15. Reese
15
REESE
After sushi, we’re roaming around the city aimlessly. There’s no destination in mind. It’s as if neither of us wants the day to end yet. Well, I don’t. It’s oddly nice walking around with him. I haven’t felt this comfortable around people—sans Lilian—in ages.
The sun is setting; the sky is lit in a gorgeous rosy hue I want to take a picture of. Or maybe even capture the cityscape surrounding us, a mismatch of architecture from sleek skyscrapers to mid-century buildings. In the distance, I can make out the pockets of Spanish mission revival homes sprinkled across the hills.
I’m about to reach for my phone when Dane breaks the pleasant silence between us. “Hey, look, it’s the least sexy place on the planet.”
Following his line of sight, my gaze lands on an art museum, and I smother my snort. “Oh. I’ve been there before.”
“Of course,” he deadpans, his words heavy with a tease.
“I think they have a new exhibit,” I add, turning to face him. I don’t miss the half-smile at the corner of his lips. Or the amused gleam materializing behind his eyes.
“You think?” He lifts a brow. “You didn’t go there with Blue Balls?”
“I haven’t been there since my first semester,” I explain, “when I was taking art.”
“You took art?”
“Emphasis on took.”
“Why’d you stop?” There’s a hint of curiosity threaded in his voice.
Hesitation courses through my bloodstream. I can only speak for myself when I say that there are elements of shame you carry with you when you grow up in poverty, something I’m ashamed I still carry with me. You don’t want to talk about being poor. You don’t want to address it at all.
“It’s so expensive,” I admit, swallowing nervously. “All the materials you need to buy. And this was for an intro class, mind you. I only took it when I was still considering a minor in the art field, but that’s because photography is only offered through the art program.”
I sheepishly rub my hands against my skirt. Dane doesn’t want to hear this. He’s probably thinking about the extremely loud muscle car that just gunned past us and its many shiny parts, so my words dwindle as I trail off and glance elsewhere.
“You’re one of those artsy shy girls?” Dane asks, and my focus pivots back to him. He’s so much taller that he always has to look down while talking to me. I regret not wearing heels. Or being capable of walking in them without looking like a newborn baby deer trying to cross frozen water.
“Um, I’m no artist,” I admit with a soft laugh. “Not in the traditional sense. If our lives depend on me painting the next Mona Lisa, we’re so screwed.”
“What about finger painting?” he teases.
I fight my laugh. “ Beyond screwed.”
“At least tell me you can mix colors.”
“Oh, I got an A on that,” I say, beaming.
“Shit, really?” He folds his arms. “You got graded on mixing colors?”
“Color theory,” I explain. “It’s an intro class.”
“In college?”
“In college,” I confirm.
“At Belford?” he asks, surprised.
“Yes, Dane,” I say with a half-smile. “At Belford.”
“Shit. For real?” Disbelief furrows his eyebrows. “Are you telling me I’ve been taking hard-ass classes for economics and information systems when I could have been finger painting colors like a preschooler for an easy A?”
I roll my eyes. “That class was actually a lot harder than I thought it would be.”
“How do you screw up mixing colors?” he asks. “Are you colorblind?”
“No, I’m not colorblind. It’s… You have to present your work.” I blow out a breath, feeling my cheeks bloom with heat. “All of them. In front of the class. For critique and peer review from your classmates.”
Dane frowns. “All right, whose ass do I have to kick for you? Point them all out to me on Monday?—”
“Okay, cool your jets,” I say, suppressing the twitch to the edge of my lips. “Nobody was tearing me down for my work, even though I wouldn’t blame them if they did?—”
“I would,” he cuts in, his expression oddly fierce and protective.
“Constructive criticism is a good thing,” I say softly. “It’s always good to know what your strengths and weaknesses are, so you can work on them.”
“Sometimes, things are perfect the way they are,” he replies immediately, his gaze landing on my face. “And you shouldn’t mess with perfection.”
My heart pounds with each waking second that follows, and my breath collects in my lungs when he shifts imperceptibly closer.
“Come on.” He tips his head. “Let’s go check out the unsexiest place on the planet.”
And because I don’t want to stop hanging out with him, I agree.
The instant we’re inside, I’m easily distracted by the interior design of the building. The lobby, as far as the eye can see, is a subtle balance of glitzy and sleek, with bold geometric shapes, sharp lines, and vibrant colors.
