19. Clara
Chapter 19
Clara
B y Sunday morning, I’m sick of the quiet. I still haven’t seen Walker and now Trips is avoiding me too. Real slick there, Clara. Let’s just upset the whole damn house, why don’t we?
I’m scrubbing the counter at the coffee shop when my back pocket buzzes. I drop the rag back into the sani-bucket and pull out the offending device. Jansen’s phone. He’s gotten exactly one text this weekend, from Evie, his sister, so phone duty has been easy. I left it unread and hoped she wouldn’t get too mad.
This is a message from Trips. The preview text says CODE: 8925.
Curious, I type in the numbers, and it unlocks Jansen’s phone. Clicking into the message, nothing else is there. I type out a response .
Everything OK?
I wait, glancing up when someone drops their dirty plates into the bin by the door. I almost shove the device back into my pocket, but a new message shows up before I can decide.
Just checking
Seriously, Trips? Like I would totally ignore his instructions and do something that risks Jansen or RJ’s safety? What kind of fool does he think I am? Annoyed, I shoot him a message.
Can you see your feet?
It doesn’t take long for Trips to answer this time.
Of course. Why?
I grin as I type.
Really? I didn’t know you had eyes that deep in your throat. Impressive.
(P.S.—I’m telling you that your foot is in your mouth. I’m not an idiot, Trips )
I tuck the phone back in my pocket and finish cleaning. It buzzes three times before I pull the dang thing out, annoyed. I type in 8925 to see what the fuss is about.
Smart mouth. Could get you in trouble.
I know one way I could shut it up.
(P.S.—I’m talking about my cock. Wouldn’t want you to be confused.)
Oh my God. Is Trips sexting me? On Jansen’s fucking phone?
I stare at the messages, not sure what to do. My heart is racing, and I lick my lips. But I can see it. I can practically feel the weight of his cock on my tongue. What is wrong with me?
The door jingles, saving me from having to answer. I jam the phone in my pocket, barely paying attention as I take the girl’s order and make her drink. Once she steps away, I pull out my phone from my jeans, opening an old text chat with Trips.
For shame. Trying to make Jansen jealous?
I wait, not sure if this was the right tact to take. Trips’ response pops up almost immediately .
Not my fault if he comes up short
I stifle a laugh. Jansen has nothing to worry about and nothing to prove.
I wouldn’t mind watching you two measure.
The dots of his response keep showing up and disappearing as I wait. I imagine him, his phone tiny in his huge hand, typing and deleting, deciding how hard he’s going to do this flirting thing. Because he is definitely flirting.
That moment on the porch Friday after Jansen and RJ drove off, where he just held my face, stroking my cheek—it was so unlike the gruff and demanding guy I’m used to that I decided it must be a fluke.
This changes things, though. He might be an asshole, but I have a feeling that if I keep nudging, he’ll be my asshole. And that thought makes my insides light up like a freaking Christmas tree. Because I like the jerk more than I probably should. I mean, he packs me snacks when he drives me to West Bank for class on Monday mornings. That must mean something, right?
Finally, my phone buzzes in my hand.
This dick is for private viewing only. Want a sneak peek ?
My buoyant heart sinks. If that wasn’t a rebuke of my tentative “all the dicks, no pricks” plan, I don’t know what is. I sigh, watching out the front of the shop, the late fall wind throwing leaves and trash down the street outside the plate-glass windows.
I debate how I want to answer, but after a good two minutes of staring at my phone, I tuck it back into my pocket.
My mind drifts to Walker, and I can’t help but feel like my no-mess, all-the-fun plan has already failed. Or maybe I’m just not what he wanted?
I hope that isn’t it. I bring the carton of half-and-half and the sugar boxes to the mixing station. Busyness is key. Otherwise, all I can think about is that sinking feeling in my gut when Walker pulled on his happy mask, his eyes cutting but his grin wide.
I can’t help but see him walking away and not coming back, over and over in my mind. And the guilt, so heavy in my heart. Who turns all that rage and hurt into fucking another guy? This girl, that’s who.
I might not be a good person.
