handle crises better. But seeing Jonah right now as he tries to pretend he’s not distracted, and watching my mother try to navigate her life as if her will still exists, is all the proof I need that grown-ups might not have their shit figured out any more than we do. They just wear more-convincing masks.

  That disappoints me.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I wait until Jonah’s back is to the classroom before pulling my phone out and setting it on my desk. I swipe the screen and read Miller’s text.

  Miller: I’m off work today. Want to work on the video submission?

  Me: Yes, but I really don’t want to be around my mother right now. Can we do it at your house?

  Miller: Sure. Come over around 5. I need to take Gramps to the doctor at 3 so I won’t see you after school.

  Miller is on the porch waiting for me when I pull into his driveway at ten after five. He jogs toward my car and hops into the passenger seat before I even have time to get out.

  “Gramps is asleep,” he says. “Let’s go to Munchies first and let him rest for a while.”

  “What’s Munchies?”

  Miller looks at me like I’ve just blown his mind. “You’ve never been to Munchies? The food truck?”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  He’s completely taken aback. “You mean you’ve never had the Mac?”

  “Is that a food?”

  He laughs and pulls on his seat belt. “Is that a food,” he mimics. “I hope you’re hungry, because you’re about to have the best experience of your life.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting at a picnic table, staring at the camera Miller propped up with a tripod right before he went to order our food. It’s pointed right at me. He said he’s going to start filming random things when we’re together because it’ll be good for the film project to have extra footage. Or B-roll, as Miller referred to it. He already talks like a director sometimes.

  He told me never to stare directly at the camera because we need to pretend it’s not there, so of course I stare at it and make faces the entire time he’s in line at the food truck.

  I’ve honestly never seen Miller this enthusiastic over something. I’m actually more jealous of the sandwich than I’ve ever been of Shelby. He’s that excited about it. Apparently, the Mac is a grilled cheese sandwich stuffed with macaroni and cheese that was boiled in holy water.

  Okay, so holy water isn’t really an ingredient, but with the way he talks about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were.

  When he approaches the table, he sets the tray in front of me, kneeling down on one knee like he’s presenting a queen with a gift. I laugh and pull the tray from him, grabbing one of the sandwiches.

  He sits next to me, rather than across from me, and straddles the bench. I like it. I like how much he wants to be near me.

  When our sandwiches are unwrapped, he waits to take a bite of his because he wants to watch my reaction to my first bite. I bring the sandwich to my mouth. “I feel pressured to like it now.”

  “You’re gonna love it.”

  I take a bite and then rest my arms on the table while I chew. It’s delicious. Not only is it the crispiest, most buttery toast I’ve ever tasted, but the mac and cheese is so warm and gooey I feel like rolling my eyes.

  But I shrug because I like teasing him. “It’s okay.”

  He leans forward in disbelief. “It’s . . . okay?”

  I nod. “Tastes like a sandwich.”

  “We’re breaking up.”

  “Bread’s a little stale.”

  “I hate you.”

  “Cheese tastes processed.”

  He sets his sandwich down, grabs his phone, and opens Instagram. “I’m unfollowing you again.”

  I laugh after swallowing my first bite and then peck him on his cheek. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  He grins. “Promise?”

  I nod. Then I shake my head. “It’s second to how you taste after eating suckers.”

  “Good enough for me.” He picks up his sandwich and takes a bite. He groans, and the sound he makes causes me to redden a little. I don’t think he notices, because he tears off a miniscule piece of bread and reaches across the table, placing it next to an ant. The ant eventually carries it away.

  Miller kisses my cheek, then takes another bite of his sandwich. “You thought about what kind of film we’re going to make?”

  I shake my head and wipe my lips with a napkin. He reaches up and brushes something away from my mouth with his thumb.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” he says.

  “We have three months.”

  “That’s not a lot of time. It’s a lot of work.”

  “Dang,” I say with a sarcastic undertone. “Guess that means we’re gonna have to spend a lot of time together.”

  He’s holding his sandwich with one hand and rubbing my leg with his other while we eat. He’s super affectionate. And he’s not afraid to kiss me in public. Or in front of a camera.

  I suspect we’ll be getting detention more than once this year.

  “Stop looking at it,” he says, referring to the camera.

  “I can’t help it,” I say, looking away. “It’s just right there in our faces.”

  “And you want to be an actress?”

  I nudge him with my elbow. “That’s different. This”—I wave to the camera—“is awkward.”

  “Get used to it because I want a lot of footage to work with. I want to win this year. Last time I submitted, we got fourth place.”

  “In the whole region?”

  “The state.”

  “What? Miller, that’s fantastic!”

  He shrugs. “Not really. Fourth place cut deep. They only post the top three finalists to YouTube. No one cares about fourth place. I decided me and you are going for gold.” He leans in and kisses me, then pulls back and takes another bite of his sandwich. “Does it bother you that I kiss you so much?” He’s talking with his mouth full, but it’s kind of adorable.

  “What a strange thing for a person to be bothered by. Of course not.”

  “Good.”

