Never Let You Go(53)

“My mom tried to change her days around once.” That doesn’t really explain how he knew about the driveway, but it’s not far from their house, so maybe he knows the owners.

I glance into the living room again. “I should check on Delaney.”

“Hang on. I want to show you something first.” He comes around the counter and grabs my free hand, then tugs me down the hallway. I follow along, enjoying the sensation of our fingers wrapped together, his hand cool from his glass. He stops in front of a door.

“This is my room.” He pushes it open.

We walk in and I look around, taking it all in. I can feel him watching my face. “It’s nice,” I say, and it is, but it’s like something from a magazine, or the Fifty Shades of Grey movie, with all the black bedding and chrome, not a real bedroom.

“My mom hired a decorator,” he says. His arm brushes against mine and we’re still holding hands. I turn and look at him, see in his eyes that he doesn’t like his room either.

“Is this what you want to show me?”

“No, it’s over here.” He leads me to a metal desk in the corner, releases my hand so he can turn on his computer, then nods for me to sit on the chair while he pulls a stool over. We’re so close I can feel the whole length of him beside me, the heat from his arms, his leg. I peek at him from the side of my eye. He must have shaved tonight, his skin is so smooth, and he has really black eyelashes, even blacker than his hair. I like how his top lip is a little fuller on one side. He opens a folder on his computer, clicks on an image, and a photo fills the screen. It’s a photo of our school, but like in a way I’ve never seen it before. It’s taken from the ground up, capturing one of the corners and part of a window in an interesting way.

“That’s so cool,” I say.

He flips through more photos of the school, the trees in front of the gym, some areas around town, the coffee shop, an old woman at the park, and they’re all fascinating, like little glimpses into a different world. It makes me see how he sees everything, how he feels.

He scrolls past another folder and says, “These are old,” as though he doesn’t want to show them to me, but I notice an album picture of a woman with blond hair piled on top of her head like how my mom wears it when she’s working. “Wait, go back,” I say.

He scrolls back. “This one?”

“Yeah. Is that my mom?” I look closer. She’s standing by a large window with silver drapes, looks like his living room. She’s turned away, so I can’t really see her face.

“I forgot about that one,” he says. “She was working.”

“Why did you take her picture?” I look at him, confused.

“I didn’t. She was in the way.” He points to corner of the screen. “I was trying to catch the deer playing on the front lawn.” Now I see the deer in the background.

“Check these ones out.” He scrolls through more shots of people on a beach and walking downtown, and he explains how he makes up stories for each person. “Like in this one, I decided that this guy is a Google executive and he’s taking time off so he can develop his new Web site that he’s going to sell for a billion dollars, and he’s secretly working for the government. This woman is a librarian, but she wants to be an actress and writes erotic poetry in her spare time.”

I laugh. “That’s crazy.”

“It’s more interesting than the truth. Most people are pretty boring.”

“You think so?”

He meets my eyes. “Not all of them.” He looks away and flips through a few more photos, but I’m not paying attention. I think he just he gave me a compliment, though I’m not really sure what he meant. I hear him take a breath beside me, then he clicks on another photo. It’s me. I stare, stunned and trying to understand when he took the picture. I’m laughing about something in the shot—my head back and my mouth parted, my hair blowing across my eyes so you can just see parts of them. It’s in black-and-white, but he’s colored my hair violet.

“You have a great smile,” he says beside me in a quiet voice. My cheeks feel really warm and I know I’m blushing. I pick up my drink and swallow the rest in two big gulps.

I turn and look at him. “When did you take this?”

“A while ago. You were outside with Delaney. Are you freaked out?”

“Should I be?”

“You might think it’s weird.” His gaze drops and I can feel him looking at my mouth. I want to rub at it, thinking that maybe my lipstick is on my teeth or something.

“You’re staring,” I say.

“I’m trying to figure out a way to kiss you.”

“Why don’t you just ask?”

“Can I kiss you?”

I nod, but now I’m unsure, thinking all kinds of crazy things, like I hope my breath is okay, and what if I’m a bad kisser—what if he’s a bad kisser—but then his lips are touching mine and they’re soft and warm and taste like spiced rum. We’re getting more into it, our mouths mashing together and my face and body feels so warm and heavy, almost sleepy in a really good way. Someone turns the music up in the living room and the beat pulses through my body, and I realize I might be a little drunk and wonder how much rum he put in my drink, but I don’t care. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and he pulls me closer so that I’m almost sliding off the chair and onto his lap. One of his hands is on my hip, under my shirt, and it’s moving in slow circles and now it’s sliding up over my rib cage and his thumb grazes under my breast. I try to pull back, but now his hand is coming over my nipple, rubbing through my bra, and it feels so good, but I also feel a jolt of fear. It’s too much, too fast.