Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)(52)

He still won’t look at me. His breathing gets harsh. He sucks in deep breaths of air and expels them loudly. It’s then I realize he’s trying not to cry. With the heel of his palm, he starts pounding on the steering wheel, slams his body against the back of his seat, and tips his chin up to stare blindly into the cloudy night sky.

“I don’t know,” he croaks. “Honestly? No. I don’t think he will.” The truth comes out slowly, painfully. His throat works. The muscle along the sharp cut of his jaw twitches.

I reach over, slide my hand up his shoulder, grip his neck, hot to the touch, alive under my fingertips, and bring him into my arms. He comes easily, hiding his face and sorrow on my shoulder, his arms banding around me in a crushing grip.

I pet his back and let him ride it out on the curve of my neck, all that anguish he’s packed down over the years surging up at once. It’s not fair. He shouldn’t be carrying all the responsibility of his brother’s welfare by himself. His parents are assholes. That goes without saying.

The cotton of my long sleeve shirt is damp when he pulls away. Then in one smooth motion, before I can see it coming, he cups my face between his large rough hands and leans down. His warm lips touch mine. It’s soft and gentle, a question instead of a command. And when I don’t object, he kisses me again with more conviction. With urgency that speaks of a stolen moment that may never come around again.

I’m in shock. I’m lost in him. I’m thrilled. My joy climbs so high it is destined to end with a brutally hard landing. I know this. I do. But I want it so badly that I willingly ignore the voice in the back of my mind telling me that he’s hurting and alone. That it’s only natural to want to celebrate life, to feel something good, something tangible that connects us to another living being when we’re faced with our own fragility. That voice urges me to pull away, to stop him. But I don’t get the chance because he does it for me.

“I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry, Alice.” For a moment his lips hover over mine, unsure whether to stay or go.

Stay. Please stay.

How do I tell him that I’m not sorry? That I want his sweet, soft kisses again and again. That I want kisses that are not so sweet too. All that and so much more from him.

He sits back in his seat and rubs his face. His lashes, still wet, glisten in the flood of light from the overhead streetlamp. “Please tell me we’re okay. I can’t lose you. Did I fuck this up again?”

“It’s okay. You’re upset…” I reassure, giving him the cover that his pained expression and voice are asking of me. “It was just…”

For the first time since we left the hospital, he turns to squarely meet my eyes. “A mistake,” he finishes for me, consequently driving a stake through my heart.

“Right…” I get out of the Jeep. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

I’m halfway to the door when I hear, “Alice.” I turn and find him chewing on his bottom lip. “Thank you”

“No need for that.”

“You are…” He gives me a funny, frustrated look, shakes his head. “Sorry. Thank you.”





Big Deal: a nude beach?





By now, these random texts are no longer cryptic.

Me: Do I have to go full-on nude, or can I start topless and ease into it?





Big Deal: …





Big Deal: …





Big Deal: you can ease into it.





Me: Then, yeah, why not.





Big Deal: you’re full of surprises.





Me: Good ones?





Big Deal: great ones.





In the days that follow, our friendship is back on track. Even though there’s a marked carefulness in the way he treats me that did not exist before. We both seemed to have recovered from the kiss without injury. Well, at least I pretend to have recovered. In reality, I’m living in a constant state of frustration and longing for more.

I had a friend in high school who liked to enter sweepstake contests. Anything that had a prize attached, she would enter. She won once. An all-expense-paid trip to London which included a first-class plane ticket and a four-night stay at a five-star hotel.

Her mother was a single parent who worked in a department store. Not only was it her first time out of the country, but it was also her first time out of the state. When she returned I asked her how it went. I expected her to be over the moon, regaling me with details sure to turn me gecko green with envy. Instead, she said it was terrible and depressing, that winning the trip was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Up until that point, she’d been happy with vacations at the Jersey shore. Her life had been complete, fulfilling. The trip showed her what she was missing out on. She said she wished she’d never gone.

That’s what kissing Reagan is to me. My imagination didn’t even begin to do the reality of it justice. And now I’m stuck knowing two things. The first is that nothing and no one will ever compare, and the second is that he’ll never be interested in me as anything other than a friend. I was a mistake, a lapse in judgment because he was feeling vulnerable.