Cleaning doesn’t make the guilt disappear.
Instead, my mind keeps going back to that early morning before we framed Bryce, wrapped up between Walker and Jansen, and the feeling of four hands focused on my pleasure. It was a moment so full of wonder, of care and joy and honest-to-God lust that I’d need a ten-mile run to spend more than a moment remembering it.
They both said they were fine with keeping things casual, with me dating both of them. Walker knew I didn’t just care about him, but that I was falling for all of them, even if it didn’t make sense. And he said he’d try.
Is this what trying looks like? Because this isn’t what I’d imagined.
And if last weekend was just growing pains, did I ruin it by being with Jansen right afterward? When did my life get so complicated?
Pulling the package of napkins from under the station, I refill the dispensers as I wrestle my thoughts onto a different path. I wish RJ were here. I don’t know why, but talking to him would help. Or would it make things worse? Does he know I’m into all of them? I haven’t said anything to him—or to Trips—about my plan to collect them all.
I don’t want to scare them away. But is not talking about it making it worse? Is it like keeping a secret? Am I lying to RJ and Trips by not cluing them in? I haven’t even made it past occasional touches with either of them at this point. I’m probably overthinking things. But if I’m not?
If I’m not, I’m going to fuck things up worse than I already have.
Well shit. I need a drink.
And not the caffeinated kind.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Emma asks as I drape myself over her shoulder, stumbling up the walkway.
I nod, but the world wiggles and I find myself inexplicably lying on the lawn in front of the house. On my back, with Emma rotating gently above me, the streetlight behind her giving her a hazy halo, I burst into giggles.
Emma giggles too, trying to haul me to my feet, but I seem to be made of wet noodles, and the yard is my cook pot. She stumbles down next to me, and I snort.
“Friend cuddles!” I roll on top of her, squeezing her hard.
She shoves me off her, laughing. “Stop groping me, you tease.”
I sigh, resting my cheek on her chest. “I like friend cuddles.”
Her bundled arms wrap around me, both of us quiet, happy to just chill on the ground in front of my house like the drunken idiots we are.
After a minute, Emma stands up, her pink hair a mess of leaves and sticks. Whoops. My bad. “I’m not going to be able to move you, am I?”
“I might be a couch. One of those heavy ones, you know? With the bed inside? What are those called again?”
“A hide-a-bed. I’m going for reinforcements.”
“Don’t leave me!” I squawk, trying to scramble after her and failing miserably, as the world twists again, this time hitting my stomach.
Oh no.
I let gravity win and sprawl onto my back. Hot. I’m hot. I struggle to unzip my jacket, desperate for a cool breeze. Only, my fingers keep grabbing the wrong parts of my coat.
Big hands knock my flailing fingers away, and my coat is magically open, the cool night air immediately making me feel better. “Air is nice,” I say, staring up at the night.
“How fucking drunk is she? ”
I know that grumpy voice. It’s mean, but nice, but it confuses me. Like pudding. Is it a liquid? You eat it with a spoon. But it’s all lumpy too, and you can bite it. Mmm. Pudding sounds nice.
“I’d say really, really drunk.” Emma. That’s Emma. I love Emma. She’s great. Amazing. Wonderful. Bestest bestie ever.
“Yeah, I love you too, babe. I’m leaving you in Grumpy’s hands. Call me tomorrow. I want to hear all about your killer hangover.” Emma leans over, kissing my cheek before disappearing.
“Wait! Don’t leave me!”
Something big and warm scoops me up and I forget what I was so upset about. This is nice. Smells like mint and money. I don’t know what money smells like, but I think it’s this.
A happy rumble cuts through my thoughts, so I rub my cheek against the sound, glancing up, trying to figure out what’s going on. A bright light stabs my eyes, and I groan, burrowing my head back against the warm, nice-smelling thing.
When I next open my eyes, I’m in my bed, the nice-smelling thing moving away, and I latch on.
“Ow. Shit. No nails, Crash. I’m just getting you some water. And maybe a bowl. I’ll be back.”
“Promise?”
My hair gets pushed out of my face, a thumb lingering along my hairline. “Promise.”
