The Design(54)

Jason frowned, slowly dropping the pint onto the counter.

“Brooklyn doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” I replied. “She forgets that I'm an adult, and as such, I can stick my spoon in any pint of ice cream that I wish.”

I flipped my sister off—because that’s what adults do—and then walked out of her apartment with the ice cream in hand. It was one of the finest exits I’ve ever pulled off, and there was a bonus: I had a pint of ice cream to eat as I walked home.

It was a fifteen minute walk—ten if I was really stepping on it—so I dipped into the Chinese restaurant next to Brooklyn’s condo, stole some chopsticks, and ate my ice cream as best as I could using a sort of “flick it into my mouth and hope my aim is right” technique.

As if I wasn’t juggling enough things with my hands already, I dialed Grayson’s number when I was halfway home.

He answered right away.

“How’s Brooklyn’s?” he asked, skipping right past the formal hello.

“I’m not at her place. I’m walking back to mine,” I said, flicking some ice cream toward my mouth and missing by a long shot. I turned behind me to see where it landed, only to find a trail of melting ice cream on the sidewalk. Whoopsies.

“You’re walking home? It’s eleven at night.”

“Don’t worry, I have ice cream and chopsticks,” I said, only half joking.

He groaned and I could visualize him doing that thing where he tugged his hair as if exasperated by my existence in general.

“Could you come pick me up and take me to your place?” I asked, digging my chopsticks into the melting slush.

I could hear rustling clothes in the background, the buckling of a belt, and then keys sliding off of a table.

“Where are you?” he asked.

I rattled off the cross streets and then hung up so I could eat my ice cream in peace.

Brooklyn’s condo was in a very ritzy part of Los Angeles, so I wasn’t worried about sitting alone on a stoop at night, but when Grayson pulled up—looking like Batman in his dark gray sports car I might add—he didn’t seem to agree with me.

He hopped out of the car, leaving the engine quietly purring, and walked around to meet me. He had on a pair of worn jeans and a white undershirt. I’d never seen him so dressed down and one of my chopsticks drooped midway to my mouth when he stepped closer. Hello, Grayson Cole.

“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” I smiled up at him.

He ignored me, taking in my appearance and the chopsticks in my hands.

“I shouldn’t have let you go home with Brooklyn,” he said, reaching for the chopsticks and ice cream so that he could toss them into a garbage bin near by. I didn’t argue; I’d already downed most of the pint and my stomach was starting to protest the random contents I’d consumed in the past twelve hours.

He turned to help me back up, secured my hands in his, and led me to the car. I could have walked by myself, I wasn’t drunk or anything, but it felt good to have him there to support me nonetheless.

I was chatty during the drive, anxious to see where he lived and giddy that I would get to rifle through his things, maybe even learn a thing or two about him that he hadn't yet revealed to me. (I was betting he had a weird CD collection. Closet One Direction fan, maybe?) But, if I’d been paying attention to his route, I would have realized that he wasn’t directing us to his place, he was taking me back to mine.

My apartment building was deserted when we pulled up. Grayson killed the engine and I sat for a moment, studying the entrance as I grasped for an appropriate thing to say. I’d asked him to take me to his place and he’d driven me back home. Wasn’t that a bad thing? It definitely felt like a rejection.

“Thanks for picking me up,” I said, turning toward him for a brief moment before reaching for the door handle—which I could now operate on my own, thank you very much.

“Next time call me before you start walking around alone at night,” he said, reaching to slide his hand beneath my hair and up around my neck. The warmth of his palm sent shivers down my spine and I paused for a moment, wanting to stay in his presence for another few seconds.

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow,” he said, before reaching over and offering me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

I thought of how contradictory Grayson could be as I took the elevator to my apartment. He’d bend me over the sink in a bar bathroom, but then he’d kiss me so gently, like a porcelain doll he was scared to drop. The two things seemed mutually exclusive to me.

“Oh, hey,” Hannah said from her spot on the couch when I pushed through the apartment door. She was wearing pajamas and flipping through channels on the TV with a bored expression.

“Hey,” I said with a slight nod. The awkward tension was palpable as I made my way past her.

“Fun night?” she asked.

I paused mid-step, realizing how suggestive her curt tone was. There was so much meaning wrapped in that question and when I turned to look back at her, she was wearing a small “gotcha” smirk.

Had she seen Grayson’s car outside?

“Yup. Great night,” I replied as I opened my bedroom door and then closed and locked it behind me.





Chapter TwentyOne





Brooklyn: Your birthday is tomorrow. Your birthday is tomorrow. You are the best little sister ever because your birthday is tomorrow. Faalllalalala.