Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)(29)

“They gave up on him? What do you mean?”

Releasing a heavy sigh, he looks out the large window. It makes me wonder what he’s looking for. Relief? Answers? A moment’s respite from all the heavy feelings? I don’t know, can’t say for sure, but when his attention returns to me he looks tired.

“They forced him into rehab three times. It was easy while he was still a minor. But then he turned eighteen and they, uh…they gave up.” Lost in thought, he shakes his head. “Stopped trying to get through to him. They threatened to have him arrested if he came by the house…cut him out of the family like he was already dead to them.”

My hand automatically moves to cover my mouth. “That’s…” I eat my words, not sure what’s okay to say or not say. I’m appalled that anyone would do that to their own son. But does he want to hear that I think his parents are monsters? Probably not.

“Fucked up,” he finishes for me. “Yeah. It is.”

“You’re close? With your brother?”

“Used to be.”

A commiserative silence falls between us.

“I don’t remember my mother,” dribbles out of me. “She died when I was five…cancer,” I add before he can ask. Because inevitably everyone asks.

His head turns, he holds my startled gaze. Startled because I don’t talk about my mother. Not to anyone. Mostly because of what I just confessed to a basic stranger. “I can’t remember anything about her.” I shrug. “Except that I liked the sound of her voice and she would snuggle with me and watch movies.” I brush my damp palms on my denim miniskirt and shift uncomfortably. “It makes me feel guilty that I can’t remember her. That I can’t…miss her.”

“You were five––” I nod. “A baby. Why would you expect to remember her?”

Guilt is a strange thing, a self-inflicted wound that’s hard to heal because your own mind keeps opening it up.

“I don’t know, I just do. You can’t reason with guilt.”

His brow furrows. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

His gaze cuts to my lips and the silence thickens again, buzzing with pent-up sexual tension. I can’t be the only one feeling it. The air around us pulses with it, my body becoming increasingly aware of the lack of space between us. Heat travels south of my waist and north to my face.

Not a moment later reality intrudes in the form of a sharp knock. “Reagan?” a girl’s voice calls out. It puts a quick end to the heat.

Reagan places his index finger to his mouth gesturing for me to stay quiet while some heavy eyes-to-lips contact happens.

On the other side of his door, the girls speak in hushed voices. More is said that we can’t make out. Then we both hear a distinguishable, “Whatever. He’s not in his bedroom. Come on, Kaitlyn. Let’s check the beach.”

At the sound of footsteps moving away, he gets up and retrieves a water bottle out of a small refrigerator. “Want one?”

“No. I’m good.” But I’m not good. I’m irked. He doesn’t even have to go out for it. The “smorgasbord” has legs, probably long tan ones, and it comes to him.

He drains the entire bottle in a few long gulps, chucks it into a bin, and lies back down. Closer this time––a lot closer. Every nerve ending in my body starts calculating exactly how close.

“You missed the party,” he says, voice low and raspy.

“I’m not much of a party girl.”

I’ve always been more of a one-on-one person. Parties force me to seek out conversation and that’s not my jam. I’m more of a hang-back-and-observe kinda girl. “I always end up hanging in a corner, wondering why I’m at a party in the first place.” More heated glances get exchanged, making me increasingly more uncomfortable. “Anyway, my friends are probably looking for me. I should, umm…get going.”

“Do you guys need a ride back? I only had the one beer. I can drive.”

“No. That’s alright. Dora’s the designated driver.” A question crosses his face. “A friend,” I answer. “We live in the same dorm suite.”

He gets off the bed and I throw my legs over the side, reach for my crutch. He beats me to it, props it up for me, and holds out his other hand, palm up.

I stare at it the same way I stared at it the first time he offered it to me. At the ridge of calluses, the pale skin of his long thick fingers. What would it feel like to have those hands all over my body? This time I don’t want to refuse.

I place my hand in his and his fingers, warm and strong, close around it. He pulls me up and doesn’t let go until I’m safely balanced on my one crutch. Our bodies are only inches apart. And while his eyes say go, the rest of his face holds a fair bit of reluctance.

“Bailey…”

“Yeah…”

He sighs deeply, gaze flickering over my features. “I can’t do relationships. I can’t. I have medical school next year and…” His voice fades, lips fall shut. His gaze stays on me shuttered, reserved.

Even though I am painfully aware that I am not the type of girl he dates, it’s hard to hear it said out loud. I turn redder than hot sauce. Regardless, he’s right. We both have goals to accomplish and lives leading in separate directions. I can’t lose sight of that. I only have so much time and money.