A Million Miles Away(3)

“Don’t be a bitch.”

“I’m not. Thank you. I’m sorry. Whatever you want to hear. I haven’t seen Peter for two months, and he’s about to be halfway across the world.”

“So? You’ll just find another, like, film school student or something.”

Or a Brazilian on KU’s soccer team, Kelsey thought. Or a theater major who looked exactly like a brunette version of Woody Allen, or a record-store employee who had to wear prescription yellow-tinted glasses.

Kelsey was there for all of them. She knew how to listen politely to Michelle over the dinners their father cooked, as she went on about how each one was “love at first sight,” and to watch her get in their cars after school, sit on their motorcycles, balance on their handlebars. Then, to watch for the silent signals that her sister had stopped caring—the drifting eyes, the legs crossed and recrossed. Last, she would stand on the deck with Michelle, composing the breakup texts for her, because Michelle was terrible at typing anything less than a novel. And then they would walk back to Massachusetts Street, where it would start all over again.

But none of that had happened with this one. Kelsey shot him a quick glance through the door, his toned, pale arms resting on his knees as he flipped the pages of an Andy Warhol coffee-table book.

Michelle sighed. “Peter is different. You haven’t been paying attention at all, have you?”

Gillian came up the stairs and yanked at Kelsey’s arm. “Time to get back. Who’s that?” she said as she glanced through Michelle’s cracked door.

“Don’t know,” Kelsey said, letting out a snort. “It’s kind of hard to keep track.”

Suddenly, Michelle’s fist shot out. Right to the solar plexus. Kelsey seized up in pain as Michelle went back into her room. “A soldier, huh? Don’t get syphilis,” Kelsey choked out.

Kelsey straightened, rubbed her stomach, and made her way back to the party with Gillian.

“He’s cute,” Gillian said.

“Whatever.”

Michelle hadn’t even introduced them.

On the stairs, Kelsey stopped to survey the crowd congregating around the beer, the coupling off, hands in the air bouncing to the music. Ingrid was doing a handstand against the wall. Davis was surrounded by girls in UGGs. He found her gaze and beckoned.

Kelsey took another step down. “Hey!” she yelled. Heads turned to behold her tanned arms lifted, her legs silhouetted in tight jeans. The world’s eyes were on her. Well, her world’s eyes, at least.

“Who wants to see me break my own record?”





CHAPTER TWO


The party had emptied in the wee hours of the morning, leaving a silence that throbbed through the house, the rooms dotted with red cups. Kelsey woke up next to an openmouthed Davis snoring like the revving of a Vespa, with memories of her drinking beer out of a boot. Shifting his weight, Kelsey kicked past their clothes scattered on the floor. Something smelled like bacon.

She made her way to the doorway of the kitchen and rubbed her eyes, about to warn Michelle not to burn it like she always did.

“Bacon” was all she could get out.

“For you,” a voice said. “Hope that’s okay.”

Kelsey lifted her head with a start.

Peter was standing at the stove, eating a bowl of Life cereal. The mysterious Peter. And without a shirt. He was very pale, wasn’t he? But not in a bad way. Kelsey found she was running her fingers through her hair. She stopped, opening the fridge for the orange juice.

“Hang on,” he said, his voice ringing with tenderness. “I thought you were in the shower.”

Kelsey straightened. Oh, God. Not him, too. It still happened in the hallways, at Thanksgiving with relatives, at La Prima Tazza when Michelle’s barista friends started making her hot chocolate, as if Kelsey would drink hot chocolate.

When she could feel him behind her, just inches away, she turned, a pasted smile on her face. “Kelsey,” she said, putting a hand on her chest.

Peter narrowed his eyes, put a hand to his lips, and sat down at the table. With his mouth full, he looked up at her.

“You’re not going to believe me, but I realized that a millisecond before you said your name.”

“You’re right, I don’t believe you.”

“Let’s pretend it didn’t happen, then. Oh, hi,” he said, tilting his head. “I didn’t see you there. I’m Peter.”

“Yeah, well. Michelle used to have creepy mermaid hair down to here so it was easier to tell us apart. Then she stole my haircut.”

She looked at him over the orange juice carton. She was finding it very difficult to keep her eyes off his bare torso, which was lined with muscle but not to the point of excess, as if it were carefully drawn and then erased. Like one of Michelle’s sketches.

He moved back to the stovetop, glancing at her. “I like your shirt.”

Kelsey looked down at her braless chest, inscribed with the words MY MOM WENT TO A SHIRT STORE AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS SHIRT. Michelle had found it at Wild Man Vintage. She crossed her arms. “Thanks.”

He picked up a fork and poked at the bacon in the pan. “What do you think?”

She moved next to him, the smell of the grease simultaneously turning her stomach and making her aware of how very empty it was. “They’re ready to be flipped.”