Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(62)

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Emma


Graham has been the perfect gentleman. His mother would be proud. Or, I think she would be. It’s still hard to say—I’m not clear about their relationship.

I didn’t let Lindsey know I was leaving to meet him. I didn’t want to deal with expectations. I brushed her attempt to talk off last night, telling her I was just stressed after the awards dinner. I told her I was walking to the store and back—instead, going to Andrew’s to confront him. I wanted to see him without the veil, to see if he would be the same if it were just us.

Turns out he was worse.

He’s so broken, and I don’t know why. I let that consume me, and it was starting to push me into depression when Graham called and asked if I wanted to meet for a quick dinner. I jumped at his offer, wanting to find something else—anything else—that would mesmerize me for a while.

Graham has been ideal, what women are supposed to want—at least what I think women are supposed to want, all beardy and strong and masculine—but my mind hasn’t abandoned its thoughts of Andrew once all evening. His messy hair, pierced ears, half-shaven face with eyes that have this way of boxing me in and suffocating me.

“So what’s it like studying with my mom?” he asks as we walk from the small café two blocks away from my apartment. He offered to walk me home, and I allowed it.

“She’s…I don’t know…kind of tough I guess?” I say, glancing to his smiling face then back down to the walkway in front of me.

“She’s mean, huh?” he laughs. “It’s okay; you can say it to me. I mean hell, the woman raised me. She tells my dad what to do, too. That’s the whole reason I went into psychology. I wanted a practice and specialty she knew nothing about. I had eighteen years of that woman knowing what’s best, telling me what to do, but never really caring enough to stick around and watch me succeed at her plan. She just laid out new orders for me to follow, new expectations. I’m done with it.”

“I bet she still knows a few things about your world,” I smile, not really comfortable complaining about Miranda to Graham, or hearing his complaints—which seem to be plentiful.

Graham chuckles, holding his hand out in front of me to stop me from stepping in the road as we reach the intersection. A delivery truck races by, kicking my pulse up as it passes.

“Thanks,” I say, embarrassed and looking down.

He bends his elbow out to the side, nudging me until I look up at him again. “Don’t mention it,” he says, leaving his arm out for me to take. I slide my fingers under his bicep and let him lead. He layers his other hand over mine, and I notice that when I loosen my hold, he tightens his. I think it’s because he’s still worried about me stepping off the curb, but there’s also something overly-possessive about the way his touch feels. If I weren’t this close to home, I’m not sure how okay I would be with it. “And no, my mom doesn’t do psychology,” he continues, lowering his head, picking up my gaze and bringing my eyes back up to his. “My mom thinks it’s a shit practice, actually. But we’re past that argument. I’m too far in now anyhow.”

“How many more years do you have?” All I can think of while we walk is how different his arm feels. There’s heat that goes along with his skin, and his muscles are bigger than Andrew’s. Or maybe they’re not. I haven’t touched Andrew in years, and the version of him in my life now is definitely not a teenaged boy.

“Probably four more if I want to really be something. Which I do. I want to be the doctor who solves things, with papers published in journals and all that. You see, Mom and I both have that in common,” he says, and I squint at him, my brow pinched as I try to follow his suggestion. “You know, awards and accolades—Wheatons love the attention.”

I smile as he chuckles, and I feel relief that he recognizes this about his mom as well.

“Well, at least you all earn it…the awards, I mean?” I say. He acknowledges with a quick nod and smile, but his expression quickly fades as he turns his head from me.

“I plan on earning it,” he says, his focus on the long sidewalk in front of us, his mouth in a tight straight line. “Mom…she gets awards because people have just gotten used to giving them to her at this point.”

I breathe in slowly through my nose, glancing at him carefully, turning away before he looks down at me. I don’t respond to his criticism of the woman who saved my life. It’s clear that he’s privy to a side of her I don’t know, though, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to delve into it—not now, anyhow.

My nerves make themselves present as we get closer to my apartment. Graham has been a gentleman, but I’m also not sure if that lasts all the way up to my front door. His hold on me is still rigid and unforgiving; the few tests I’ve tried to relax my muscles haven’t induced the same response from him. I’m not inviting him in, and my extremely-limited dating experience hasn’t taught me how to navigate this next step yet.

Karma seems to have sent me assistance, though, as the moment we get to the front of my building, a voice calls my name from the ground. Andrew is sitting with his back against the wall, his hood pulled forward over his head. He looks drunk on his feet as he slowly gets himself to a stand, but when I see his face I realize it’s more than that making him shaky.