by Chelsea Fine
“The inn?” Jenna says. “Matt’s staying with you at the inn?”
“No. He dropped me off—can we talk about this later?”
“He dropped you off?”
“Jenna. Please.”
“Fine. We’ll talk in the morning—ah! Gross. Ethan, I swear to God if you vomit on—ugh!” Muffled commotion comes from the other line. “God! Sarah, do me a favor and tell that boyfriend of yours that the next time we all go out, he’s in charge of his drunk roommates.”
Boyfriend.
Pixie and I lock gazes.
Matt the Boyfriend.
Pixie’s not mine, and she never has been, so I have no right to care about Matt the Boyfriend. But still my stomach twists in an ugly way.
“I am not drunk!” yells a male voice in the background.
“You’re hammered, Jack!” Jenna yells back.
The male voice laughs. “Hammered Jack. Jack hammer. I’m a jackhammer.”
“You’re a jackass,” she shouts.
“So we’ll talk in the morning?” Pixie says to distant Jenna.
“What? Oh, yeah. In the morning. Later. Ethan, don’t you dare—”
Pixie hangs up and drops her phone back into her purse. “Sorry about that. My friends are, uh… interesting.”
I nod. “They sound fun.”
“Yeah.”
She clears her throat and quickly starts shoving the rest of her discarded things back into the purse. I hand her the collected pens and she takes them without making eye contact, tossing them back into her bag before resuming her frenzied cleaning. I help gather the remaining items.
We reach for her scarf at the same time and our fingers accidentally brush. We both jerk our hands back as if touching each other is poisonous, and suddenly I’m keenly aware of all things Pixie. The curve of her neck, the scent of her shampoo, the shape of her lips, the single undone button at the top of her sweater…
She looks up at me with big green eyes, and the awkward tension between us instantly transforms into a charged current, pulsing up and down the staircase. She parts her lips and it’s like her inhales are magnetic, drawing me closer to her, pulling me into the circle of her body heat—
A lock of her straightened blonde hair falls into her eyes and reminds me that things are different now.
I blink, breaking the charge, and step away from the scarf.
Shifting her eyes away, she snatches up the scarf and something small goes flying from the folds of the material and skids across the floor.
A condom.
For a moment, we just stare at it.
I have no right to care. I have no right to care.
With pink cheeks, Pixie casually picks up the condom square and drops it back in her bag.
I clear my throat and point upstairs. “So I’m just gonna…”
She looks up and sees how she’s blocking my passage. “Oh, right. Sorry.” She scoots over to clear a path, her eyes avoiding me completely.
I carefully step past her and head upstairs, feeling my pulse heat and hammer in my head.
Cake? Check.
Icing? Check.
Trojan cherry on top? Check.
11
Pixie
Must the morning birds chirp so loud?
Are they mocking me? I bet they’re mocking me.
I can’t really blame them. After my horrendous run-in with Levi last night, I would mock me too. The condom? I mean, seriously.
And what the hell is up with my phone suddenly being a loudspeaker? Levi could totally hear everything Jenna was saying to me last night, and the look on his face when she said “boyfriend” was just… ugh. He obviously had no idea I was dating someone, and the revelation seemed to unsettle him.
I pull a pillow over my face and let out a muffled groan as more birds join in on the uber-cheery chirp fest.
It shouldn’t matter. Levi dates people. I date people. This is how it’s always been. But for some reason I feel icky inside, like I should write a letter of explanation and maybe print out a boyfriend permission slip for Levi to sign.
I, Levi Andrews, give my explicit permission for one Pixie Marshall to date whomever she wishes without any feelings that might resemble guilt or betrayal or awkward confusion. Signed, Levi Andrews, platonic third party in all Pixie Marshall–related endeavors and keeper of the east wing hot water.
My phone rings and I ignore it. It keeps ringing.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring—God!
I stay buried under the pillow as I grab my phone and bring it to my ear with a grumpy “What?”
