Chapter 8 #4
Once we reach the top of the stairs, Caleb turns right, leading me down a long hallway.
It has a similar color scheme, interrupted by the occasional flash of color.
An oil painting of the Tuscan countryside here, a vase of blue hydrangeas there.
Finally, Caleb pushes open a door at the end of the hall.
I let out a low whistle as I walk inside. “Ran out of money to pay the interior decorator?”
His chuckle vibrates in my chest, low and husky. “Decorating my own room was a bribe for moving here.”
After the carefully matched, neutral tones in the rest of the house, Caleb’s room is an assault to the eyes.
The walls are painted an outrageous shade of red; one that reminds me of expensive sports cars or outlandish flowers.
The bold color is mostly covered by posters depicting various logos, bands, and baseball players. Lots and lots of baseball players.
There’s a massive four-poster bed in the center of the room, pushed up against the wall between two windows that are exposed to the exterior of the house. A desk sits to the right, and a dresser to the left. Just past the dresser, there’s a door that I can see leads to an attached bathroom.
“You did a great job,” I tell Caleb dryly, dropping my heavy backpack down next to his desk.
Caleb disregards the sarcasm in my voice. “Thanks.” He drops down on the bench at the end of the massive bed, so I take a seat at his desk.
It doesn’t take long to run through the questions Simon gave me.
Caleb answers them seriously, and in a manner that tells me these are the types of questions one is actually supposed to ask in a sports interview.
Suggesting Simon should have been the one writing this article all along. But neither of us bring that up.
I take careful notes recording his answers, knowing I won’t remember the baseball jargon otherwise.
After the interview questions are finished, we switch to English. It’s shockingly easy. Past project partners were always content to let me do the bulk of the assignment, but working with Caleb feels like completing a project with a clone of myself.
I even find myself saying, “Yeah, that’s a great idea.”
Caleb looks at me with shock. “Did you just compliment me?”
I roll my eyes. “I can think you’re smart and an annoying, entitled jock, okay? Plus, you were the one who made certain I knew you’d knocked me out of first in our class.”
He shoots me a triumphant grin that reminds me I hadn’t exactly conceded that fact to him. “You were first?”
“You knew that.”
“You confirmed it.”
“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” I retort. “We still have one semester left, and I fully intend to finish first.”
“Game on, Matthews,” Caleb says with a smirk.
By the time we finish outlining our paper, I know we’re way ahead of everyone else in our class. The paper’s not due for another month, and the accompanying presentation is a few weeks after that.
Caleb realizes the same. “We’re basically done,” he tells me. “We can meet again in a couple of weeks.” I wait for the dread to accompany his words, but it doesn’t appear in the pit of my stomach.
“Okay,” I reply.
Silence falls between us. I shut my notebook, then fiddle with the metal spiral.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” Caleb asks. His voice is casual, but serious.
In my mind, I’m screaming Absolutely not! Terrible, stupid, dangerous idea. Whatever this strange shift between us is, it won’t end well. For me. Despite living in the same town, Caleb and I are from two very different worlds.
But what comes out is, “Sure.”
Caleb rises from his sprawled position on the bench and walks over to the built-in cabinet directly across from the bed. He opens it to reveal a large flatscreen television, then he walks over and flops down on the lime green comforter that clashes horribly with the red walls.
I hover awkwardly, already regretting agreeing to stay.
Caleb appears the picture of ease, tucking one arm behind his head.
His sweatshirt rides up, exposing a sliver of skin.
A flock of butterflies appears in my stomach, fluttering uncomfortably.
Being alone in a bedroom with him suddenly feels like a bad idea for a completely different reason.
“Come on, Matthews.” Caleb pats the bedspread. “Don’t make it weird.”
I inch over to the bed, and finally take a seat on the edge, before lying down on the soft comforter. I make a point to keep as much distance as possible between us, which turns out to be a couple of feet, thanks to the oversized bed.
“Want to watch Frankenstein ?” Caleb jokes as he flips through movie titles on the screen.
I scoff. “Pass.”
“What about this?” Caleb asks. I glance at the screen to see he’s pulled up some action thriller.
“Fine,” I say, raising a hand to mask the yawn I can feel coming. Lying down was a bad idea. Every limb of my body suddenly weighs a hundred pounds, sinking down into the foam mattress that’s way more comfortable than my own bed.
Caleb starts the movie. Gunshots and shouts sound from the television’s speakers. It’s not the silence I’m used to falling asleep to, but it doesn’t matter. I’m losing the battle with my eyelids.
I’m too tired to talk.
I’m too tired to insist Caleb drives me home.
I’m too tired to care that falling asleep in Caleb Winters’s bed is a really bad idea.
And then I’m too tired to think at all.