Right as I’m about to snap a photo, Dane sidles over with admission tickets in his hands. My mouth parts in protest.
“You paid for dinner,” he says, and then he waltzes off before I can object and remind him he’s the one who left a huge whopping tip on the table that will definitely make our waiter’s day.
With a muted sigh, I quickly trail after him.
Apparently, we missed the last tour for the day by twelve minutes, which Dane doesn’t seem bothered about. But we’re given free rein to check out the exhibits before the museum closes in an hour, which I don’t mind since I always like to examine pieces at my own pace.
I take the no photography signs seriously or else I would have captured a picture of Dane, with his plain white tee, dark jeans, scuffed black boots, and gelled-back hair, looking extremely out of place in the room we’re in right now. Paintings from the Baroque period hang on every wall, shrouding us in muted shades of green and pink, so it’s no surprise he stands out.
“All right, I take it back,” Dane says, his attention going over my shoulder. I whip around and spot a nude oil painting of a woman spread demurely across a chaise baroque lounge chair. “Forgot museums can have artsy-fartsy porn in them.”
“ Porn ?” I splutter, offering him a disbelieving stare.
“You don’t think people back then looked at this and went, oh yeah, that’s the stuff , while cranking one out?” Dane arches a brow, and bewilderment scorches a path across my cheeks and leaves me stunned. “Come on, Snack Size. This has to be from the time when ankles were scandalous. Or before that? And it’s not like they had the internet at their fingertips.” He shrugs. “Somewhere out there are a bunch of buried skeletons that have, once upon a time, seen this painting and were like?—”
“Is sex always on your mind?” I blurt.
“Look at her face,” he wheedles, ignoring the words that just rolled off of my tongue. I should probably be grateful for that. I don’t think I could handle hearing what he has to say. Not without inventing a new hue of red to blush with. “Are those do me eyes or what?”
“Do me what ?”
He puts his hands on my shoulders and spins me toward the painting, and my body goes heavy like a stone when he leans in to whisper into my ear, “Look at those eyes.”
I would if I weren’t trembling right now, my whole frame seized with panic. The muscles of his chest go taut against my spine. Within a heartbeat, he whirls me around so that we’re facing each other. Concern laces his features while his frost-colored eyes scan me from head to toe, and his grip gentles.
“Reese?” he murmurs.
The back of my throat prickles with hot tears as I struggle for breath and gasp, “Sorry, sorry, I’m?—”
“Was that how he did it?” The humor in his voice is long gone. It’s startlingly eerie. An even calm I’d hyper-fixate over on any other occasion. Just not while I’m struggling to remain poised; desperate to regain a normal heart rate. “The guy who attacked you?”
“What about her eyes?” I choke out, slightly flinching when I see a swift movement from the edge of my periphery, only to freeze again for an entirely different reason. Some part of me barely registers the fact that his bruised knuckle is carefully brushing against my cheekbone, moving so painstakingly slowly as he wipes away a tear tracking down my cheek.
For a moment, I almost lean into his hand. I stop myself just in time, my eyelashes fluttering as I try to gather my wits.
“Oh, Reese,” he breathes, a deep juxtaposition to the raw anger I can feel vibrating off of him. His touch remains so faint, so featherlight , that it’s surreal. This is the bad guy my sister warned me to stay away from?
“It’s okay,” I whisper back, sniffling hard as I pull away from him, hugging my arms tightly to my chest.
“This fuckhead is number one on my list of people to beat up.”
“It concerns me you have a list of people to beat up,” I reply crisply, furrowing my brows.
“Be a little less concerned,” he tells me. “I only made it up just now, and there are only two people on it.”
“Two people?” I peer at him through my wet lashes, and confusion streams through my chest. “Who’s the second person?”
“Whoever dissed your work in your fucking intro art class,” he responds without missing a beat.
I snort before I can help myself, my shoulders shaking as I try to stifle my laughter. “Nobody dissed my artwork. I’m not a fan of public speaking. I… freeze easily when all eyes are on me. I don’t like attention. And it’s really hard to avoid it when… you know.”
