“Hi,” I say softly, trying to pretend I’m unaffected by his presence. The door is propped open with my shoulder and I tense my abs because I’m in a white crop top and soft lavender cotton skirt and I run every single morning and do a ton of core work but I want it tolooklike I do and…
“You gonna invite me in?” He interrupts my inner monologue freakout.
“No.” I smile at him. “I’m caught up on Vampire 101, thanks.” I turn my back on him then and wander deeper into my apartment, a giddy smile threatening to burst on my lips and I can’t blame it all on the drinks I had at dinner. There were two and I’m basically sober now.
But I can practically feel Storm’s eyes on my ass.
I’m in fuzzy Ugg slippers—lavender—and I flex my toes in the padded softness so the rest of my body can appear relaxed. I head through the small kitchen with its black and white checkered floors and the square black table with lavender bunched in a glass planter in the center. I take a right into the open living room; the white leather couch has too many lilac blankets on it to count and the white coffee table is intentionally splashed with ink black paint, haphazard and artistic. The couch is from my older brother, Caspian, and the table was done by Heather, the oldest of all of us. My little brother, Henry, is only sixteen, and his contribution to my apartment was to turn to my mother at move in, look her dead in the eye, and ask, “Will you bring your boyfriends to fuck them here, too, Mom?” Right in front of my dad.
Needless to say, move-in day went great.
I let all of those messy, family thoughts exit my brain like it didn’t happen, nearly a year ago in fact, when Remi moved in with Cortland. And subsequently, Storm.
I’ve been over there to hang out with her often enough and to babysit Lyle here and there—I have experience thanks to my toddler nephew, Rome. But usually Storm isn’t there. He’s “working.” And it’s not like he knows that when I touch myself, I think of him. I’ll be leaving in the spring, and Storm isn’t the kind of man you commit to when you’re long distance. I don’t know if he’s the kind of man you commit to at all. The fact he came here tonight is even weird to me. The fact I let him I blame solely on the vodka in my fruity cocktails.
I really did get home from a date right before he texted me, and this guy, Dax, has potential. But what does having options hurt? I learned that after my last serious ex. We dated until I realized he was creepily into his sister more than he was me.
And maybe since then I’ve beenexperimentingmore than I used to.
Life is short, memento mori, all that.
I hear the door to the apartment close and lock at my back as I swipe up the remote from the coffee table and sink back down onto the couch. I pull a fuzzy lilac blanket over my body at the same time I kick off my Uggs, then I sit cross-legged on the couch and turn the TV mounted on the off-white wall on. Dad set it up for me and he bought me the television too. But Mom got me the Prada white crop tank I’m wearing so I’m not sure who did better.
Although knowing Mom, it was to spite Dad. We don’t really have that kind of money, as much as Mom wishes (and spends like) we do.
The speakers mounted beside the TV on the wall start playing music and I flinch. I forgot that’s what I was doing to get ready for my date with Dax—spinning around in my living room and spraying Coach Love on my neck and wrists… and thighs.
“Torn” by Natalie Imbruglia is playing and I glance at Storm to find him staring down at me, his head tilted in an innocent way.
He has his hands in the pockets of his black pants, and I see the muscles in his biceps beneath his dark T-shirt are veiny and look a little bigger than I remember from the last time I saw him a few weeks ago.
The overhead lights are off in here but the floor lamp at the end of the couch—it looks like dragon scales, silver and gold both—is on dim and the light casts shadows over Storm’s eyes, making them seem a darker blue from this angle.
My own are a green that almost borders on blue, but his are…something else. They look like his namesake right now.
“You like this song?” he asks me.
“Don’t you?” Who doesn’t?
“No.”
I furrow my brow. “Who doesn’t like nineties music?” It’s where all good music comes from, although metal is better now. Not that most people know I love metal, definitely not Storm Leary. He could probably count on one hand all the things he knows about me.
He stares at me but it’s like he’s not really looking at me. He does that sometimes, when he’s thinking. Even before he answers a direct question or responds to a quip, he just…stares.
I wonder what he’s thinking about right now, but the truth is, I always do. He says too little and I want to know too much.
He blinks after a moment, then he jerks his chin to the lamp to my left. “Can I turn the light off?”
I glance at it, behind me, but I’m not really surprised by his question. He seems like the type to like the dark. “Sure,” I tell him. “Do you want to watch a movie?” We’ve never done that. Any of this.
I know I’m protected from throwing myself at him, though.
I’m on my period and my stomach is cramping and the first day the flow is the worst. I’m not opposed to sex on my period but I’d do it with someone I fully trust. And Storm is not that someone. With him, I think it’s best to be a little leery.
He moves quietly behind the couch, ducks beneath the lampshade, then flips the light off.
We’re plunged into darkness and I blink my eyes as I turn off the music and start pouring through horror movies. They’re not really my favorite thing—kind of make me squeamish—but I think Storm watches them like Remi and besides, I don’t watch much TV. I use it mainly for music, and I told Dad as much. He didn’t need to buy me this flat screen, but he insisted, and it’s a good thing to have on when people are over. Like background noise to fill the silences.
