The Golden Lily (Bloodlines #2)(25)

"Did you bring your own?" he asked me.

"No," I said. I couldn't help but be impressed. "I didn't bring many books from home when I moved here."

He hesitated, as though unsure he should say what he was thinking. "Do you want to read along with mine?"

I'd honestly figured I would just watch the play, but the scholar in me could certainly see the perks of having the original text along. I was also curious about what kind of notes he'd made. It was only after I'd said yes that I realized why he was nervous. Reading along with him meant we had to sit very, very close together.

"I won't bite," he said, smiling when I didn't move right away.

That broke the tension, and we managed to move into positions that allowed us both to see the book with almost no touching. There was no avoiding our knees brushing one another, but we both had jeans on, and it didn't make me feel like my virtue was at stake. Also, I couldn't help but notice he smelled like coffee - my favorite vice. That wasn't a bad thing. Not bad at all.

Still, I was very conscious of being so close to someone. I didn't think I was getting any romantic vibes. My pulse didn't race; my heart didn't flutter. Mostly I was aware that this was the closest I'd sat to anyone, maybe in my life. I wasn't used to sharing my personal space so much.

I soon forgot about that as the play started. Brayden might not like Shakespeare performed in modern clothing, but I thought they did an admirable job. Following along with the text, we caught a couple of spots where the actors messed up a line. We shot each other secret, triumphant looks, gleeful that we were in on something others didn't know about. I kept up with Brayden's annotations too, nodding at some and shaking my head at others. I couldn't wait until we discussed this on the ride home.

We were all leaning forward intently during Cleopatra's dramatic death scene, intensely focused on her last lines. Off to my side, I heard the crinkling of paper. I ignored it and leaned forward further. The paper crinkled again, this time much louder. Looking over, I saw a group of guys sitting nearby who appeared to be about college-aged. Most of them were watching the performance, but one was holding an item wrapped in a brown paper bag. The bag was too big for the object and had been rolled down several times. He glanced around nervously, trying to be discreet and unroll the paper in small batches. It was obvious that was actually making more noise than if he'd just gone for it and unrolled it all at once.

This went on for another minute, and by then, a few others nearby were glancing over at him. He finally managed to open the bag and then, still in slow motion, carefully lowered his hand inside. I heard the pop of a cap and the guy's face lit up in triumph. Still keeping the object concealed, he lifted the bag to his mouth and drank out of what was very obviously a bottle of beer or some other alcohol. It had been pretty apparent right away from the bag shape.

I clapped a hand over my mouth, in an attempt to smother my laughter. He reminded me so much of Adrian. I could absolutely see Adrian smuggling in alcohol to an event like this and then going to all sorts of pains to be covert, thinking that if he just did everything slowly enough, no one would catch on to him. Adrian, too, would probably have the misfortune of opening the bottle right in the middle of the play's most tense scene. I could even picture a similarly delighted look on his face, one that said, No one knows what I'm doing! When, of course, we all knew. I didn't know why it made me laugh, but it did.

Brayden was too focused on the play to notice. "Ooh," he whispered to me. "This is a good part - where her handmaidens kill themselves."

The two of us had plenty to debate and analyze on the way back to Amberwood. I was almost disappointed when his car pulled up to my dorm. As we sat there, I realized we'd come to another critical dating milestone. What was the correct procedure here? Was he supposed to kiss me? Was I supposed to let him? Had that been the real price of my salad?

Brayden seemed nervous too, and I braced myself for the worst. When I looked down at my hands in my lap, I noticed they were shaking. You can do this, I told myself. It's a rite of passage. I started to close my eyes, but when Brayden spoke, I opened them quickly.

As it turned out, Brayden's buildup of courage wasn't for a kiss, so much as a question.

"Would you... would you like to go out again?" he asked, giving me a shy smile.

I was surprised at the mix of emotions this triggered. Relief was foremost, of course. I'd now have time to research books on kissing too. At the same time, I was kind of disappointed that the swagger and confidence he'd shown in dramatic analysis didn't carry through here.

Some part of me thought his line should've been more like, "Well, after that night of perfection, I guess we have no choice but to go out again." Immediately, I felt stupid for such a sentiment.

I had no business expecting him to be more at ease with this when I was sitting there with my hands shaking.

"Sure," I blurted out.

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Cool," he said. "I'll e-mail you."

"That'd be great." I smiled. More awkward silence fell, and suddenly, I wondered if the kiss might be coming after all.

"Do you... do you want me to walk you to the door?" he asked.

"What? Oh, no. Thank you. It's right there. I'll be fine. Thank you." I realized I was on the verge of sounding like Jill.