Chapter 11
Eleven
Aspen
Keene ignores me for the two days following the night he picked me up from the bar and brought me home. Also known as the night we made out like two lust-drunken idiots and came all over each other.
Well, he came on me, and I came in my pants. To-ma-to, to-mah-to, at this point.
Though, I’m not entirely sure if ignore is the right word.
Being distant might be the better term. Whatever it is, he’s made himself very scarce around the dorm.
Staying out to study at the library until he knows I’m in bed or spending time at the team’s practice facility for extra batting practice.
The latter is how I know something is definitely wrong.
Keene hates taking BP off the machine and avoids it at all costs during the regular season.
Guess he’s choosing the lesser of two evils in this instance.
But when it comes to the third day and I still haven’t seen more than a passing glance of him, I’ve had about enough.
I know I screwed up a bit, pulling a classic Aspen and shutting down immediately post-hookup.
I also know I haven’t done shit to broach the subject about what happened the other night because I really don’t know how.
But I also know I can’t keep living like this: two ships passing in the night like the other doesn’t exist.
If anything, I understand—now more than ever—why he kept the questioning of his sexuality under wraps. Because after what happened when we were texting and then the other night on the couch…
Hell.
I think I’m questioning mine.
The door to our dorm clicks open, revealing Keene with his bag slung over his shoulder.
He pauses when his eyes lift to find me on the couch working on my architectural studio project—which is toeing the lines of Frank Gehry level in abstraction—and his brows lift in the way they do when he’s taken off guard.
“Oh. You’re still up,” he says after kicking off his slides. Long fingers grip the bag slung over his shoulder far tighter than they should be, and I can tell he’s looking for an out. Hilarious, considering Keene’s always the one to make us talk about our feelings when we get into a fight.
The only exception to that has been the past few weeks.
But pair his clear desire for avoidance with the way he still won’t look at me, and I know this is necessary. No matter how uncomfortable it’ll be. And I know it’ll be awkward. Especially if we aren’t on the same page as to where we go from here.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I think we need to talk.”
He nods a couple times before finally meeting my gaze. An impassive look is plastered on his face, completely unreadable. My stomach rolls at the sight of it. Part of me thinks he might even tell me no or to fuck off.
I don’t think I’d blame him if he did. Rejection stings from anyone, but I’m sure having it come from one of the people you care about most hurts like a bitch.
But in true Keene fashion, he just lets a confident smirk cross his face. One he and I both know is faker than Dolly Parton’s tits.
“Okay, so talk.”
Then he walks right past me and into his room, clearly meaning for me to come with.
Well, shit. I wasn’t expecting him to make me go first. Spew my guts out without knowing what he’s thinking or feeling beforehand. Then again, this is Keene. If I can’t be open and honest with him about this, I can’t do it with anyone.
Moving my laptop to the side, I follow behind him, anxiousness and dread settling low in my stomach.
I have no idea where to start, and I think that’s the biggest issue.
I don’t hate what happened between us, but I also don’t know what any of it means.
I don’t know if I want it to mean something, other than a stupid, drunken moment where we got carried away more than we should’ve.
Well, at least for me, it was partially due to intoxication. Though, as far as I know, Keene was sober when he came all over my stomach in what might be the hottest sight I’ve ever seen.
Passing through the doorway, I find Keene’s back to me as he tucks his duffle in the corner of the room.
Plopping down in his desk chair, I take a deep breath and open my mouth to start out with what sure is gonna be a ridiculous amount of word vomit—the first few being I’m sorry.
But then he strips out of his cut-off and tosses it with the rest of his dirty clothes, his shorts and socks quick to follow.
Soon enough, he’s left in only a pair of black compression shorts.
And I’m left completely tongue-tied.
There are plenty of times I’ve seen Keene in this state.
Being around each other in only underwear has been a pretty regular occurrence since we moved in here freshman year.
Probably well before then too. We also can’t forget the hundreds of times I’ve seen him in swim trunks, which is basically the same damn thing.
But never before has the sight caused my brain to short-circuit like this.
