“Tisch.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.” He smiles. “Let me know if you get in. Even if it’s after this week.”
“It’s weird,” I say. “This is the most we’ve ever spoken. I mean, we were friendly, but we weren’t friends. Who knew we’d get along so well?”
“I know, right? You’re a pretty cool guy, Kai.” He grins. “It’s weird how we all stay in our groups. Because I play soccer, it means everyone around me does, too.”
“That’s high school,” I say.
“True.” Bryson stops the cart when I tell him to, and I stack the next few books. One of them needs to go on the top shelf, so I stand on my toes to do so.
“Let me?” Bryson holds out his hand and I give him the book. With ease, he places the book in its rightful place. He pauses and whispers, “What’s the point of having a tall boyfriend if you aren’t going to use him?” He adds a wink before returning to his position at the book cart. The absurdity of it makes me smile.
We continue to work, and with Bryson’s help, the books are reshelved in no time.
“You ready to go?” Bryson asks, and I nod.
“I’ve been thinking about our performance. Please let us pick something quick and easy?”
“Scared you’re going to blush?”
“No, that’s inevitable,” I say.
We fetch my bag and his blazer. I follow him to his Jeep. Even though there are other students around, I don’t feel any of the anxiety I expected to feel. Even though it’s only Tuesday, it surprises me how comfortable I’m starting to become around him. Bryson has a way of doing that.
He starts the car and we drive out of the parking lot. Bryson removes his sunglasses from their storage space and puts them on. Instantly he goes from high school senior to model advertising shades. He faces me, and it’s hard not to stare.
“What?” he asks, and from the hint of a smile that dances at his lips, I know that I have been caught checking him out.
“Nothing,” I lie. I turn my attention forward. As we drive, I squint against the glare of the afternoon sun. At the next stoplight, Bryson reaches across me. He opens the glove compartment and fetches a glasses case.
“Here,” he says as he hands it to me. I open it and find an identical pair of sunglasses. “They’re my spare ones.”
I put them on and turn to look at him. Bryson’s staring at me.
“They look good,” he says.
I laugh. “You really go all in on this boyfriend thing, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“We even have matching sunglasses now.”
Is this what boyfriends do?
I catch myself grinning and decide not to overthink things…for now.
11
We arrive at Bryson’s house too soon. I’m certain that I blinked and missed the trip. Bryson lives in the same neighborhood that Donny does—I know Shannon lives close by, too. It’s a gated community where the über-rich live. The top 1 percent of the student body of Fairvale Academy call each other neighbors.
Bryson’s house has been taken from the pages of some architecture magazine—which makes sense considering that’s what his father does. I only know this because my parents scoured his designs to use for inspiration with our own renovations.
The house is two stories, like mine, but so much bigger. Truthfully, villa is a more apt description for it. It’s got sand-colored walls and white finishes. The windows are large and clean with white shutters. Bryson’s house looks like it belongs somewhere more interesting than Fairvale, California—maybe Spain.
Even so, this house pales in comparison to the house of Donny Duckworth a few roads away.
“Are we getting out?” Bryson asks. His arms are draped across the steering wheel and his head is resting against them. It seems that we’ve been sitting there for a while already and he’s been staring at me for I don’t know how long.
I blush, and he smiles.
“Oh, uh, right.” I unbuckle my seat belt and climb out.
Bryson follows me as we walk toward the house. Silence greets us when he opens the front door. We enter and pause in the foyer. He seems unsure for a moment, looking at his shoes, the house, and then me.
“My mom kind of has a no-shoe policy in the house.” Bryson points to the slippers in the corner for guests. I smile as I hook my right shoe behind my left and pull it off. I do the same to the other one.
“My dad’s like that, too,” I say. “We grew up wearing different shoes inside and out.”
Relieved, Bryson leads me through the house.
“Wow. This is amazing.” It’s like the family room was ripped from the pages of a magazine, too.
“My mom runs her own interior decorating firm,” Bryson explains. I know this already. There was a profile about her in one of my mom’s magazines once. She’s a designer to the stars. And judging by the space around me, it’s clear that she’s very good at what she does. It is both showstopping and homey.
We don’t enter the family room, though. Instead, Bryson leads me toward the kitchen, which is large with white cupboards and white granite countertops. It’s filled with state-of-the-art appliances. There’s no doubt that this kitchen would be a chef’s dream. Bryson walks over to the large double-door fridge and pulls it open.
“Do you want anything to drink?” Bryson asks. “We have water, juice, and soda.”
“What juice?” I’m standing at the island, leaning my hip against the edge of the counter.
“Mango,” Bryson says.
“Apple, orange, and grape are the only three juice flavors that deserve to exist in this world.” I smile. “Water is fine.”
Bryson takes two bottles of water from the fridge. He places his down on the counter and holds out mine. “You have the strangest opinions.”
“Thanks,” I say as I take it. Our eyes meet. It hits me then: I am alone with Bryson. I know our relationship is fake, but that doesn’t stop my heart from racing as he looks at me. Wanting something to do, I open the bottle and end up drinking too fast. I choke, and Bryson moves to pat my back.