His gaze flicks to my neck for a split second before it pivots back to my face. “Point me out to everybody who makes you feel uncomfortable?—”
“We are not adding to the list.” I pause, considering. “The list shouldn’t even exist.”
An exasperated groan breaks free from him. “I hate the fucker who did this to you,” he says, furrowing his dark brows. “The fucker’s lucky I didn’t know you then?—”
“Or else you’d be hurt, too?” I try to joke, but my voice comes out flat.
“I hate the fucker who did this to you,” he repeats, and there’s a visible tightness to his jaw as he levels a glare over my head.
“So does my sister,” I say lightly, trying my best to liven the mood.
“Good,” Dane grunts. “As she should. I would have spent my free time hunting him down. And believe me, I had plenty of it.”
I suddenly remember what Lilian had said about Dane nearly being kicked out of school. “Free time?”
“Leave of absence,” he clarifies, after a moment’s hesitation.
I’m worried I might be intruding, and I know that it’s not my place to ask, but my curiosity gets the better of me. “What did you do during that time?” My voice is gentle as I dry my cheek with the heel of my palm.
His focus remains on my hand, and visible concern creases his forehead. “I worked on cars. What else?”
A muted snort escapes me. “And go to concerts, right?”
“With musicians who can carry a tune,” he deadpans.
My lips twist. “That’s not a nice thing to say.”
“Reese, if you want me to buy you VIP tickets to their next show here?—”
“ No !”
He cracks a grin. “That’s not a nice thing to say,” he mimics. “Here I am, being thoughtful by getting you some tickets to a band you apparently like?—”
“Oh, hush,” I say.
He winks. “Look at us, finally having something in common,” Dane teases, and I squint at him. “Neither of us wants front-row tickets to see that band again.”
“This is such a weird thing to bond over,” I admit with a quiet laugh. Then I pause as I consider his words. “We don’t have much in common.”
“You don’t think I also love wearing sweaters while it’s sweltering hot outside?” Dane asks innocently, his mouth twitching with a hint of a smile. I have to admit, I like it when he smiles. It softens his face tremendously. Even though it’s barely there, something that’s gone in the blink of an eye.
“Do you think we would have been aware of each other’s existence under any other circumstances?” I ask because I don’t want to phrase it as: Would you have even talked to me otherwise if I never helped you in the alleyway of The Little Roast ?
His Adam’s apple bobs reflexively. His gaze locks with mine and holds strong. “I’m glad you crashed into my life, Reese’s Snack Mix?—”
“Did you memorize the complete list of Reese’s products out there?”
“And what about it?” he replies instantly, a lazy smirk curling the edge of his lips. It takes everything I’ve got to refrain from dissolving into giggles.
“And I think you crashed into mine,” I reply. “If we’re going to be technical here.”
“Well, I’m glad we met because I… I don’t know. For someone I haven’t known for that long…” He lets his sentence taper off, a thoughtful quality to his expression, as he contemplates. “You’re already someone special to me.”
My brain latches onto those words, repeating them over and over to the beat of my heart.
We just stand there, rooted in place, staring at each other for a lingering moment. Soft music plays faintly in the background. A quiet hum of chatter flows in from nearby rooms.
Is he waiting for me to respond? I worry my lower lip between my teeth. “You’re the first real friend I made here at Belford.”
“I am?” His eyes go wide with surprise, and embarrassment scalds my face.
“Yeah.” Awkward laughter bubbles out of me. “And I’m also super grateful you haven’t been giving me that much grief over Caleb.” It’s as if I said the magic word because something in the air changes—the soft music even halts; the idle conversations nearby cease.
His lips form a hard line, and the toe of his boot scuffs against the floor. “Don’t you mean Blue Balls?” he grunts. He hikes his chin toward the canvas and folds his arms. “Old art porn or not, museums still aren’t sexy.”
“Got it. Don’t take Caleb here if I plan on seducing him,” I deadpan, rearing my head back when I think I hear him mutter under his breath, Don’t take him anywhere . “Did you just say?—”
“Let’s go look at the rest of the shit here before the place closes,” he interjects, and already, he’s striding toward the other side of the room.
I amble after him and sneak a peek at my watch. “Oh, good idea. It’s going to close soon.”
“Then let’s go, Reese.” He nods at a different painting and folds his arms tightly across his chest. “Don’t you think that one looks like Blue Balls?”