Miles of tanned skin over perfectly sculpted muscles greet me, and I’m both shocked and horrified to find myself greedy for more. For him to drop the briefs entirely, so I can get another look at his—
Jesus Christ, stop it.
My eyes snap away, shame coursing through me for ogling his body…because for fuck’s sake, why is this happening? I most certainly haven’t wanted to get an eyeful of another dude’s naked dick before. Hard, flaccid, or anything in between.
When I flick my attention back to him, my eyes are immediately glued to his package again, so apparently that’s not the case anymore.
Why the way I look at him has suddenly changed, I don’t know.
But now, I see the way his obliques carve his lower torso with that sinful V girls lose their shit for.
The defined indentations of each of his abs, eight in total.
And then there’s the sculpted curves of his shoulders that meet the sharp lines of his collarbone.
The urge to run my lips over the hard lines is unreal. Unfathomable, even.
And it’s so far off course from what I’m used to feeling, that I have no idea what to do with it.
How did we end up here?
He’s completely oblivious to my eye-fucking session—or at least pretending to be. And my internal existential crisis, which is far more important. Thank God, though, because I’m not looking to make the conversation we’re about to have even more awkward.
He must get tired of my silence, though, because his attention finally lands on me when he drops onto his bed across from me.
“Normally when you wanna talk to someone, you have to speak words, Pen.” His eyes give nothing away. Not an inkling into how he’s actually feeling.
Okay, so that’s how we’re playing this. Good to know.
My eyes narrow on him, and I cock my head to the side. “You might be cool with pretending like nothing’s going on after the other night, but I’m not.”
His shoulders go rigid. Imperceptibly so, and I almost don’t catch it. But it’s the way his eyes widen that give him away. And it’s then I realize what’s really going on here.
I really hope you’re sober enough to remember this tomorrow.
As if I could forget anytime soon. I think the groan he let out as he came all over me is permanently seared into my brain. A sexy, forbidden soundtrack playing on repeat ever since I first heard it.
“I remember,” I murmur, confirming what he’s thinking as I glance away. “I remember all of it, Kee.”
He lets out a sharp exhale, relief crossing his face momentarily. It’s quickly replaced by a look of irritation, his eyes narrowing on me.
“If you remember, why’d you wait three days to say something?”
“How was I supposed to when you were avoiding me at all costs?” I counter, a slight bite to my tone.
He blinks a couple times, shaking his head. “I guess that makes sense, but you can’t blame me for wondering when you’re hardly the one to talk about shit unless I force it out of you.”
I frown. “So then, why didn’t you force this conversation the morning after?”
His lips roll in, forming a thin line, and he sighs. “I guess I didn’t want to freak you out if you didn’t remember. Or worse, have you think I was like…taking advantage of you or something. I don’t know.”
A pang of guilt rushes through me, and I roll the desk chair until I’m sitting right in front of him. “I’d never think that, Kee. That’s something you should know.”
“I should…” he starts, shaking his head, “but things have been so weird lately. Ever since that Chi O party where we played DYD, I’ve felt this…”
“Tension?” I supply. A little too quickly, because his head snaps up and it feels like he’s staring right through me.
“So you’ve been feeling it too?”
Hard not to when that video has been on a loop in my mind since the first time I saw it. Or that the sound of your moans has been cemented in my brain and I can’t stop thinking about how they’d feel around my cock.
Oh, and then there’s the other night when you got pissed at me for taking Bristol on a date and dared me to think about you while I fucked her…which led to the hot-as-shit make-out session where we came all over each other.
I don’t say any of this, though. After all, I don’t feel like adding more fuel to this awkward fire we’ve already got burning between us. Honestly, I’d rather go back to pretending all that shit didn’t happen in the first place, but we’re way past that now.
So instead, I just nod. That’s the safest bet here.
He nods too, eyes sinking closed. “Okay, so it wasn’t just me. That’s good to know.” The words are muttered softly, almost to himself, and another wave of guilt hits me.
Just because I wasn’t able to express what’s going on in my head about all the shit escalating between us—let alone talk about it with him—doesn’t mean it was in his head. Or one-sided.
That’s the last thing I wanted him to think.
But again, the coward in me won’t dare voice this.