Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
KAYLEE
There are arms around me.
Strong arms.
Lines of ink wrap around soft skin.
Brendon's sleeve.
His footsteps are steady as he moves down the hallway.
He kicks open my door.
The room is dark except for those glow-in-the-dark stars. It's perfect. Romantic. Sweet.
I'm in his arms under the stars.
He lowers me onto the bed.
His fingers skim my temples as he slides my glasses off my face. He folds them carefully. Like they're precious jewels.
My eyelids flutter together. Then apart.
He's looking down at me with those dark eyes.
He's going to leave.
He can't.
I reach up for him. Curl my fingers around his wrist. "I guess I lost."
He nods. "You even remember which movie we were on?"
No. I can see Finnick with his trident. Shit, we were in the middle of Catching Fire. That leaves two and a half movies to go.
"It's too bad," I whisper. "I had the perfect tattoo picked out." I tug at his t-shirt, pulling him closer.
My hand finds his chest. My finger traces the line.
"Right here. A Latin expression. But I won't say which one."
He smiles, charmed. But it fades. Back to stern caretaker. I think. I can only see so well without my glasses.
"You should brush your teeth," he whispers.
And take my medication.
But I can't leave.
Not with him this close.
It's all I'm going to get.
The way he's looking at me—he's dead set on this just friends thing.
I stare back into his eyes. "Make me."
He shakes his head as he pulls back. "Sweet dreams, Kay."
But not as sweet as him staying.
The next few days, I avoid Brendon. I eat in my room. Watch TV while he's at work. Insist Emma and I watch movies in her room.
Sunday is the longest day ever. Even though there's a rush at work, my shift stretches on forever. I don't get cut until ten. Don't get home, in my room, until ten thirty.
Only an hour to go.
And I'm not ready.
Shit. Where the hell is my laptop?
It's not on my desk. Or in my closet. Or anywhere under the bed.
There are footsteps in the hall. Then a knock on my door.
"You looking for this?" Brendon's voice flows into my room.
"My laptop?"
"Yeah. Can I come in?"
"Sure." We're doing normal. We're friends. And friends can hang out in each other's rooms.
It's not like I'm thinking about him on my bed.
Naked.
It's not like I'm obsessed with his dirty drawings.
And the smell of his shampoo.
And all the lines of ink that wrap around his arm.
My heartbeat picks up as he opens the door and steps inside.
He looks the same as always. Tall. Broad. Stoic.
He's wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt. It hugs his shoulders. It offers a peek of the roses tattooed to his chest.
I can't decide what saying I want on his chest.
Live so you can live.
Remember your mortality.
Seize the night.
Nothing comes from nothing.
Save me and I'll save you.
That's a hopeless fantasy. No one is saving me. You can't fix the ways I'm broken.
But he...
He could love me anyway.
It's possible. In theory.
He moves forward. Sets my laptop on my desk. "Forty-five minutes to go."
"Yeah. I should prepare."
"You need to prepare?"
"Sort of." Technically, no. But I want to be ready.
"Did you eat dinner?"
I stare back into his dark eyes. "I'm too nervous to eat."
"You need to eat something."
"It's my body. Not yours."
"We'll do this downstairs." He scoops my laptop back into his arms and takes a step backward. "I'll heat up dinner."
"Brendon. I don't have time—"
"You have forty-five minutes. Go shower. Change into something comfortable. I'll have your food ready."
I glare at him.
He glares back.
"You really are bossy and annoying."
"You just figure that out?"
"I'm usually the one on your side when Emma complains about you."
"That's because you're not around me twenty-four seven. Give it a few more weeks. You'll get sick of me."
Fat chance. Being around him all the time only makes me want him more.
He's so close, but he's so far away too.
I hate him for bossing me around. So what if his intentions are good? Nobody tells me when to shower or eat. Especially not someone who's withholding the kinds of demands I want. "I'm only going along with this because you're holding my laptop hostage."
"Tell me something I don't know." He takes another step backward, into the hallway.
I follow. Watch him move downstairs and set up the dining table.
There's my laptop, closed, untouched.
This is the perfect chance to invade my privacy.
But he's keeping his eyes to himself.
I push the thought aside as I move into the bathroom. We need normal. And me telling him I've seen his sketchbook—not normal.