  “I like that you’re an affectionate person.”

  He shakes his head, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “That’s just it, though. I’m not. I wasn’t like this with Shelby.”

  “Why is it different with me?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure that out. I just crave you more than I’ve ever craved anything in my life.”

  That comment makes me smile, but I raise a teasing eyebrow. “I don’t know, Miller. You were pretty damn stoked for your sandwich.”

  He has half a sandwich still left to eat, but as soon as I say that, he stands up and walks over to a nearby trash can and tosses it inside. He sits back down. “That sandwich meant nothing to me. I’d take your tongue in my mouth over that sandwich any day.”

  I crinkle up my nose and pull back. “Was that supposed to be sexy? Because it wasn’t.”

  He laughs and pulls me closer to him, pressing his mouth to mine. It’s not a sweet kiss, though. This one is full of tongue. And . . . bread.

  I push him away. “You still have food in your mouth!” I fake gag and take a sip of my drink.

  His drink is already empty, so he takes mine from me and drinks some of it.

  A moment later, he looks longingly over at the trash can and sighs. “I threw it away to make a point, but I really wanted to eat the rest of it.” He looks back at me. “Would it be gross if I dug it back out of the trash?”

  I laugh. “Yes. And I’d never kiss you again.” I slide him the rest of my sandwich. �
�Here. You can eat the rest of mine. I’m not even hungry.”

  He takes my sandwich and eats it, then finishes off my drink. He gathers all the trash and throws it away, then returns to the picnic table and straddles the bench again, sliding me closer to him. He presses his forehead to mine and smiles, then pulls back, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear. “I think I’m psychic. I knew we would be good together, Clara.”

  “You aren’t psychic. We’ve been together for less than a week. It could go downhill before tomorrow.”

  “It won’t, though. I have a good feeling about us.”

  “That’s just attraction. It’s not a sixth sense.”

  “You think that’s all this is? Attraction?”

  “What else would it be? We barely know each other.”

  “I gave up half a sandwich for you. That’s way more than attraction.”

  I laugh at his persistence. “You’re right. That was a pretty grand gesture.” I lean in and kiss him, but when I start to pull back, he moves forward, unwilling to break the kiss. I turn my body toward him and lean into his mouth.

  I normally wouldn’t be this affectionate with him in public, but we’re the only ones out here. For a food truck that makes such amazing sandwiches, I’m surprised it’s not busier than it is.

  Miller finally pulls away from me and glances at the camera. “We should stop. You’re underage, and I could get arrested if this turns into a porno.”

  I love how much he makes me laugh when I don’t feel like laughing.

  Before we left the food truck, Miller ordered his gramps a sandwich. He hands it to him when we walk into the living room.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Gramps asks.

  “One and only.”

  The grin on Gramps’s face makes me smile. “I ever tell you you’re my favorite grandson?”

  “I’m your only grandson,” Miller says. He takes his grandpa’s glass and walks it to the kitchen to refill it.

  “That’s why you’re inheriting everything I own,” Gramps says.

  Miller laughs. “A lot of air, apparently.”

  Gramps turns to me. “Clara, right?” He’s unwrapping his sandwich. I take a seat in one of the green chairs and nod.

  “I ever tell you about the time Miller was fifteen and we were at the school—” A hand comes around Gramps’s chair and rips his sandwich away. Gramps looks down at his empty hand. “What the hell?” Gramps says to Miller.

  Miller takes a seat in the other green chair, holding his grandpa’s food hostage. “Promise me you won’t repeat that story, and I’ll give you back your sandwich.”

  “Come on, Miller.” I groan. “This is twice you’ve stopped me from hearing it.”

  Gramps looks at me apologetically. “Sorry, Clara. I would tell you, but have you ever had a Mac?”

  I nod in understanding. “It’s okay. One of these days I’ll come over when Miller isn’t here so you can finish telling me.”

  Miller hands Gramps back his sandwich. “Clara and I have a project to work on. We’ll be in my room.”

  “You don’t have to lie to me,” Gramps says. “I was seventeen once.”

  “I’m not lying,” Miller says. “We really do have to work on a project.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Miller rolls his eyes as he pushes out of the chair. He grabs my hand and pulls me up. “I apologize on behalf of my grandpa.”

  “Why? You’re lying to him. We don’t have a project to work on.”

  Miller rolls his head. “Yes, we do.” He looks at his grandpa disapprovingly. “You two aren’t allowed to hang out anymore. You’re too much alike.”

  Gramps smiles at me as we leave the living room. When we walk down the hallway, I glance into their bathroom. Miller sees my pause. There are multiple pill bottles lined up on the counter, and the reminder that his grandpa is sick makes my stomach twist into a knot.

  Once we’re in Miller’s bedroom, he can tell my mood has shifted. “Thinking about Gramps?”

  I nod.

  “Yeah. Sucks. Bad.” He kicks off his shoes and lies down in the middle of the bed, patting the mattress next to him. I kick off my shoes and crawl in, tucking myself to his side, draping my arm over him.