I freeze. We’re home alone and there’s hardly any distance between our bodies. He must realize it, too, because he quickly takes a step back.
“We should head up to my room.” The words take a second to register. Eyes wide, he hurriedly adds, “To work, I mean.” It seems to me that Bryson’s just as nervous as I am. With a start, I realize that it’s the first time I’ve seen it. He’s looking everywhere but at me. And I can’t help but wonder why….Bryson’s straight, right? He shouldn’t be as bothered by me as I am by him.
Bryson laughs and seems to come back to himself, back to being the self-assured Bryson Keller that I’ve come to know. Maybe my doubting him is nothing more than wishful thinking. This is just a game, I remind myself.
“Lead the way,” I say.
We leave the kitchen, and I follow Bryson up the flight of stairs to his bedroom. We enter.
“Uh, sorry about the mess,” Bryson says.
“What mess?” I ask. I look around. Almost everything is in its place, save for one hoodie on the floor and a pair of dirty socks. The walls of Bryson’s room are covered in pictures. I notice camera equipment sprawled across his desk. There’s a camera, a tripod, and some lenses.
“I didn’t know that you’re interested in photography,” I say.
Bryson smiles. “Isn’t the whole point of being in a relationship getting to know one another?” He turns to me. “Come to think of it, there’s a lot that we don’t know about each other.”
It’s true. We’ve known each other for years, but when I think about it, there isn’t much beyond the surface that I actually know about Bryson Keller. And for the first time in my life I find myself wanting to dive deeper, to get to know more and more about thi
s boy with the easy smile and soulful eyes.
I study the collage of photographs that I assume Bryson has taken. Among them are several posters of Liverpool, an English football club that happens to be Manchester United’s greatest rival. I can’t help but wonder what my dad would think if he saw this. Picturing Dad and Bryson arguing about soccer makes me smile—will that ever actually happen? I pluck the thought out before it takes root.
I notice that some of the posters look worse for wear. Like they’ve been torn and were hastily repaired. I don’t ask him about them. Instead, I shift my focus back to the photo collage.
“So, you like photography?”
“Yeah,” Bryson says. “It’s fun.”
“You’re good.” I turn to him. “Maybe you should be a photographer?”
“Maybe,” he says. “I guess I need to find what I really love.”
“You have enough time,” I say. “No stress.”
“Tell that to my mom.” He sighs. “She’s in a full-on panic because I don’t actually know what I want to do when I get to college.”
“Well, knowing you, you’ll probably excel at everything.”
“Everything but math.”
“Oh God, me too.” Our eyes meet. “Give me words over numbers any day.”
“What about math with letters?”
“I hate it, and I hate whoever invented it. Algebra is the worst.”
Bryson laughs. He watches as I take a closer look at his photos. He’s seriously talented.
“When was this taken?” I ask. I point at a picture where Bryson looks a year or two younger than he is now.
“I took those on our last family vacation,” Bryson says.
In the picture there’s a happy family of four smiling back at me. This is the one and only picture that Bryson has of his whole family. All the others are of just his mom and sister.
I turn to study the rest of the space. Bryson’s desk is almost as full as mine, but instead of the chaotic mess, his is perfectly organized. He has a large desk calendar with his schedule on it. He has a game tomorrow. So does Priya. Maybe I’ll surprise him by attending his match after.
Bryson moves to stand beside me and picks up his computer. “Shall we do it?”
“Do…it?” I quirk my eyebrow in flirtation.
Bryson shakes his head and smiles. “Watch the movie.”
“Sure.” My eyes snag on a box on his desk. It’s the latest iPhone. “Holy shit, you have one?”
“My dad thinks he can buy me back,” Bryson says. His voice gets colder as he speaks about his father. “My dad is trying to see me for the first time in over a year. He’s the reason I was late for school yesterday. He offered to take me to breakfast before school. And like a fool I believed him. I waited around for nothing.” Bryson stops himself. His eyes widen as he looks at me. “You’re really easy to talk to. Not even Dustin knows that. Everyone thinks I had a dentist appointment.”
“Well, I’m always willing to listen if you ever need that.” I meet his gaze. “Even after we break up.”
The last two words hang between us. The inevitable end to our relationship flashes before my eyes. I need to remember that this will all be over soon. I can’t get too comfortable, too used to having Bryson Keller in my life.
We’re staring at each other.
“Same,” Bryson says.
He clears his throat and looks away first. He moves over to his bed. It doesn’t take long for Bryson to find the movie online. He grabs his laptop and places it on the floor. We both take a seat with our backs against his bed. Bryson’s leg taps into me and I try to ignore the warmth of it.
He stands. “I’ll be right back,” he says.
“Okay.”
While he’s gone, I tell myself that this is just for school. This is not a date. Watching a movie with my boyfriend has been a fantasy of mine. It may seem small and inconsequential, but it’s something I’ve never gotten to experience.
Bryson returns with his arms filled with chips, candy, and recently popped microwave popcorn.
“Wow, that’s a lot.”
Bryson smiles. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I brought a bit of everything.”
