Chapter Nine
Nine
I TRY TO GET A LOOK AT WHAT PETER’S READING, but he rolls it up and slides it into his back pocket before I can. If it’s The Catcher in the Rye I’m going to kill myself.
“Hey, Syd.” The last bit of sun left in the sky catches on his hair as he stands up, making him look all golden and shiny, like a little kid’s participation trophy. Cute but useless, I remind myself.
He shifts, like he wants to take a step forward, but stops.
I fold my arms across my chest to convey that I’m annoyed he’s here and also because I’m a little concerned he can see my nipples through the sweat stains on my sports bra.
Normally, I don’t care, free the nipple and all that.
Maybe it’s the fact that he’s seen me facedown and bleeding that’s making me more self-conscious than usual.
“What is this? An eighties film where people just show up at your door?”
“I tried to DM you,” he says. “But my messages wouldn’t go through.”
“I’m set to private.”
His eyes stay on mine for a fraction of a second too long. “I’ve noticed.”
A cool September breeze blows through, making me feel increasingly cold and clammy. I’m suddenly hyperaware of the way my sweaty shorts are sticking to my thighs. “If you’re going to hold a boom box over your head, let’s get it over with because I need to take a shower.”
“I’m more of a monologue-in-the-rain kind of guy.” Peter smiles, warm and open.
“What do you want, Peter?”
“I’m here because of Jegstrup.”
The tips of my fingers go numb. “What about her?” There’s a defensive edge to my voice that I’m not quite quick enough to cover up.
Peter squints at me like I’m a Rubik’s Cube he’s trying to spin into making sense. Good fucking luck.
“I just meant … her assignment? The poetry project?”
“Oh, right.” What did I expect? That he was gonna roll up and tell me he also saw a pink neon death clock over her head? “It’s not exactly the best time.”
“Sure,” he says. “I just thought we could get a head start. You seem like the kind of person who has a turns-in-assignments-early kink.”
“You seem like the kind of guy who has a look-me-in-the-eyes-and-tell-me-you-love-me-in-missionary kink.”
I expect him to balk, but infuriatingly, he just says, “I might.”
“Good for you. Listen, not that this impromptu chat hasn’t been the absolute highlight of my day, but I have other things I need to do now.” Like be anywhere but standing outside my house in my old running clothes discussing kinks with Peter Beckett. “We can meet at the library tomorrow.”
Peter runs his hand through his hair. “I’m going to be out of town this weekend. I have … a thing.”
“Is it the Straight Guys’ Khaki Convention? I heard tickets were super hard to get this year.”
“I don’t even wear khakis.”
“Yes, but you have the vibe of someone who wears khakis.”
“Damn.” Peter laughs. “That might be the meanest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
This guy really lives a charmed life. “So where are you going?” I say, wiping the drying sweat from my forehead.
Peter’s smile fades just slightly. “My dad and I are going camping. Bonding. It’s a whole thing.”
I don’t get it. That actually sounds nice. I mean, not for me. I’d rather spear my eyes out with a roasting stick than sing “American Pie” by the fire with my dad. But it seems like something Peter would be into. Not that I actually know or care what Peter’s into.
“Is that where you were today? Buying out REI in preparation? Making sure you have enough first aid kits to save anyone you find in the woods?”
Peter’s smile comes back to full brightness. “You noticed I was gone.”
“Obviously. It’s like how you notice when the refrigerator finally stops making that horrible, grating humming noise, and you’re left with nothing but blissful silence.”
“Sure,” he says. “So what do you say? Want to work on the project now? Or would you rather wait all the way until Monday and maybe fall behind?”
I should tell him to leave. I should tell him that Monday is fine. Actually, more than fine, because Ms. Jegstrup is going to die and when she does, no one is going to give a single shit about this poetry assignment.
But instead, I find myself huffing, “Fine,” and once again leading Peter upstairs into my room. I open the door and he slips inside.
“You can wait here while I shower. Don’t touch my birds.”
“Cool,” he says, sitting on my bed. “Nice Band-Aid, by the way. Tougher than the ponies. It suits you.”
I clear my throat and look away. Nothing has happened. No one has even said anything. But there’s this energy in the room—this buzzing. And I need it to stop.
I heard once (although this is probably patriarchal bullshit) that when you sleep with someone your body releases some hormone that makes you want to attach to whoever you slept with.
Maybe it’s the same with semi-concussion rescues.
Maybe Peter peeling me off the street after I slammed my face into the sidewalk caused me to imprint on him like that simp werewolf from Twilight.
Because as he leans back on my bed, I feel this insane urge to reach out and touch the skin under the collar of his white shirt.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me?
I need to get out of this room. He’s here for the project. That’s it. “I started writing some notes,” I say. “I’ve pretty much got the whole thing planned out.” I gesture to my desk. “But you can look through the green notebook if you want to see for yourself.”
“Great.”
“Great.” This is not great. This is fucked.
I grab a towel and close the bathroom door behind me.
Why did I let him come in? Why did I tell him to wait in my room and not downstairs?
I peel my sweaty, crusty Band-Aid off my forehead and throw it in the trash on top of the overflowing pile of Jules’s makeup remover pads. This head injury must be a real thing.
I take a scalding shower, scrubbing myself with Jules’s rough loofah until my skin turns pink, as if I can rub the insanity of this day away. I towel off, throw on some loungewear, and resolve to tell Peter we can do this project over Zoom.
But when I open the door, letting the steam billow into my room, he’s standing at my desk, his back to me, reading through my project notes.
And there’s this tiny part of me, this small speck untouched by all the fucked-up shit in the world, that squeezes at the thought of him turning around and smiling at me.
That wants him to look at me and touch the crack on my forehead and tell me it’s not so bad and all I need is a little Neosporin and everything will be okay.
“Hey …” I say, the word coming out softer than I mean for it to.
And then he turns around. But he’s not smiling. His face is white and panicked. He looks up at me and all that easiness is gone and it’s just fear in his eyes.
The notebook in his hands isn’t green.
It’s bloodred.