Rhett
I haven’t been able to think of anything but that kiss. Can’t step outside without shooting furtive glances at the small white house sitting at the end of my block, watching for her to come out.
Watching for any sign of her, really.
That kiss happened three days ago and I haven’t seen or heard from her since—not that I expected to. It’s not like we’re dating; it’s not like she’s obligated to.
Still…
One part of me is really fucking disappointed I haven’t heard from her, while the other part of me wonders if she’s been waiting for me to message her.
Shit.
I sit, deliberating, unable to concentrate on the papers stacked in front of me. My friends would have no problem figuring this shit out; they’d message her without hesitating, probably would have the minute they walked off her porch the other night.
I stare at the essays blankly, composing a text to Laurel in my mind before typing one out, hoping like hell she welcomes the random message.
Me: Hey there.
Laurel: Hey stranger! I was wondering where you’d gone.
Dammit, I was right—she’s been waiting for me to message her first. Sometimes I’m such an asshole.
Me: Correcting papers and studying at the library.
Laurel: Which one?
Me: Public. Over off Broadway
Laurel: You’re not hiding are you?
Me: LOL, no.
Maybe.
Laurel: How would you feel about some company?
My chest expands, constricts, heart racing.
Hell yeah I want her company—I fucking miss her beautiful face. Her bright red hair and flirtatious smiles. The way she touches my arm with the tips of her fingers.
Me: You should probably get your ass over here.
Laurel: Be careful—it sounds suspiciously like you’re flirting…
Me: I’m doing my best.
Laurel: That was a good start—I’ll be there in twenty. Walking.
Me: Want me to come get you?
Laurel: No worries, I’ll manage ;)
Shit. If she’s walking, that means she’s going to need a ride home, and we know how that ended last time—with me pussing out on her front porch.
I clear room on the table, stack the sparse number of school supplies I have on top of a notebook, and straighten the chairs. Reach up and run both hands through my hair, finger-combing that shit. I glance down, giving my plaid flannel a cursory onceover for stains.
Roll the sleeves to my elbows.
Stand to smooth down the front of my jeans, realizing too late I’m primping like a fucking girl.
For a girl.
I sit my ass back down, stare at the entrance. Check the time stamp of Laurel’s text and glance at the clock.
It’s been eight minutes.
Eleven.
Fifteen.
At nineteen minutes, I sit up straight when the doors at the entrance breeze open, followed by a cool gust of wind I feel from my spot in the corner.
Laurel pauses in the doorway, backpack draped over one shoulder, scanning the perimeter, seeking me out.
I use the time to check her out.
Skinny jeans. Brown half boots. Green plaid shirt, navy vest. Flaming red hair down in loose waves—wavy enough that even I know it didn’t happen naturally.
She spots me. Begins weaving her way in my direction, eyes focused on my table.
On me.
Beams down at me when she reaches the table.
“Hey.”
Bites her pink bottom lip. “Hi.”
Okay, what now?
“We match,” I blurt out dumbly—we’re both wearing plaid.
The corners of her eyes crinkle, delighted. “We do.”
“I saved you a seat.” I laugh, and Laurel’s eyes scan the nearly empty library.
“Not exactly a hub of activity, is it?”
“Nope. That’s what I like about it.”
“I don’t blame you. This is nice.” With her backpack rested on the chair, she unzips it, pulling out her laptop. Notebook. Pen. “Can you believe I’ve never been here?”
“Did you find the place okay?”
“Yeah. That’s what GPS is for.” She winks flirtatiously, removing her vest and hanging it on the back of her chair.
“You used your GPS to get here?”
“Haven’t you ever used the walking guide?”
“Uh, no?”
“Oh man, my friends and I do it all the time. It’s the only way we can get anywhere around here.” Laurel hesitates. Brushes an errant strand behind her ear, gathering her hair and pulling it over her right shoulder in a red waterfall.
So fucking pretty.
She sits, clearing her throat. “What are you working on? Grading papers?”
My head shakes. “I was, but now I’m editing my paper for European Union and Foreign Politics.”
“Wow. That sounds… It sounds…”
“Borin’ as fuck?”
“That isn’t what I was going to say—at all.” She laughs, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand to stifle the sound. “Are you ever able to do homework on your bus rides?”
“I could, if my teammates would leave me in peace.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well.” I set down my pen. “When we came home this past weekend, they spent half the trip riding my ass, handing out dating tips and shit.”