I relax into my pillows, my eyelids too heavy to deal with, and I drift.
An unknown amount of time later, the nice-smelling thing props me up against him and helps me out of my coat, carefully laying me down again before untying my shoes and pulling them off my feet. Fingers linger on the button of my jeans but disappear. I flop my own hands down, trying to undo the button myself, but the dang thing must be a super stealth fish, because I can’t catch it.
“Fuck. Clara, I’m going to take off your pants so you’re more comfortable, okay?”
“Mmmhmm. No pants. Pants bad.”
My pants vanish, and I sigh, still so hot. “Better,” I say, which is like saying thank you, right?
I feel the nice-smelling thing, which I’m pretty sure is Trips, slide behind me, forcing me to sit up, leaning me against his chest. “Up bad. Bed good,” I grumble.
“I know, but first I need you to drink some water. I also have some crackers and some ibuprofen. Once you eat, drink, and take the pills, you can lie back down.”
“No. I don’t wanna.”
His chest bounces with a bark of laughter. “Of course, you’re going to fight me on this. Come on. Let’s just get it done.”
I frown, but I let him help me drink some water. More water than is classy dribbles down my chin and onto my shirt, but he doesn’t say anything, so I don’t point it out. No need to be extra embarrassed. Should I be embarrassed? I think I should.
“Maybe a little, but I’ve seen worse,” he says. Can he hear my thoughts?
“No, Clara. You’re thinking out loud.”
Oh no! I shouldn’t do that. It’s…bad. Definitely, what’s the word? I just had it…embarrassing! I should be embarrassed. Not cozy.
The nice-smelling-thing-that-is-for- sure-Trips laughs, gently pressing a cracker against my lips, urging me to take a bite. “I’m glad you’re cozy. And I won’t say I mind listening to your inner monologue.”
I should stop thinking. No thinking here.
I eat three crackers and take another sip of water, less of it missing my mouth this time, my eyelids still too heavy. The Trips-cozy wipes my chin. “Say, Clara, how are you feeling?”
I take stock, wanting to answer right. “Heavy. I’m heavy.”
“Not so heavy, Crash. Do you think you’re going to puke?”
I wiggle my head just enough to say no without the room spinning.
“Glad to hear it.”
He feeds me another cracker, and this one actually tastes like something. Salty. It’s salty.
His chest puffs up like he’s going to talk. “I’m curious, why get so drunk? Why tonight?”
I try to put together words, but thoughts are wibbly wobbly. “Scared,” I say.
“Clara, I’m fairly certain you’re not scared of anything, even if you should be.”
I shake my head again, trying to be clear. “I’m fucking shit up.”
“What shit?”
“This.” I try to motion around me, but I don’t think I manage it very well.
The weight of his chin settles on top of my head. “Maybe a little. But that shouldn’t scare you.”
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” I say, nuzzling my nose against his chest. So yummy .
“Now that I believe.”
I’m fed three more crackers and some more water, the glass almost empty.
“Were you planning on texting back?” he asks.
I try to pull out the answer I need, but it’s as wibbly wobbly as any other thought. “Maybe.”
“Honest. I’ll take it. How’s your stomach? Okay? Pukey?”
I shake my head, the muscles of my neck actually kind of doing what I wanted.
“Then I need you to take these pills. Tomorrow’s going to be shit for you no matter what, but this will help.”
I peel my eyes open, forcing myself to sit up on my own, a few inches of space between Trips and me. I keep one hand on his chest in case I tip over, trying to get a read on him. But the world is still moving without me, so I close my eyes again. He shifts, pulling me back against his chest, before tapping my chin with his fingers. “Open up.”
He tosses the pills in my mouth, carefully tipping the last of the water in after, and this time, I get all the water in with none escaping. I pull my legs close, suddenly cold, burrowing into Trips. He stretches around me and gathers my blanket, tucking it around us both, one of his hands settling on my naked knee, and it feels right. Good.
I must sleep, because when I next open my eyes, the room isn’t spinning, my mouth tastes like a dead hamster, and Trips is gone.
And I still feel like I’m fucking shit up.