“Drunk Jack asked me to have his baby,” Jenna says.
I move the pillow aside and blink a few times into the bright morning sun streaming in through the window. “What?”
“Yeah.” I can hear the bewilderment in her voice. “He was all like, I love you, Jenna. Let’s have a baby and name it Taylor.”
“Taylor?”
“Can you believe that?”
I pull myself into a sitting position and yawn. “Pure madness. Who names their baby Taylor?”
“I love that you think this is funny.”
“It is funny.”
“No, it’s not. Jack. He’s just… he’s just so confusing, you know? Sometimes he makes me want to scream and kick and just… ugh.” She sighs dramatically. “But enough about me. There are more important things at hand. Spill it.”
“Spill what?” I say groggily.
“Uh… your night? What happened with you and Matt?”
“Oh. That.” I quickly fill her in on all my non-sex with Matt. “So yeah. I’m broken. I have sexual ADD or something.”
“You’re not broken. You’re just…”
“A prude? Cold? Destined to die a spinster?”
“Waiting,” she says. “You’re just waiting. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Right.” My stomach growls, and I look at the time. Maybe if I hurry I can still make it downstairs to catch the end of breakfast. “Can I call you back after I have my coffee? I don’t feel alive yet.”
“Yeah, and you sound like hell.”
“Gee, thanks.”
After hanging up with Jenna, I roll out of bed and put on a bra before padding downstairs in my socks and pajamas. In the kitchen, Ellen is seated at the small table in the corner, reading the newspaper. Because Ellen still gets the newspaper.
“Morning, Pixie.” She chomps on a piece of bacon. No one else is around, so I assume breakfast is over. Bummer.
I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Morning.”
“I thought you were staying at Jenna’s all weekend.”
“Yeah, well.” I sit down and wrap my hands around the warm mug. “Plans changed, and Matt brought me back early.”
She eyes me. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” I say, stealing a piece of bacon from Ellen’s plate. “Matt submitted an appeal to NYU for my transfer application.”
I can feel her eyes examining me. “I didn’t know that was even an option.”
“Neither did I. But good ol’ Matt had me covered there.” Why do I sound bitter about this?
She takes another slow bite of bacon. “When will you find out if you got in?”
“The end of summer, maybe? Who knows.”
Ellen rubs a thumb down the handle of her coffee mug. “Is New York still what you want?”
“Maybe.” I pick at the tablecloth. “They have a great art program. I could move to New York, become a famous artist, live happily ever after… It sounds perfect.”
She nods. “Oh, that reminds me. The canvases you ordered are in my office. I’ll bring them up to your room later.” She looks at something behind me. “You’re here too?”
I turn to see Levi walking into the kitchen.
“And good morning to you too,” he says to Ellen as he moves to the fridge and pulls out a water bottle.
He doesn’t look at me, which is fine. Better than fine.
&nbs
p; “I’m just a little disappointed, that’s all,” Ellen says, looking at both of us. “You two are the only employees with weekends off and yet you’re both here. On a Sunday.”
Levi shrugs.
I shrug.
“Weirdos,” Ellen mutters, taking a sip of her coffee. “Hey. Do you guys want to drive into town together and grab some stuff for me today?”
“No,” we say at the same time. Our panicked eyes meet across the kitchen.
“Wow,” she says. “I guess that’s a no.”
Levi exits out the back door as I go back to picking at the tablecloth.
“Well, that wasn’t obvious or anything,” Ellen says, eyeing me over her mug. “You should talk to him.”
“About what?” I feel sick inside, already knowing the answer.
“You know,” she says casually, like she’s not bringing up the mother of all taboo topics.
“And how, exactly, would I do that?” I tap the side of my mug.
Ellen turns a page in her newspaper. “One word at a time.”
I shake my head, half-angry, half-broken. “If Levi wanted to talk about it, we would have talked about it a long time ago.” With a final chug, I finish my coffee and stand up. “Thanks for letting me mooch your bacon.”
