Chapter 7 #2
I feel Cooper’s eyes on me, and I blush at the moment of softness, backing away from Steve and tucking my hair behind my ears as I roughly clear my throat.
“I didn’t realize you two were friends in college,” I say, gesturing between Lilith and Cooper.
“We weren’t,” Lilith says sharply, waving her hands.
I cackle that the suggestion seems so genuinely horrifying to her.
“We didn’t get to know each other until a couple of years ago.
I got hooked up with an interview on Rylie’s podcast. I founded and run an advocacy group and shelter for queer youth in the city. It’s called Euphoric Identity.”
My jaw drops as the final pieces of her familiarity click into place.
“Wait, wait, wait, you’re Lilith Flores ?
Holy shit, you’ve done some amazing work.
I’m a huge fan of yours.” I read a profile on Lilith in New York magazine about a year ago, the article covering five of the most influential and inspiring young activists in the city.
Over the past five years she’s created a network of resources and programming that’s transformed the landscape for queer young people to feel safe and loved.
She’s also responsible for a huge grassroots effort advocating for Black and brown kids in the community.
Lilith’s lips curl in satisfaction, but she waves me off.
“No, seriously.” I know I’m tiptoeing into level-five fangirl status, but I can’t help it.
I’ve had an altruism-crush on this woman since I learned about her accomplishments.
“I can’t even tell you how much I admire all that you do.
I’d love to talk to you about your work.
I’ve had this fantasy of interviewing you for like, ever. ”
“You mean on the hot dog thing?” she asks, her nose scrunching in dismay. She quickly wipes the expression, but I’m already flooded with embarrassment.
“Oh. Um. No. I mean, yeah. I do that… hot dog thing. But I, uh, I have a…” I gesture vaguely, the term blog sounding so damn juvenile and dinky that my skin itches.
But throwing out the term platform would make me sound like a self-important asshole and a huge exaggeration of my reach outside of phallic-shaped foods.
“She writes these really great think pieces on Babble. They’re amazing, Lil. You’d love them.”
It takes me a moment to realize that the endorsement came from Cooper. I spin around, frowning at him. His gray eyes meet mine with a docile stare.
“You… you’ve read my stuff?” I ask, voice tight and cracking in earnestness, my face erupting in heat.
“Course,” he says, lifting one shoulder, then letting it drop. His smile is gentle and lopsided, and I can’t pull my eyes from the curve of it.
I blink a few more times, my lips parting.
I feel oddly jarred by his confession. Which is silly.
So what if he’s read them? Or he could be lying.
Or if he’s not lying and actually has read them, it was for some weird form of research to find my soft spots and use them against me in this bizarre game he’s playing.
He leans toward me like he’s going to tell me a secret. “Don’t swoon on me, Kitten,” he whispers, shooting me a cheeky wink. The spell is broken, and I let out a deep breath, fixing my mouth back into a frown.
“I just didn’t know you could read,” I reply sweetly. “Lea Michele is shaking.”
Lilith’s snort fills me with an absurd amount of satisfaction, and she and I share a look.
“I like her,” Lilith announces.
“Me too!” Steve chirps. “Don’t fuck this up,” he adds in a cheery tone, smacking Cooper on the back.
“Only his career on the line as he pays for past sins.” I shrug. “No pressure.”
“Okay, so this went about as obnoxiously as I expected,” Cooper mumbles. “So, uh, bye. Thanks.” He makes a shooing motion with his hands, and Lilith rolls her eyes, traipsing down the hallway toward the kitchen. After one more beatific smile, Steve follows her.
“Sorry about that.” Cooper rubs his jaw as he grimaces after them. “I asked them to make themselves scarce when you got here so it wouldn’t be so… energetic, but they don’t really believe in boundaries.”
“I could talk to them for hours,” I say, waving away his concern.
“But you’re stuck with me.”
“I suppose so,” I reply bleakly. His gaze flicks back down the hall, a flare of emotion crossing his features before he smooths them and smiles. If I didn’t know better, I’d call that look… jealousy.
“Come on. We’ll record in my studio.” He leads me up the stairs, pointing out the rooms as we pass. “Steve’s room. Our bathroom. Lilith’s room—she gets her own bathroom and I’m not jealous at all and living in a chronic state of horror over Steve’s bathroom habits—”
“She puts up with living with you, the girl deserves a monument, not just a private place to shower.”