“What?” I sputter, twisting on my feet to stare at him in disbelief. The man in the painting is bald, for starters. “That looks nothing like him?”
“Really? They both have that sinister quality to them?—”
“Sinister?” I shoot him a bewildered look.
“Look at those dead eyes?—”
“Caleb does not have dead eyes,” I gasp. “He has the dreamiest smile?—”
“So does everybody else who shells out thousands for dental procedures.”
“Do you not like Caleb?” I cut in, my mouth dropping open in surprise.
“Me?” He lifts a shoulder and drops it. “I barely know the guy.”
“And yet you’re helping me get with him anyway,” I point out teasingly, and his features harden with a stormy scowl. “Dane, do you not like him?”
“What do you even like about him?” he asks. I blink, taken aback. “Because we both know he’s got shit taste in music.”
“ Dane ,” I admonish, even though I do agree. Kind of.
Besides avant-garde experimental screaming, Caleb’s really into musicians who sing in a nasally, slow, and monotone register. It’s not my cup of tea at all. And I say this as someone who does like indie music.
“He’s nice.”
He gives me an expectant look. “And?”
“And?” I echo. “I don’t know. He… sees me for me? He doesn’t see me as Lilian’s little sister.”
“I see you as Reese’s Pieces,” he reminds me.
“And that’s why you’re the first real friend I made here,” I say, rolling my eyes good-naturedly. I won’t admit it, but the nickname has grown on me. “Even though we don’t have much in common.”
Dane continues to stare with a gaze so piercing and intense that it feels like he can see right through me. “Is he nice to you?”
“I said he was nice.”
“He’s never done anything to hurt you?”
“No.” I shake my head vehemently. “Not at all.”
He’s eerily quiet. There’s some part of me that wants to reach out, hold his arms, and swear to him up and down that Caleb isn’t going to hurt me—to reassure him that I’ll be okay—just to smooth away the grumpy expression that’s taken over his face.
“Okay.” He lets loose a rough exhale, nodding a split second later. “Good. Because I’d hate to bump your art critic to number three when Blue Balls gets added to my list?—”
“Oh my God,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “That list shouldn’t exist.”
“The moment I find out Blue Balls hurt you?—”
“He’s not going to hurt me,” I say, voice firm.
Dane peers into my eyes, almost as if he’s trying to search for another answer, and the chords of his neck go tense when I give him a reassuring beam. “You like him, huh?”
“I should or else all of your efforts to help me with him would go to waste,” I joke, shifting my weight from one foot to another.
He doesn’t even laugh, and my smile falters. A muscle twitches in his throat; then he sighs. “I personally don’t understand what’s so great about Blue Balls. I think you could do much better?—”
“I—”
“You could do so much fucking better than him,” he grunts. “You really could. You really, really could?—”
“Dane.”
He straightens his stance and holds his hands up defensively. “Just saying.”
“He’s not that bad,” I say. “He’s sweet, and we like the same books?—”
“And movies and TV shows,” he mutters. “Yeah, I remember. That’s what you said that one day.”
I blink, a little thrown off by the tension in his voice I can’t place.
“What kind of movies do you two even bond over?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. The arthouse ones?—”
“Of course, Blue Balls would like that.”
“I like them, too?” A quiet exhalation escapes me. “I know it’s not everybody’s cup of tea, but I do like arthouse and indie movies.” My words dry up in my throat, and heat rises in my cheeks. “Like, there's this one I’ve been meaning to see about the coming-of-age experience—I just like them. A lot.”
He winces. “Shit. Reese, I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“It’s… I’ve never really met anybody with the same interests as me,” I whisper lamely. “It just feels very… meant to be, you know? To find someone who likes the same thing you like?”
He pins me with another searching stare. “And that’s why you like him? Because you have a lot in common with him?”
“I… I guess? When you put it that way…” I release a laugh, something equal parts awkward and stiff. “Can we look at the rest of the art here before the place closes?”
His attention is rapt. Unreadable, even. I start to feel fidgety under his concentrated, heart-stopping gaze. Uncertainty builds inside me. I don’t know what else to say when he finally juts his chin.
“Lead the way, Reese’s Pieces.”
So I do. Thankfully, he doesn’t bring up Caleb again the rest of the time we’re at the art museum.