“I’m sure you treat all your girlfriends this well.”
He places the snacks down. “Actually, I hardly ever saw any of them outside of school.” He looks at me. “You’re the first.”
“Well, it’s only for school.”
“Right.” It’s one word that I know I will spend countless hours trying to decipher.
He grabs a handful of popcorn and throws it into his mouth before sitting cross-legged and pressing play. The movie starts, and I prepare to watch a Leonardo DiCaprio movie in its entirety. Not just bits and pieces. And for the first time in my life I watch a movie with my boyfriend—even if he is just pretend.
“I think we should do this scene between Benvolio and Romeo,” Bryson says.
I watch the scene and nod. It’s short and has just enough lines for me to be able to manage.
“I’ll hunt for the script and send it over to you tonight,” Bryson says. He hits pause and heads for his desk. “What’s your email address?”
“My name at Gmail dot com.”
Bryson jots it down before sitting next to me. He’s closer than before. To distract myself, I point to the screen and ask, “Who do you want to be?”
“Maybe Benvolio? He has more lines. And Romeo in this scene can be seen as quiet and shy, which might make you more comfortable.”
I nod. “Maybe you should look into studying directing.”
“I should hire you as my college advisor,” Bryson teases.
As we watch more of the movie, my attention is split. I’m aware of every move that Bryson makes next to me. He adjusts his position, and I hold my breath as more of his leg touches mine. Bryson’s not looking at me, though. He’s still watching the movie. My heart hammers in my chest. When Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes are in the pool and are about to kiss, I reach for the popcorn. Bryson does the same, and our hands end up brushing. For the second time I stop breathing. A smile dances at his lips as he eats a handful of popcorn.
I watch him chew, my eyes never leaving his lips. I turn my attention back to the movie. I force myself not to look anywhere but at the screen.
I’m finally focused on the movie when I feel a sudden weight on my shoulder. Startled, I turn to find Bryson’s head there. His eyes are closed and he’s snoring slightly. I watch the rise and fall of his chest.
He nuzzles closer to me, his head finding the perfect spot to rest. While he sleeps, Bryson’s totally oblivious to the effect that he’s having on me.
I watch the rest of the movie trying to stay still with Bryson tucked against me. When the credits start to play, I study his profile. I bring my hand up but pause. I let it hover there.
Maybe in another life I’d be brave enough to do it. Bryson looks so peaceful, which is the exact opposite of how I’m feeling right now. It’s only Tuesday. Will I be able to survive this unscathed until Friday? I don’t know, but I need to remind myself that this is not real, and it can never be…right?
But watching him sleep, I’m grateful that I have three more days left with him. Bryson’s eyes open. We stare at each other. My panic multiplies. I jerk my hand back, but Bryson reaches out to catch it. Our eyes haven’t left each other. His swirl with questions. I’m about to apologize when Bryson’s face breaks into a smile.
“Let’s go.”
“Go?” Bryson stands and helps me to my feet. He lets go of my hand, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed.
“It’s almost seven.” Bryson points at the large clock above his desk.
I follow him down the stairs to find a dark and empty house. “Your mom must be working late.”
> “Yeah. She does when she has a new client.” Bryson shrugs. “I’m used to it now.”
We stop in the foyer to put on our shoes. I bend to pull them on, and Bryson does the same. I have a habit of not untying my laces. The left foot goes in with ease, but the right one puts up a fight. I stumble and Bryson reaches out to catch me. I’m the first to react. I clear my throat and create space between us.
“Thanks,” I say awkwardly. There’s no doubt that my cheeks are red. Bryson smiles and opens the door. He waits for me to exit the house. He locks the house and turns to me. Bryson looks from my face to my hand again. It’s almost like time slows down as he reaches for it. I don’t breathe as he takes my hand in his. I steal a glance at him, and I can’t help but wonder, What is this?
“Is this a part of your dare?” I ask.
Bryson’s silent for a heartbeat. He studies our hands. I’m not sure what he’s thinking and before I can ask, he nods.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to—” Bryson starts to remove his hand from mine.
“No,” I say. If his previous dates got to experience this, then I want to as well.
Bryson smiles, and that’s how we walk to the Jeep. He opens my door and helps me get in, then races across the front of the car. Bryson settles into the driver’s seat and makes a show of taking my hand in his once more. This time he even interlocks our fingers.
Bryson Keller and I hold hands the rest of the way home.
And I take my first step into quicksand.
12
By the time Bryson pulls into my driveway the next morning, I’m already outside waiting—and wondering if last night was just a dream. I run another hand through my hair, hoping that it’s all still in place. I barely stop myself from redoing my tie for the third time this morning. I’m fine, I look fine.
“Kai?” The front door swings open behind me and Yazz comes outside. “Here.” She holds out money. “Dad said I should give you this for tonight.”
“Thanks.” I mentioned my plans to stay and watch the soccer game tonight, and Dad was more than thrilled to offer me money in support. It seems that he’s still holding out hope for a son who will love soccer as much as he does.
Date Me, Bryson Keller Page 9