It's an excuse, sure, but it's true.
There's a plate next to my computer. An almond butter and jelly sandwich cut into tiny squares.
The perfect snack.
At least he's being...
Ugh, I hate him more for being sweet.
His eyes go to the timer on his cell. "Fifteen minutes."
Fifteen minutes until I set my fate for the semester.
That's nothing.
I take a seat. Try to avoid the lure of the delicious sandwich.
The bread is toasted. Warm.
Strawberry jelly is spilling from its sides.
And almond butter too.
Maybe just one square...
I pop it in my mouth, chew, swallow. It's perfect warm, sweet, gooey comfort food.
But that half-smirk on his face—
No, I love that too.
He's so beautiful.
I could get lost in his eyes. Dark. Like a strong cup of coffee.
Shit. I'm staring.
I force my attention to my laptop. School website. Login. There. I'm ready to register. And I can even handle it.
"Ten minutes." His voice is soft. Sweet. The Brendon only I know. "You nervous?"
I nod.
"You never seem nervous."
"Never?"
"You're the most put together person I know."
"No. I just seem that way." I bite my lip. That's already too much. If he knew the truth, that I'm held together by pretending and antidepressants, that I'm destined to think about all sorts of ugly ways to hurt myself...
"You never talk about it."
"What about you?" I turn toward him. Stare into those dark eyes. "You never talk about anything that bothers you."
"True." There's no admission in his voice. Only an awareness of the facts. He stares back at me. "You're thinking something."
"Nothing important." I stare at the computer screen so I won't have to take his gaze. It's too much. It's picking me apart.
"You love writing."
"Is that a question?"
"But you don't want to take a creative writing class."
"Accurate."
"Why?"
Because my subconscious takes over when I'm writing. I can't stop myself from spilling all my ugly secrets on the page.
If I share that with people, they'll see the seams.
They'll tug at the stitches.
And then all of me will spill out.
My guts will be on the floor.
And everyone will run away.
Nobody knows I have depression. That I'm on drugs. That my thoughts go to dark places when things get bad.
Nobody knows I'm broken.
And I want to keep it that way.
"Kay." Brendon runs his fingertips over my forearm. "You okay?"
"Just thinking."
"You ever share your writing with people?"
"Grandma reads my fan fiction. She's encouraging."
"Show me something."
My cheeks flame. The thought of Brendon reading one of my bad poems... It's horrifying. "Show me something in your sketchbook. Something that isn't a tattoo mockup."
His jaw cricks. His eyes fill with surprise. "I'll jump if you do."
"Maybe later. There's not much time left." And I'm not a good actor. I can't pretend that I haven't seen every inch of that sketchbook.
He nods. "Five minutes."
"Five minutes." I refresh the school's website for good measure. It's the same. The same Registration Not Available is there in all red.
"What else are you taking?"
"Huh?"
"Besides creative writing."
"Oh. Advanced American literature. Chemistry. Latin four."
"Latin four?"
"Yeah." I chew on my fingernail. "It was supposed to be my elective. But now I have creative writing too."
He chuckles.
"What?" I move on to the nail of my middle finger. Hit refresh. Registration not available.
"That's perfect for you."
"Thanks. I think." Ring finger nail, here I come.
His hand curls around my wrist. "Kay."
"Yeah?" I turn toward him. Get stuck staring into his eyes. God, those eyes are beautiful.
"You're gonna be okay."
In theory.
He moves closer. "You're the smartest, strongest person I know."
The compliment warms my cheeks and chest.
Even if it's not true. I'm not strong. Certainly not as strong as Emma.
But I'm not going to argue. I'm not willing to offer the details to explain it.
He opens his mouth to say something but the timer's beep cuts him off.
Refresh.
Registration Available.
Yes.
I add each class to my schedule. Latin Mondays and Wednesdays at ten. American Literature after lunch. Chemistry and Creative writing Tuesday and Thursday. Recitation Monday and Tuesday afternoons.
There.
It's done.
Brendon smiles as he offers me his hand.
I take it.
Squeeze tightly.
Move the cursor over submit.
Click.
Congratulations.
It's done.
And I'm officially a college student.
I jump to my feet.
Brendon gets to his.
Wraps his arms around me.
It doesn't feel like a platonic hug.
But it feels too good for me to complain.