In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(27)

“You okay?” I ask the kid. I lean down to look at his face. There’s a red mark on one high cheekbone that will definitely be a bruise tomorrow, but he mostly just looks a little dazed. He has big brown eyes and his olive skin is spattered with freckles. He has a small, straight nose that will probably make him handsome in a few years, but now just looks cute. In fact, the only thing that keeps him from being pretty is that in contrast to his expressive eyes, his brows are straight, dark slashes that turn his otherwise sweet face serious.

“Omygod, you’re the guy!”

“Uh, sorry?”

“You’re the professor! The gay one from New York!”

“Holy shit. I am from f*cking Philadelphia, for the love of god. And how does everyone know I’m gay? Not like I care. Just, seriously, you all gossip like a sewing circle.”

“Philly, right on,” he says. “I dig Kurt Vile and don’t laugh but I totally love Christina Perri. And, like, cheesesteaks. Right?”

“Right, as in, you’re listing things from Philadelphia? Yes.”

“Cool, cool.”

“So, are you okay?” I gesture to his cheek.

“Pshh. Those closet cases are just jealous because they know I’ll never make out with them. I’m fine.” But his lower lip is trembling a little. I sit down next to him and try not to look like a pedophile as I rest one elbow on my box of wine. I remember after I’d get in a fight all I really wanted was for someone to sit with me.

“So, Kurt Vile, huh?” I say, keeping my voice casual and tilting my head back to look up at the darkening sky. “What do you like about him?”

“Well, he’s kinda hot,” the kid says, testing the waters with me.

“He’s not as hot in person,” I tell him. “He’s kind of vapid.”

“No way; you’ve met him?” The kid’s eyes go wide and his genuine enthusiasm takes five years from his age.

“Yeah. I used to work at the bar in a club. He played there all the time. Nice guy, just kind of a space cadet.”

“Whoa,” the kid says. I hope I didn’t just sound like a music snob.

“I like Christina Perri too,” I offer. “Her voice is awesome and her songs are kind of addictive, even though they’re a little bubblegum. She uses interesting progressions. My best friend, Ginger, tattooed her once, said she’s really cool.”

“Hey,” he says, turning on the bench to sit cross-legged facing me. His face is serious again. “Thanks. For getting rid of them. I mean, I coulda handled it. Probably. I just. Thanks.”

“No worries,” I say, and hold out my hand. “I’m Daniel.”

“Leo,” he says, shaking it.

“Short for Leonardo?” I ask.

“No, short for leotard,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Smartass.”

“You love my ass,” he says, winking, and there’s that mischievous smile again.

“You must be okay if you’re trying to pick up a guy twice your age. I’ll leave you to your bench.”

“Well, whattaya say?” He inches closer to me, clumsy and enthusiastic. “Want to make out?”

I think he’s kidding, but….

“Leo,” I say, breathing out through my nose and trying not to sound 876 years old. “You’ve got to be careful. You don’t want to go around flirting with older guys. With strangers. Okay? You’ll get into trouble.” I am such an incredible hypocrite right now.

“Maybe I want a little trouble,” he says with an eyebrow waggle.

I take him by the shoulders firmly, the bones delicate under my hands.

“You don’t,” I say, as seriously as I mean it. “Not that kind of trouble.” Something changes in his eyes and he drops the smirk.

“Got it,” he mutters, looking down at his dirty Vans. I feel like I kicked a puppy. I pat him on the shoulder and grab my bag and my wine.

“I’ll see you around, okay?” I say. He brightens.

“Yeah, cool, man,” he says. “I work at the record store. You should totally come by!”

“Wait, there’s a record store in this town?”

“Um, well, they don’t only have records. But still! On Willow, near the alley behind the library. Come on, please come visit me some time. I get so bored.” He’s giving me a look that’s equally dangerous to the smile, only this one is puppy dog, through and through.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll definitely check it out. Night.” I wave at him and turn to go. Leo jumps up, nearly tripping over his skateboard. Skinny arms snake tight around my shoulders and I catch a whiff of sweat and clove cigarettes before he lets go. God, it’s such a familiar smell.

“Thanks,” he whispers again. Then he grabs his board and runs away.




“SEE, BABYCAKES? He wasn’t blowing you off by asking for your number,” Ginger says.

I’m slightly buzzed on cheap red wine—the kind of buzz that happens after one and a half glasses of wine on an empty stomach after not enough sleep—and lying on my back, staring at my ceiling as Pink Floyd pulls me so deep into my bed that I don’t ever want to come out.

“Yeah, I know that now. But I still convinced myself of it, which made me think how dumb I would be to get involved with him.”