“Anytime,” she says, following after me with her eyes as I leave the kitchen.
I head back to my room and, once inside, my gaze falls to the easel in the corner and my inner ickiness eases up a bit. I prop a new canvas on the wooden stand and pull out a paintbrush.
My black and white paint tubes are still out from the last time I painted. I’m not sure where my colored paints are. Maybe in one of the unopened boxes I brought from my dorm? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, though. I’m not really in a red or green or yellow mood, and haven’t been for quite some time.
A few blonde curls fall into my eyes as I stretch my arms out, and I hastily blow them away. Once again, I didn’t bother to straighten my hair after my warm shower last night—I needed to rinse Matt’s buttery saliva trails from my skin—so of course my locks are a poofy mess, which is why I hate showering at night!
Holding the paintbrush between my teeth, I quickly pull my hair into a haphazard bun and imprison my curls.
Sunlight pours in through my bedroom window, warming the floorboards beneath my feet as I wiggle my toes and stare at the blank canvas.
Still staring.
A good twenty minutes goes by before I finally set my brush to it, and when I do, it’s a giant black stroke. Then another. I brush at the canvas until it’s nearly covered in darkness. I add white. I smudge it into gray. I change my mind and jab more black on there.
I don’t know what I’m painting yet, but that’s not unusual. I typically don’t know where I’m going when I start a painting. The image just… happens, and sometimes it’s not even a real image. Sometimes—most times, lately—it’s just an array of colors and brushstrokes that feel like something more than look like something.
A few quick knocks pull my attention to my door.
“Come in,” I call out.
It creaks open and Ellen steps inside with two canvases. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” I say. “And thanks for lending me your spare keys yesterday too. My set is lost somewhere in this mess.” I gesture at the mounds of laundry, books, and boxes about my room.
“No problem.” She sets the canvases by the wall and watches me paint for a moment. “Why is everything you paint only black-and-white? What happened to those beautiful color paintings you used to do?”
Why does everyone care?
“Don’t overthink it,” I say. “I’m just in a phase.”
“Right,” she says with knowing eyes. “Well. Enjoy your day off.” She turns and disappears into the hallway.
I go back to painting, thinking about all the times Ellen encouraged me to pursue my passion for art.
She bought me my first set of paints. My first real paintbrushes. She paid for my first art lessons and hung my first real painting—a bright orange sun shining over a purple lake surrounded by yellow flowers—in the center of her living room like it was a priceless piece of art. Like it was special.
I stand back and look at the muddled gray colors in front of me. I frown. It’s not quite what I want to see. It looks… wrong, somehow.
My eyes skip to my bedroom window, drawn by a flash of movement outside. I see Levi running up and down the stone steps behind the lavender field. He does this almost every day.
Today it’s cloudy outside and the sky is darker than usual, which means a storm is coming. My heart starts to race.
I watch Levi scale the steps again. His hair is all mussed up like he’s been shoving his hands in it, and he’s wearing a pair of gym shorts and his worn-out ASU T-shirt. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve seen him in that shirt, running laps or bleachers. His dad, Mark, gave it to him for his sixteenth birthday, and I swear Levi wore it every day for two weeks after that. He was so determined to play football for ASU. He was always so dedicated and driven, so focused. He was a teenage boy with big dreams and few problems.
I wonder who he is now. Who’s that guy running up and down those old stone steps?
I used to know him. I don’t anymore.
Sharp sadness sinks into me, cold and dark, and I suddenly want to run outside and throw my arms around him. I want to bury my face in his chest and cry into his college T-shirt like a lost little girl.
I pull my eyes away from the window and look back at my gray painting.
I put my paintbrush away. It no longer looks wrong.
12
Levi
My feet beat against the stone steps in a constant rhythm as I ascend the steep incline yet again. The sky is heavy with clouds and the air is thick as I suck it into my lungs with each labored breath.