  “How’d the doctor visit go today?”

  He pushes back my hair, running his fingers all the way to the ends. “We talked about what to expect over the next few months. It’s not really safe for him to be here alone while I’m in school, so they’re putting him on hospice soon. Once he’s on hospice, an aide will be here with him most of the time, so that’s a relief. I won’t have to drop out of school.”

  I sit up on my elbow. “Was that really your only option?”

  “Yeah. My mother died when I was ten, and he’s her father. I have an uncle who lives in California, but he’s not much help from there. Other relatives stop by a lot. Make sure we have what we need. But I’ve lived with him since I was ten, so most of the responsibility falls on my shoulders.”

  I had no idea his mother passed away. “I’m so sorry.” I shake my head. “That’s a lot of pressure for someone your age.”

  Miller rests a hand on my cheek. “You’re only sixteen and look what you’ve been through. Life doesn’t play favorites.” He pulls my head to his chest. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Let’s talk about something else.”

  He smells good. Like lemon this time. “When’s your birthday?” I ask.

  “December fifteenth.” He pauses. “Yours is next week, right?”

  I nod, but I’d like to forget. With my birthday comes the traditional birthday dinner, but this will be the first one without my dad and Aunt Jenny. I don’t want to think about it, so I change the subject. “What’s your favorite color?”

  “I don’t have one. I like all of them except orange.”

  “Really? I like orange.”

  “You shouldn’t. It’s a terrible color,” he says. “What’s your least favorite color?”

  “Orange.”

  “You just said you like orange.”

  “You made me doubt it, like maybe there’s something wrong with it that I’m not aware of.”

  “There’s a lot wrong with orange,” he says. “It doesn’t even rhyme with anything.”

  “Is it the color or the word you don’t like?”

  “Both. I hate them both.”

  “Did something in particular spark this immense hatred?”

  “No. It came about naturally, I guess. Maybe I was born this way.”

  “Is it a particular shade of orange you loathe?”

  “I hate them all,” he says. “Every shade of orange, from mango to coral.”

  I laugh. “This is the stupidest conversation I’ve ever had.”

  “Yeah, we’re kind of bad at this. Maybe we should just kiss.”

  I pull my head from his chest and look up at him. “Hurry, because I’m starting to forget why I’m even attracted to you.”

  He grins and then rolls on top of me, brushing back my hair while he smiles lazily. “Need a reminder?”

  I nod. This is the most connection our bodies have ever had. We’ve kissed standing up. We’ve kissed in his truck. We’ve kissed sitting down. But we’ve never kissed on a bed with his body between my legs. He rests his mouth against mine, but doesn’t kiss me. He adjusts the pillow beneath my head; then he kicks the covers away, all while barely teasing my lips with his.

  “This sure is taking a long time,” I say.

  “I want you to be comfortable.” He keeps his mouth near mine and lifts my neck a little, pulling my hair out from beneath me. He piles it over my shoulder and whispers, “Ready?” against my lips.

  I start to laugh, but the laugh never happens because Miller’s tongue parts my lips, and my near laugh turns into a gasp. It feels different like this—with him on top of me. Better. The kiss is nice. Slow flicks of his tongue. His fingers trailing down my arm. Mine trailing up his back.

  But then I feel him begi
n to harden between my legs, and it both surprises me and gives me confidence. I wrap my legs around his waist, wanting to ease the ache I’m beginning to feel there, but it only makes it worse. His kiss deepens, and he pushes against me, forcing a moan up my throat. He pauses the kiss for a second, as if that sound does something to him, but then he brings his mouth back to mine with an even more profound urge.

  I lift the back of his shirt, wanting to feel his skin beneath my palms. I run my hands up his back until I reach the tight curves of his shoulder muscles. Before I know it, I’m tugging at his shirt, wanting it off him. He obliges and separates us for the three seconds it takes for him to take off his shirt and throw it on the floor.

  The next few minutes don’t escalate beyond the shirt removal, but it doesn’t deescalate either. The make-out session just leaves us both aching and panting and not at all in the mood to work on our project.

  Miller eventually rolls off of me, onto his side, with his mouth still on mine. We kiss like that for a minute—it’s not as exciting, but I think that’s the point. He’s trying to slow down something I don’t think he intended to start.

  His eyes are closed when he finally stops kissing me, and then he presses his forehead to mine. He brings his hand to my chest and rests it there, feeling my heart thumping wildly against his palm. When he pulls away and opens his eyes, he’s smiling down at me. “You know what else sucks about the color orange?”

  I laugh. “What?”

  “All the celebrities used that orange square to announce Fyre Festival. And look how that turned out.”

  “You’re right. Orange is the worst.”

  He falls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. It’s quiet for a moment, and my heart is still racing.

  “Did you want me to stop?” he asks.

  “Stop what?”

  “Making out with you.”

  I shrug. “Not really. I was enjoying it.”

  “I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to move too fast, but I really wanted to take off your shirt. Not your bra. Just your shirt.”

  “I’m cool with that.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is your bra orange?”

  “No, it’s white.”