25
Valentina
Huxley pulls up to a fast-food spot, and I’m honestly glad he isn’t taking us to a sit-down eatery. That seems too formal for us. Although, this isn’t exactly what I was picturing either.
“Wow.” I turn to Huxley and point behind me. “Dumpsters really are a great view.”
He looks at me dryly. “This isn’t the view, Valentina. You just have to be patient.”
My chest rises, and my heart stutters at the use of my full name. I’m still not used to him calling me that. Huxley’s eyes flicker, wanting to look down, but he holds my gaze. And instead of breathing heavily, I now forget how to breathe.
Huxley Adams has the type of eyes that I thought people lied about in songs. The type that you get lost in, drunk on. The type you see swirls of other colors in. Caramel and espresso. What a dangerous combination when I want my heart rate to slow.
I hear a faint noise that makes me blink. Huxley blinks too, and then we both hear the woman on the drive-through speaker. He quickly turns around to order our food while I pull in a deep breath to keep myself stable.
Holy shit.
No one’s ever looked at me with that intensity before. An intensity so powerful I can still feel the power of his eyes on me, even though he’s focused on the drive-through window.
This feels dangerous. Like I’ll never come back from this moment. But I want more of it. And I don’t care if it burns me.
Huxley sets our food between us on the bench seat, then pulls us back out onto the road to wherever this view is. I glance over at him and try my hardest to sneak a few fries from the bag.
“Don’t think I don’t see you over there,” Huxley says while still staring at the road.
So much for being sneaky.
“They’re warm. They have to be eaten now.” I defend myself before I shove two more in my mouth, not even trying to hide it anymore.
He glances over at me. “Fine, then give me one.” Then he adds, “But you have to feed it to me.”
I tilt my head in amusement. “And why’s that?”
He quickly puts his other hand on the wheel. “My hands are busy,” he says in a well-mannered tone, like he’s a perfect ten and two driver all the time.
I roll my eyes, reaching into the bag to grab a few fries. I stretch across the seat to reach him, and as soon as the fries touch his lip, he drops his other hand off the wheel.
“Thanks, Love.”
We both turn our attention out the window, but while Huxley focuses on driving, I try to figure out where we’re going.
Not being from Washington, I don’t know all the little hideaway parts of the state. The places only locals know, or long-time residents have found during their time here. Like the one Huxley is pulling up to now.
“Ah, yes. Your murder spot,” I say as we pull up to a cliffside, over the city.
He shrugs. “You have to have a good final moment before you die, right?”
I nod. “Very true.”
I hand over his food, and we spend most of our time eating in silence and staring at the city from afar.
It’s a beautiful view. Cliché, yes, but for me, someone who’s never experienced cliché moments before, it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. It feels special, too. I’m sure thousands of people come up here for this same reason, but right now, it feels like it’s ours.
A small twinge zaps my heart, and a question comes up that I can’t keep down.
“Is this where you bring all your dates?” I ask, quieter than I wanted to.
Things like this are cliché for a reason.
Overused because it’s an easy idea. And I’ve heard of people going to the same places over and over again when they get into a new relationship.
So what’s new for me could be a normal occurrence for Huxley.
He looks at me with a strange expression as he takes a drink. “Valentine. I don’t date.” He says it so certainly that I’m officially reminded that this isn’t real. That even though we’re calling this a date, it doesn’t matter in the end.
The question rephrases in my head before I can stop it. “Do you bring girls here for sex?”
A flash of sadness fills his eyes before he looks back out over the city. “No,” he says quietly. “I don’t have sex in my truck. Or in public. Or even in my bed. I always go somewhere else.”
He doesn’t even have sex in his own bed? “How come?”
He keeps staring forward. “Believe it or not, I want those things to be special. Not that having sex in public is romantic or anything, but places that are mine, I want them to stay mine.”
Oh my god. Have I been wrong about Huxley this whole time?
I really thought he wanted to have sex with all those girls. I thought he was the one going around finding every girl he could to have sex with them. But pieces start falling into place that I didn’t notice before.
The girl at the party was all over him, but he wasn’t paying attention.
He wanted to do this deal so all those girls would leave him alone.
Whenever I’ve brought up his sexual endeavors, he usually looks sad to some extent.
Huxley Adams isn’t a sex addict like everyone claims he is. He’s a guy who’s just had a lot of sex because people expect him to.