Her brows furrow, pinched attractively at the bridge of her adorable nose. “Dating tips? Like what?”
“The shittiest, worst kind of advice. Probably thinkin’ I’d actually take it and look like a dumb fuck in front of you.” Her eyes widen. “Sorry, pardon my French.”
She smacks my arm at my pun. “Cute.”
I lean in. “Get this: they told me when I’m around a girl, I should insult my friends to be funny.”
“Uh…”
“How would you feel if you were on a date and the guy spent the entire time textin’ other people?”
“I’d hate it.” Her head tilts. “Did they tell you to do that?”
“Yeah—so my date would think I was important.”
“That’s…wow. I don’t even know what to say. That is really shitty advice.”
“I know.”
“They didn’t…” Her voice trails off. “Um, they didn’t tell you how to ask a girl on a date, did they?”
“No.” I snort. “Thank God.”
“Why? You don’t think you need it?”
When I finally take the time to study her reaction, she’s watching me attentively, blue eyes shining, mouth set in a determined line. Waiting.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You know,” she says slowly. “If you want to practice…you could always pretend to ask me out.”
Her shoulders give a casual shrug, nonchalant, but the high color of her flushed cheeks and blazing, sparking eyes tell another story.
“I wouldn’t know what to say.” Which is true, I wouldn’t—not to her, or any other female, especially when I’m being put on the spot.
“Try it,” she urges with a gentle smile. “I won’t bite.”
“Uh…” I look to the ceiling for answers. At the bookshelves. Across the library at the circulation desk.
Laurel emits an amused chuckle. “Wow. Maybe you do need help.” Pause. “Go on, ask.”
“You just want me to pretend?”
There is a long pause. “Sure. Pretend ask me.”
“Pretend.”
Curt nod. “Mmmhmmm.”
I lean back in my chair to study her, the slight downward tilt of her pink mouth. The unflinching eyes that are a tad too wide. The blush creeping up her lovely neck to her smooth cheeks.
“You wanna go out with me sometime?”
“There, was that so hard?” she whispers.
“I guess not.”
Laurel’s lips part, smile feebly. “Easy.”
“So then what happens?”
She sits up straighter in her chair. Flips her hair. “Well, then I’d lean in like this.” She leans in, arms crossed on the table. Whispers, “I’d be breathless and my heart would be pounding, and I’d say something like, ‘I would love that.’”
Jesus.
A few silent moments pass, the only sound the ticking clock on the wall. Our breathing. The sound of my heart pounding in my ears.
The shuffling of papers from the front desk.
“Rhett?” Her voice is just loud enough that I can hear it, barely a sigh.
“Laurel,” I say teasingly.
“Why haven’t you asked me out?”
More tension-filled silence stretches between us, the question weighing down the air.
She can’t even look at me when she says it.
My head gives a shake. “It’s just—that cannot be what you meant.”
“Why not?”
I shift in my seat uncomfortably, not sure what to say. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to start spouting off the million ways she’s out of my league. How she’s gorgeous and I’m not. How as a set, we don’t match. How I’d have to be a fucking dumbass to ask a girl like her out on a date—a delusional fucking dumbass.
I look at her from across the table. Rosy cheeks, inky lashes. Clear skin and perfect nose. Creamy complexion. Gleaming satin hair. Great boobs and slim waist.
Jesus, she’s…
She’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.
And for whatever fucking reason, she seems to think I’m something. Wants to spend time with me. Get to know me.
It’s…
Unsettling.
Unreal.
“You’re serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Because. Because our whole friendship began as a joke, a stupid fucking prank my idiot roommate and her cousin railroaded us into. Laurel wouldn’t have texted me. Would never have flirted, sexted. Would never have come up to me during that party otherwise.
Shit, I cannot stop warring with myself on this. Cannot wrap my brain around it.
If I’m so horrible, then why did she kiss me on my porch?
She kissed me.
That shit just doesn’t happen to guys like me. Ever. I know it, and so does everyone else. It’s a universal law, and who am I to throw off the gravitational pull?
I’m not blind, and I’m certainly not dumb.
I raise my eyes. “You really want to know why haven’t I asked you out?”
Laurel looks down at the table top, avoiding my eyes, feigning sudden interest in her English paper, in her pen cap, ticking it open and closed. Even with her head bent, I can see her cheeks are flushed, clearly mystified.
“Why haven’t I asked you out?” God, what the hell is wrong with me? Why do I keep fucking repeating myself? I’m worse than a goddamn parrot.