He narrows his eyes in a half-hearted attempt at a frown. “Fair point. My room…” He distractedly waves at a door to our right, and I’m alarmed by my impulse to kick the wood off its hinges and scour adult Cooper’s room like a spy gathering crucial intelligence.
I shake myself. As if there’d be anything worth seeing. I’m sure it smells like a mix of weed and dirty laundry and has a bare mattress in the corner. Old habits and all that.
“And this,” Cooper says with a flourish, opening the door at the end of the hall and revealing a short staircase that leads up to an attic, “is where the magic happens… Outside of my bedroom, I mean.” He shoots me a goofy, exaggerated wink.
“You’re the human equivalent of Comic Sans,” I respond, working to check my own twitching lips as they try to mirror his.
Cooper’s grin only grows. “I’m so glad you’ve picked up that words of affirmation are my love language. You make me feel so good about myself.” Against my will, a honk of laughter bursts out of me. His eyes glint like he was just handed the winning numbers for the lottery.
“After you,” he says, gesturing up the stairs.
I click my tongue against my teeth, planting my hands on my hips. “Yeah, right. I’ve seen this horror movie. You probably keep severed limbs up there. I’m not going to willingly lead the way into your creepy attic.”
Cooper pouts. “But how else will I get an ideal view of your ass?”
My eyebrows lift, warmth splashing my cheeks as I let out a goddamn giggle of surprise. I wipe my features into a grimace. “Well, I can at least respect your honesty. I do have a great ass.”
“Always been one of my favorite things about you.” Cooper agrees with a gentlemanly nod.
Oh my god, I am horrified at how much pleasure shoots through me. I hustle up the steps, trying to shake off whatever new form of madness I’ve acquired since setting foot in this alarmingly charming home.
The attic, to my shock, is not creepy nor does it have any dismembered limbs.
It’s actually rather… cozy. A large skylight slants golden sunshine into the space, striking a grand bookshelf overflowing with novels and vibrant green plants.
A small bar cart is parked near it, housing an electric kettle and compact coffee maker, a hodgepodge of well-loved mugs arranged on the lower shelf.
A plush yellow rug fills up most of the floor, a comfy-looking couch in one corner, two upholstered chairs surrounding a round table opposite.
The mics are set up on the table with water bottles next to them, various other recording and filming equipment tucked neatly into the room.
I turn in a slow circle as I take it in, and the sun strikes hanging stained glass, refracting on the walls so it feels like I’m in the center of a kaleidoscope.
My rotation stops on Cooper, attention latching onto his sheepish smile, the way he fiddles with his glasses, pushing them up his nose.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I swallow. I’m probably in competition with Belle on who’s more shocked and impressed by their beast’s secret room of books and beauty. Wait. No. Belle falls in love with Beast. I despise the vulnerable-looking man before me.
“It’s nice,” I say with a shrug. I point at one of the chairs. “Should I…?”
“Yeah. Yes. Please, sit.” He waves me forward and plops into the opposite spot.
We’re silent for a moment, and I keep my eyes far from Cooper’s. For some reason, I feel like if I meet his gaze, something humiliating and dangerously tender might play across my face.
“Want some coffee? Tea?” he asks, bouncing up from his seat like the quiet is a physical pressure and he’s a spring fighting against it.
“Uh, sure,” I say, my voice a bit hoarse. “Tea would be great.”
“Peppermint, right?”
My attention snaps to where he stands by the kettle, an unwrapped box of peppermint tea held in his hand. My brows pinch, eyes bouncing between the box and his cautious look. “How did you…”
“Come on, Eva.” He lets out a rough breath of a laugh.
“You drank a giant thermos of it every class. The smell of peppermint and you became practically Pavlovian for me.” His smile is timid but automatic, and I have to look away, a painful rasp of emotion scoring down my throat.
I let my hair cover my burning cheeks as I fiddle with one of the wires in front of me.
“Tea would be great, thanks,” I repeat when I can trust my voice to be cool and unaffected. The crinkling of plastic wrap as he opens the box and prepares my cup sends my brain into a flurry wondering if he bought that specifically for… me .
No. No. I’m delusional. Ridiculous. Of course he didn’t buy it for me. It’s common knowledge peppermint is good for voice work. I’m positive he keeps it on hand for himself and podcast guests. It’s purely coincidence. Coincidence and one decent memory of me.
But a tiny, rapidly beating chamber of my heart keeps echoing the thought, Unless …