His words start to settle in my head, but something still sticks out.
“So I guess when we have sex, it will have to be at my apartment.”
I don’t expect Huxley to respond to this, but he looks at me quickly like I shocked him.
“Why do you say that?”
I freeze. “You just said—”
“You’re different, Valentina.” His voice is so much softer than before, and I swear I’m melting out of my seat. “We’re different. I’m not going to let your first time be somewhere where you aren’t comfortable. Or where your friends could walk in at any moment.”
A smile lifts on my face that I can’t stop. And then I laugh. “I still can’t believe I asked you in front of all those people.”
Huxley smiles back at me. My smile, thank god.
“Yeah, the next class they all had questions for me about you,” he tells me, then shrugs. “But I mean, they were Freshmen. So, of course, they wanted to know everything.”
That makes me pause for a moment. “Why were you in a class full of Freshmen?”
He takes another drink, then casually says, “Because I’m the teacher.”
The teacher? I didn’t even know you could do that without graduating. Especially since Huxley won’t be teaching after college.
My whole body turns to him, excitement coursing through me at this new information. “What class?”
He gestures with his hand, emphasizing his words as he says, “Beginnings to music.” His hand drops back into his lap, looking out at the city in front of us. “It’s not much.”
I shake my head and move a little closer. “It’s so cool. I didn’t even know you could teach if you aren’t getting a teaching degree.”
He looks down at me, eyes catching on my smile before he shrugs.
“Is it with Professor Owen?”
He nods. “I wouldn’t have done it with anyone else.”
“That makes sense.”
“How are you still so close with him?” he wonders. “I thought you only took the one class?”
“I did. But at the end of the semester, he came up to me and told me that if I ever needed a place to play, the room was always open. I didn’t go second semester, but after a shitty Sophomore year, I found myself going there almost every week.”
Flashbacks of that year run through my head—the pain, the fear, the deep crushing weight of what all that did to Will. I try my hardest to push those thoughts away before they completely ruin my night.
I’ve been so good. I’m not ready for those thoughts again. And Huxley can’t see me like that.
“Isn’t everyone’s Sophomore year terrible?” There’s something behind his voice, but I don’t dare pry. Mainly because there’s no way I would tell him about my Sophomore year.
I’m happy. I swear I’m happy.
We sit in a silence that I need to break. I look back up at him with a softer smile. “Just so you know.” His eyes hit mine. “If I was going to learn music, I would want it to be by you.”
His smile is weak as he looks away from me. “Thanks. But I’m barely allowed to teach them much since I’m technically not qualified.”
“But Professor Owen still sees you as someone capable of teaching the information,” I point out to him. “That’s something you should be proud of.”
He shrugs. “I guess.”
Why does Huxley Adams not believe in himself? That’s a question I swear even the smartest people in the world wouldn’t be able to solve. Because it just doesn’t make sense.
“Fine, then I’m proud of you.”
He turns to me slowly, like he almost didn’t hear me. “You’re proud of me?”
I nod softly. “Of course, I am. You’re so talented. You deserve to be recognized for those talents.”
My smile spreads across his face, sending butterflies through my chest. “Thanks, Valentine.”
We slip back into silence—one I don’t want to break.
This is comfortable, calm.
I could stay out here all night in this silence with him.
“Hazel.”
My eyes shift to Huxley. “What?”
“My sister,” he explains. “Her name is Hazel. And the twins are Harper and Hero.”
All starting with H. I wonder if his mother’s name starts with H, too.
“Are you close to any of them?”
Huxley turns his body more toward me, but he doesn’t look at me yet. “I mean, six years is a lot. And 19 is just insane. Besides, the twins are too young to understand much. And Hazel…” His voice trails off as he looks out the window again. “She’s had to grow up too quickly.”
“To help take care of the twins?”
He scoffs. “To take care of the twins. Meaning she’s the only one that does it.”
I have no room to be talking about good or bad parents, but this seems necessary to talk about. “What about your parents?”
He shakes his head, still not looking at me.
“Mom never really knew how to take care of kids. She has a new man by her side, what seems like, every month. Which is why I just call them Man of the Month instead of bothering to learn their names.” Irritation hits at the end of his words, but he stops there.
I give him a minute before I softly ask, “And your dad?”