Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
TATUM
The six-hour drive to Indianapolis felt shorter, way shorter, and I know it’s because I could happily listen to Maeve softly snoring in the passenger seat forever.
She read a book for the first hour or so, but after a while of snow and silence, she fell asleep.
I thought the quiet and the whirl of white billowing down from every direction would make me sleepy while driving, but I was content just listening to her.
Is that weird?
That’s what I kept asking myself once we finally made it to the hotel and got all checked into our room. I’ve never liked anyone before, not even a crush. I’ve always kept to myself for most of my life, but I think I definitely have a crush on her.
Why else would I like the minuscule, weird things I do about her?
The way she twirls her earrings as a form of comfort, the sad look she wears on her face that she quickly tries to cover with a half-smile when she knows I’m looking at her, or how she can’t sit still for long.
Why would I even focus on those things and pay so much attention that I’ve almost got her facial expressions imprinted in my brain?
I mean, literally imprinted, I can’t get them out.
Photographic memory, remember?
I can’t stop thinking about Maeve’s ex from her dorm today.
Landon. The way he acted so possessive of her, despite her obvious discomfort during the interaction.
She seemed almost scared of him getting too close to her, and I had the most dreadful feeling when I recognized the fear she was trying to mask in her eyes.
It all started to click into place like little puzzle pieces.
She’s jumpy at loud noises.
I remember a time when I thought that would never go away—the knee-jerk reaction to anything sudden or quick, the instinct to cower or protect yourself. Of course, I don’t know Maeve’s context of things, but I’d been around enough abusive boyfriends that my mom used to bring home to see the signs.
It’s devastating to see the signs in Maeve, but I hope with every fiber of my being, I’m somehow wrong about this.
The thought of her being in a situation like that makes the blood under my skin run warm, not like when I’m embarrassed, but…like I’m angry. I’m not an angry person, not even in the slightest, but imagining someone possibly putting their hands on her makes my temper flare.
Luckily, I’m easily distracted as we finally find our hotel room, using the access key to unlock the door and push inside. It’s nice and warm as we step onto the brown hospitality carpet, which looks like it may have been installed when the building first opened.
Maeve purses her lips as she observes the two queen-sized beds with outdated bedspreads and wooden headboards, arms crossed over her chest as she turns to me with an expectant look. “Which bed would you like?”
“Oh,” I rasp, rubbing my hands on my pants, “either one is okay. You pick.”
My throat bobs thickly as I watch her plop down on the bed furthest from the door, testing out the mattress with a tiny bounce before she stands back up.
“You drove us here,” she says, sitting on the other one. “You should get the comfier one.”
She flops down onto her back, her legs still dangling off the edge as she squirms around to test out the mattress.
“This one,” she confirms. “This one’s yours.”
“You take it—”
“Nope.” She pops the “p” as she gets up and throws her stuff onto the other bed. Like the decision is made. “I’m hungry. I can order some room service. You want anything?”
“Yeah, sure.” I nod. “Whatever y-you want.”
A snort bursts from her lips as she raises a quizzical brow at me, and I struggle to focus on anything other than the perplexed smile on her face. “Do you ever say what you want, Tate?”
My lips form a thin line, giving me away immediately.
I guess that’s what happens when you’re a chronic people pleaser.
I’m so busy trying to make sure I’m doing the right thing by those around me, I forget that I should think about the things I want, too.
Maybe it’s ingrained in me from walking on eggshells as a child, never knowing if something I said or did would set off whoever my mom would have in our house at the time.
“No, I guess I don’t.”
“Why is that?” she asks, her voice softer this time.
I look down at my shoes as my brow furrows. “I, uh…”
“If you could have any food right now, what would it be?” She steps closer to me, and it’s like my body is hyperaware of her at all times; my heart lurches at the proximity. “First thing that pops into your head. C’mon.”
“Um—”
“Don’t think about it,” she urges. “Just say it.”
“A burger?” I rush out.
“Was that a question?”
“An answer,” I mumble, my cheeks heating.
And then she’s laughing, falling back onto the bed as the sound bounces around the room, hiding the harsh thumping of my heart as I watch her in awe.
It’s short, but it replays in my mind over and over.
She’s so painfully pretty. Painfully, because something inside me aches when I look at her, aches for her, I think.
“See?” she continues. “Was that so hard?”
A tiny chuckle leaves me as I rub the back of my neck.
“It’s okay to take up space sometimes,” she tells me. “You should always speak up for yourself. What you want.”
Every word echoes loudly in my head, and I cling to each one like I’m afraid it won’t really be true if I don’t. I’m pretty sure no one has ever said anything like that to me in my entire life. I’ve always been made to feel the opposite.
“Life’s too short, you know?” she continues, glancing up at me through thick lashes. “I’ll order our food if you want to shower first.”
And as if she didn’t just nearly stun me with her tiny push of encouragement, she picks up the hotel phone to call for room service, and I dart to the bathroom. Because, well, how could she possibly know that I craved to hear things like that? I didn’t even know until two minutes ago.
I’ve never been vocal about anything I’ve wanted, ever.
I may have tried once when I was younger, but my mom always used to shut down anything I said.
It was something that eventually just stuck, like a routine.
Keep my head down, don’t say too much, stay in my room, don’t look them in the eye for too long, stay quiet, and repeat.
School was the one thing I excelled at, so it became my refuge.
Maeve was the one person, the only person, who made me struggle so much to try.
I’d never really cared much before, didn’t care how I was perceived or who talked to me and who didn’t, but with her, I care so much that I’m overthinking every move, every word, everything.
I want to keep my head up, I want to look her in the eyes when she’s speaking, I want to say more; as hard as it feels for me to do those things, I want to try.
Logically, I know that’s insane to feel about someone I met five days ago, but logic doesn’t seem to mean much to me when it comes to her.
If I always allow myself to be seen as the quiet, awkward guy for the rest of my life, it’ll be like letting my mother win. Like everything she’s ever said about me will be true.
She can’t win. Not again. Not ever.