“Please just stop saying that,” she beseeches, turning a darker, unflattering shade of pink.
“I just don’t know…what’s…going on?” Seriously, why am I being such a spaz? It’s like I’ve stepped into a parallel universe, some fucked-up episode of The Twilight Zone.
I watch her lips twitch. Clearly flustered by my lackluster reply, Laurel avoids eye contact. “Never mind, Rhett. Just let it go.”
“Laurel—”
“Please stop talking about it. Forget I said anything.”
I clamp my lips together. Then, “I didn’t realize you wanted me to ask you out.”
“Well you do now.” She looks up at me, confused. Her pretty brows bend. “I’ve been flirting and messaging you for weeks. I brought you cookies. I called you to pick me up from a bar in the middle of the night. Kissed you on my porch.”
She’s breathing harder now, getting upset. Narrows her blue eyes at me. “What did you think I was doing all this time?”
“I don’t fucking know, Laurel. Friendzonin’ me?” How stupid do I sound? I throw my hands up. “I thought we were studyin’. What did you think we were doin’?”
“But I kissed you.”
True. But, untrusting, I ask, “Was it because of some dare?”
“How can you ask me that? What kind of girl do you think I am?”
“Laurel…” My tone holds a warning.
“I thought you were waiting to ask me out until the time was right,” she blurts out, cheeks red as her hair. “I can’t believe I said that. I don’t ask guys out—I’ve never asked a guy out in my life, and I’m not starting with you.”
“I’m not tryin’ to upset you, I’m just so damn confused.”
“Confused? Awesome.” The laugh that comes out of her throat is almost maniacal. Now she’s throwing her hands in the air, defeated. “That is just awesome. Can we forget this whole humiliating conversation took place?”
Uh, not likely. Not ever.
This shit is going to be burned into my brain forever.
“I don’t think so.” My head shakes, a reminder that I should probably get a haircut before I can’t see. It’s already too long for Iowa’s wrestling uniform code. “Can we talk about it?”
Jesus Christ, what am I saying?
Except she’s the one shaking her head. Picking up her things. Stacking her books and closing her laptop.
“No.” Laurel hastily shoves everything into her black backpack, zipping it with a resounding whirrrrr. Angry. Self-conscious. Upset.
“I’m so embarrassed.” She stands abruptly. “I’m leaving.”
Shrugs into her vest.
Hefts that book bag onto her slender shoulders and gives me a nod, chin trembling, on the verge of tears. Hightails it away from my table, bumping into bookshelves and periodicals along the way.
Go after her idiot! the logical part of my brain screams. Go after her.
But I’ve never been quick on the uptake, and I’ve never made a girl cry—not in my entire fucking life. So, I sit on my ass in shock, the loud library clock ticking through second after unbearable second.
She’s all the way to the entrance of the library before my brain catches up to my common sense and has me rising to follow her, leaving all my shit on the table. Racing to the door, busting through the entryway.
I shove through the heavy glass doors, step out into the cold night air, look left, look right.
Watch as she marches down the center of the sidewalk, toward campus, heeled boots clicking on the pavement. Head bent. Shoulders slouched.
Shit.
“Laurel!” I call her name through the crisp air, the words a cloud of steam. “Shit. Laurel, stop!”
She pauses to turn, her flaming hair catching fire under the glowing street lamps. “Leave me alone, Rhett. Please.”
“Goddammit, stop!” My long stride takes the steps two at a time until I’m halfway down the sidewalk myself. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Why bother following me? What could you possibly say right now that’s going to make me feel like less of an asshole?”
My hands go up, beseeching. “Jesus Laurel, help a guy out. Tell me what’s goin’ on here. Please.”
“Fine! You want me to spell it out? I like you, okay? Just so we’re clear on what’s goin’ on here.”
I rear back. “You like me?”
“Yes, you idiot!” Her head shakes. “Yes. I like you—how can you not have figured it out by now?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
I think I’m going to be sick. I’m going to barf right here on the sidewalk in front of City Hall and the library. I’ve never asked a girl on a date—ever—and I don’t know if I can start now.
Not one like this. Not one that looks like this.
I’ve been doing my best not to judge her based on appearance alone, but why the fuck is a girl like her taking an interest in me? I have no fucking idea. Not a clue.
The wane smile she shoots me is sad; my reaction to it wells deep inside my chest, heart thumping so powerfully I can feel it in the pit of my stomach.
