Chapter 18
Eighteen
HANNAH
Apparently emotional vulnerability has a temperature limit.
Twenty minutes after telling Kane Haverhill things I barely admit to myself, the cold finally works through my coat.
I shiver.
Kane notices.
Naturally.
He seems to notice everything about me tonight.
The tear I tried to hide at the open mic.
The strand of hair stuck to my lip.
When I got quiet talking about Dad.
The exact second I wanted him to kiss me.
That last one is still causing problems.
My mouth tingles.
Not imaginary tingles either.
Actual, physical evidence that five minutes ago I had both hands buried in Kane Haverhill’s hair while kissing him on the back of his truck like I had been secretly training for the event.
I suppress another shiver.
His arm tightens around me.
“Cold?”
“No.”
“You’re shaking.”
“Emotional tremor.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Potentially fatal.”
He laughs against my hair.
The sound vibrates through his chest where my shoulder rests against him.
I should move.
I don’t.
That might be the strangest part of tonight.
I don’t want to.
The lights below us stretch across the valley in gold and white threads. From up here Stanford is just another collection of glowing buildings among thousands.
No arena.
No athlete quad.
No gossip accounts.
No Ryan.
No Dad’s gym.
Kane’s hand rests loosely over mine.
Nothing demanded.
Nothing expected.
Just there.
I yawn.
A huge one.
Mouth open, eyes watering, whatever remains of my dignity abandoning me completely.
Kane looks down.
“That was attractive.”
“I’m exhausted.”
“You almost swallowed your own glasses.”
“I’ve had a long evening.”
“You listened to poetry and kissed me.”
“Both required stamina.”
His grin appears.
I know that grin now.
Not the one from television.
Not the irritating one he flashes when he thinks he won.
This one starts in his eyes.
I like it far too much.
“Come on.” He slides off the tailgate. “I’m taking you home.”
The word home catches strangely.
Briar isn’t technically home.
Chicago is.
Except lately, when I picture Chicago, I see my old bedroom as somewhere I used to live.
When I picture Briar, I see Lila’s books stacked sideways because she refuses to organize anything correctly. Noor’s postcards above her desk. The radiator banging at three in the morning.
Maybe home can move.
Kane holds out his hand.
I take it.
That still feels new.
He helps me down even though I am fully capable of exiting a truck without assistance.
Then he opens the passenger door.
I stop.
“You know I can operate this too.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve opened every door tonight.”
“Yes.”
“You pulled out my chair.”
“Yes.”
“You carried my books.”
“You bought three.”
“They weren’t heavy.”
“I know.”
There it is again.
Not because you can’t.
Because I want to.
The distinction slips beneath my defenses before I can stop it.
I climb into the truck.
“Thank you.”
Kane’s expression changes slightly.
Like the words matter more than they should.
“You’re welcome.”
He closes the door gently.
I watch him circle the hood.
This is dangerous.
Not Kane.
This.
The possibility that I might actually like being cared for.
* * *
The drive back to campus is quiet.
Not awkward quiet.
The kind where nothing needs filling.
Music plays low through the speakers. Something with an acoustic guitar instead of the usual bass-heavy songs Kane claims are motivational.
His hand rests on the console between us.
Mine is in my lap.
For three miles, I consider moving it.
Ridiculous.
We kissed.
Really kissed.
My tongue was in his mouth.
His hand was in my hair.
I can manage fingers.
At the next light, I place my hand beside his.
Kane glances down.
Says nothing.
His pinkie touches mine.
Then hooks around it.
That’s all.
One finger.
My stomach turns over like he pulled me into his lap.
I look out the window before he sees my face.
Campus appears ahead.
My phone vibrates.
Then again.
Then four times in rapid succession.
I pull it from my coat.
brIAR GIRLS
Lila: MOVIE MARATHON HAS COMMENCED.
Maeve: WE STOLE THE THIRD FLOOR LOUNGE TV.
Noor: Lila also invited people into our room.
Lila: “People” sounds hostile.
Noor: There are fourteen people in here.
A picture loads.
My bed is covered in bodies.
Not literally bodies.
Women.
Several girls from our floor. Two guys I recognize from one of Noor’s classes. Maeve sitting cross-legged on my rug holding a bowl of popcorn. Someone has dragged a beanbag chair into the doorway.
Another message arrives.
Lila: brING KANE.
I lock my phone.
Absolutely not.
Kane turns toward the road leading to Briar.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
Another vibration.
Noor: She is kidding about Kane.
Then:
Lila: I AM NOT.
I stare at the screen.
Kane pulls beneath the stone arch in front of Briar Hall.
The third-floor windows glow.
I can see shadows moving behind the curtains.
Someone opens a window.
Music spills outside.
Then a girl yells something unintelligible from above.
Kane puts the truck in park.
“Looks peaceful.”
I look at him.
Then the building.
Then my phone.
Another picture.
Someone is eating pizza on my desk.
My desk.
I inhale slowly.
“Kane?”
“Yeah?”
“Stay here.”
His brows lift.
“I was planning to walk you in.”
“No. I mean…”
Why is this suddenly difficult?
I tuck my phone into my bag.