Pixie has a boyfriend and I have no problem with that.
Don’t get me wrong, I hate the guy. But I have no problem with Pixie dating someone. It’s good for her. Healthy. At least she’s getting on with her life, which is more than I can say for myself.
At the top of the steps, I bend over to catch my breath and take a deep swig of water.
And the condom thing, well, that’s just good planning. I’m not at all unsettled by the thought of Pixie having sex with Matt the Boyfriend—or any other guy, for that matter.
My knuckles go white around the bottle.
Not unsettled at all.
Loosening my grip, I take a few deep breaths and look out over the area. The lavender field leads down into an old amphitheater of sorts, complete with old stone benches curved into bowl-shaped stadium seating and crumbling staircases running up and down each side.
At one time, this place was probably used for small concerts or shows, but now it’s mostly just rubble overgrown with dandelions and rogue sprouts of lavender. Guests sometimes come out here to take pictures or sit and read. It has that kind of feel to it. Quiet. Peaceful. I feel neither as I catch my breath.
With my muscles worked to their morning limit and sweat dripping down my face, I step away from the forgotten theater and climb up to the field.
The storm smell on the wind rolls over me, reminding me of a day last summer when I thought I had everything. A family. A future. Maybe even love. Funny how quickly you can lose the things you thought were certain.
Back inside, I take a shower and do my best to deplete the warm water. The first time I used all the hot water was an accident. It was two days after Pixie had moved in—two very uncomfortable days of tension and sadness—and I had exhausted the early morning repainting the inn’s front porch. My hands and arms were covered in white paint, so I spent an excessive amount of time trying to scrub my skin clean as I showered.
I didn’t realize I’d used all the hot water until twenty minutes after my shower when I heard Pixie squeal in the bathroom, then stomp into the hallway. She knocked on my door and proceeded to lecture me on the polite usage of a sha
red bathroom.
At first, I felt really bad about hogging the water, but then I realized her scolding was the longest conversation we’d had in months, and it took away some of the darkness inside me. Plus, I liked the way her cheeks crested with pink as she pointed at me and how her eyes narrowed when she thought I wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying. From that day on, I went out of my way to ensure Pixie didn’t get hot showers. Not very mature, but it was either that or drown in silence.
I finish with my post-jog shower and step out of the bathroom to an empty hallway. No Pixie tapping her foot outside the door with a scowl. No pink-crested cheeks. Disappointment starts to slide over my skin.
“Forty-two minutes!” Pixie yells from her cracked-open bedroom door.
Sometimes she times me. It’s adorable.
“You’re an asshole, Levi,” she adds.
I grin as I walk to my room, all disappointment gone.
* * *
That night, I enter the bathroom a second before Pixie does, both of us with our toothbrushes at the ready. For a moment I just stare at her.
She looks the way I remember—blonde hair pulled back in a messy knot with curls escaping, paint smudged on her skin and bare feet—and I’m instantly transported back to a time when my house was filled with girly laughter.
It’s hard to believe I ever found that laughter obnoxious.
She gives me a weird look, probably because I’m staring at her like an idiot, so I stretch my lips into a thin smile. Her weird look flashes into something else—hope, maybe? Sadness?—but quickly disappears as she gives me a strained smile in return. And now we’re just standing here, fake-smiling at each other like morons.
I surrender my eyes first and step deeper into the bathroom so there’s room for both of us at the counter. We start brushing our teeth, our eyes fixed anywhere but on each other.
Brush, brush, brush.
There’s something intimate about brushing your teeth beside someone else. Perhaps it’s because people who brush their teeth together are usually people who just woke up together, or people who are just about to go to bed together.
Our eyes meet in the mirror and quickly dart away.
She’s wearing a dark T-shirt at least two sizes too large for her and a pair of ratty sweatpants. How is she still so pretty even when she’s dressed like a homeless person?