Holy shit—Laurel fucking Bishop likes me.
Yet…
“Do you mean that, or are you saying that because you feel sorry for me?”
“Feel sorry for you?” Laurel walks back toward me, beautiful hair shaking and catching in the lamplights above. Christ, she’s pretty, so sweet and funny and so fucking out of my league. “Why would I feel sorry for you?”
She takes one step, then another, until I’m looking down at her, the top of her head meeting the bottom of my chin. Warm light glows through the windows, illuminating her alabaster skin when she tips her face up.
Hesitantly, I raise my hands, unsure of where to put them—where she’ll let me put them.
I settle on her arms, my palms large enough to encircle her biceps, the flannel fabric of her shirt soft under my rough skin. I watch as her nostrils flare and her pupils dilate, eyes sparkling.
“I’m sorry I’m such a fucking moron.’”
She demurs under my touch. “It’s okay. I get it.”
“Come back inside,” I murmur, catching an end of her silky hair and rubbing it between my fingers. “Let’s get my stuff and take you home.”
“All right.”
One step up and she’s beside me, reaching between us, sliding her petite hand into mine. It feels delicate and small, a contradiction to mine. I glance down at those clasped hands, knowing I must look fucking shocked, because when she sees my face, she draws her hand back.
“Sorry.”
“No—it’s okay. I’m just not…”
“Not used to it?”
That’s the understatement of the goddamn century. “That’s one way of puttin’ it.”
“I don’t want to force myself on you.” Laurel’s brow furrows. “I want you to like me back, not be browbeaten into it.”
We’re in the lobby of the building now, between the main doors and the entrance. It’s old and dark and faintly lit. Gray tiled floor. Black marble walls. Heavy steel doors encasing the entire space.
I glance down again at our hands. Over at the steel entrance doors.
Hesitate.
“Rhett?”
I don’t know what comes over me, but suddenly I’m releasing her hand and guiding her by the hips toward the cold marble. She doesn’t protest. Doesn’t question my actions.
Under the Community Library sign—on which every library director’s name dating back fifty years is listed in shiny, gold letters—I back beautiful Laurel Bishop against the wall.
She’s breathing hard before I even dip my head to inhale the tender spot beneath her ear, nudging her hair aside. It’s silken and glossy and smells fucking fantastic.
I flick her earlobe with the tip of my tongue, wondering where this bravado came from.
As she tips her head back, a gasp escapes Laurel’s lips.
I lay my lips on her neck, desperately wanting to suck. Grip her hips with my fingertips and murmur into her ear. “Tu me rends fou pour quelques semaines.” You’ve been driving me crazy for weeks.
“What are you saying?” she asks with a sigh, tilting her head, giving me access to the pale column of her neck.
“J’ai peur de t’aimer.” I’m afraid to let myself like you. Behind a cloak of ambiguity, knowing she couldn’t possibly understand, I whisper the words I’d only reserved for myself. “Je te veux tellement.” I want you so bad.
My hands run up her hips, pinning her to the cold black wall, the dark my ally. The last thing I want her to see is the lovesick expression on my face. The puppy dog eyes and the pleading.
The truth is: I want her so fucking bad.
I want her to like me in ways that have nothing to do with friendship.
I want…
I want to kiss her and touch her and God do I want to have sex with her.
I tell her with my mouth, inside the marble vestibule, with the slow roll of my tongue against hers. The slight roll of my pelvis. I bend my knees so she doesn’t have to tiptoe, reach under her with my hands and scoop her ass into my palms, easily dragging her up.
When her feet leave the ground, I press her back flat against the wall for support, stifling her gasp of surprise with my mouth. Her legs go around my waist to hold on, but there’s nothing urgent about our kisses. They’re lazy and slow and tentative. Soft.
I pepper her jaw with my lips.
This is nothing like that awkward kiss on her front porch; it might be tame, but it’s life-altering.
Laurel runs her nose along my jaw. Brings a hand to my cheek and strokes my face. “Making out in the library feels sacrilegious.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know, it just does.” She laughs. I set her on her feet, separating our bodies reluctantly.
“Come on.” She takes my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
Me: What time do you have class tomorrow?
Laurel: Ten fifteen. You?
Me: I have to be on campus around then. Want me to come get you in the morning and we can walk together?
Laurel: Sure, I’d love that. Want to meet outside on the first block? Intersection of Dorset and Winona?
Me: No. I’ll come get you at your house. 9:45?
Laurel: That sounds perfect.