“Can you stay here for a few minutes?”
His expression sharpens.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“I can come up if you need—”
“No.”
I turn toward him fully.
“Can I pack an overnight bag and come back?”
Silence.
Kane stares at me.
Once.
Twice.
His eyes widen.
“Hannah.”
I point at him immediately.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your entire face just said something.”
“What did my face say?”
“That your evening has suddenly exceeded projections.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“I was listening.”
“There are approximately twenty people occupying my dorm room and surrounding territory.”
“Twenty?”
“Fourteen confirmed. The number is growing.”
“And you want…”
He stops.
Smart man.
I finish it for him.
“I want quiet.”
His eyes stay on mine.
“Quiet.”
“Yes.”
“At my place.”
“Yes.”
“With me.”
“Kane.”
“Clarifying.”
I fold my arms.
“Do not get excited, basketball boy. This is still our first date.”
“I know.”
“I am not offering you anything besides my presence and possibly shared streaming passwords.”
His grin gets wider.
“You're ruining my opportunity to respond maturely.”
“I’m protecting us both.”
He leans back against his seat.
“All right.”
“All right?”
“You can stay.”
That simple.
No joke about his bed.
No smug assumption.
Relief slips through me.
Then he ruins it.
“One condition.”
I narrow my eyes.
“There it is.”
“You have to wear the Stranger Things shirt.”
I blink.
“What?”
“And the flannel pajama pants.”
“You remember my pajamas?”
“Hannah, I arrived at your dorm expecting to see you after a basketball game and you came downstairs wearing Demogorgons, mushroom socks, giant glasses, and a pimple star.”
“It was medicated.”
“I know.”
“You found me humiliating.”
“I found you cute.”
The word catches me completely unprepared.
Cute.
Not hot.
Not beautiful.
Not some dramatic line designed to get me naked.
Cute.
Me.
In terrible pajamas and no makeup.
I hate how much that matters.
Kane watches my face.
“Deal?”
I lean across the console.
His brows lift.
Before he can say anything, I press my mouth to his.
One quick kiss.
Soft.
Warm.
Nothing like the overlook.
Still enough to make my heart trip over itself.
I pull away.
Kane looks genuinely stunned.
Excellent.
“I’ll be right back.”
His eyes stay on my mouth.
“Hannah.”
“What?”
“That was cheap.”
“You’ll recover.”
“I might not.”
I open the door.
He catches my attention before I step out.
“I have practice early.”
“Oh.”
The word comes out more disappointed than intended.
His gaze warms.
“You can sleep in. I’ll leave you there.”
“Alone?”
“With three basketball players approximately fifteen feet away.”
“That sounds less comforting.”
“They’re housebroken.”
“Debatable.”
“I’ll be back before lunch.”
I pause.
“Lunch?”
“If you want.”
I look at him.
“Are we doing some kind of marathon first-date weekend?”
Kane smiles.
“I'm down with that.”
The warmth from the overlook returns straight to my chest.
“Careful, Haverhill.”
“Why?”
I step onto the pavement.
“Let’s see if you can keep up with me.”
His laugh follows me all the way inside.
Chaos reaches me on the second floor.
By the third, I can hear the movie.
Someone screams.
Someone else shouts, “Don’t open the door!”
Then laughter.
I enter Room 308.
Fourteen heads turn.
Maybe fifteen.
I stop.
My room looks like a sleepover exploded inside a used bookstore.
Blankets everywhere.
Pizza boxes.
Popcorn.
Someone is using one of my archaeology books as a coaster.
I immediately rescue it.
“Criminal.”
The guy holding the drink looks confused.
“It was under the cup.”
“That is a nineteenth-century excavation survey.”
“Sorry?”
“Exactly.”
Lila sits upright on my bed.
She looks at my face.
Then my hair.
Then my mouth.
Her eyes narrow.
“Oh.”
Noor looks up from the floor.
“Oh, no.”
Maeve pauses the movie.
The entire room goes quiet.
I move toward my dresser.
“Continue whatever this is.”
Nobody moves.
Lila points at me.
“You kissed him.”
I pull out my flannel pajama pants.
“That is an invasive question.”
“You absolutely kissed him.”
I grab my Stranger Things shirt.
Noor’s eyes drop to it.
Then to the overnight bag I pull from beneath my bed.
Her mouth falls open.
“Hannah.”
Everyone notices the bag.
This is bad.
Lila slowly rises to her knees on my mattress.
“Where are you going?”
I open my dresser.
“Socks.”
“That was not my question.”
“Toothbrush.”
“Hannah.”
“Laptop charger.”
Noor stands.
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
“With him?”
I stop.
Fourteen people are staring at me.
Maybe sixteen now.
Someone appeared in the doorway.
Fantastic.
I shove my toothbrush into the bag.
“Basketball boy’s place.”
Nothing.
Not one sound.
Lila’s mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens again.
I should photograph this.
I may never achieve silence in her presence again.
“Tonight?” she finally asks.
“That is generally when overnight bags are used.”
Maeve whispers, “Kane Haverhill?”
I throw in my laptop.
“No. His eighty-seven-year-old grandfather.”