“Thanks,” I offer with a warm smile, accepting the article. He’s right, I didn’t.Just like he was right that I wouldn’t wear a dress like that.
Glancing around the room, I notice there aren’t any other chairs for me to sit on. “I can grab a chair from…” The dining room, I want to finish, but I didn’t quite get to that wing of the apartment.
“I can grab you one, or you can use the bed.”
He catches my hesitation and adds, “Don’t worry, I won’t be on it,” that familiar mischievous glint slightly peaking through.
Stop being weird, Olivia. You made this weird. Make it unweird. Be normal.Reaching into my well of charm I respond, “What a gentleman. Don’t mind if I do.” I sling my bag on the bed, sliding my flats off before I propel myself onto the neat arrangement of sheets, landing in a thud.
Making a show of inhaling the sheets, truly enamored by the scent. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a guy’s bed that smellsthisgood. Whatisyour secret, Cabot?” Sitting up, arms slightly stretched behind me, I catch him watching me. Ignoring the surveillance, I move my brows in question.
He blinks twice, subtly shaking head before answering. “Money. And a daily cleaning service.” The playful grin is back, his eyes pleasant. An improvement.
“Well. I have got to get one, because this—” I inhale one more time, deeply— “is unreal.” I finally hear a chuckle escape, his shoulders releasing just a bit. “Okay. How do you want to do this? We could take turns or read alone and stop at intervals to discuss?”
He picks up the article, rifling through, counting how many pages we have to get through. “Let’s read it alone, share thoughts at the end, compare notes?”
Slightly disappointed that he chose the isolated option, I mutter, “Cool.”
“Okay. See you in thirty.” Flashing a soft smile at me, he grabs the over-ear headphones on his desk and slides them on. He uses his phone to set a thirty minute timer and balances it against the back ledge of the desk so I can see. I watch him grab a pen and highlighter from a pen holder, the pen quickly becoming a spinning baton between his fingers.
I’m mesmerized by the adeptness with which he twirls the pen, swiftly stopping to jot a note, seamlessly resuming the twirl, when I notice there are only twenty minutes left on the timer. I start reading, only to realize that I didn’t bring a pen. Inching myself off the bed, I quietly walk to the desk and reach across the article Ben is pouring over to grab one of his pens. I’m mid reach when I feel the fingers that were preoccupied with the pen wrap around my wrist. His other hand pulls his headphones down around his neck, and his head cocks to the side, a smirk of disbelief gracing his face. The skin around my wrist grows hotter the longer his fingers firmly grip me.
His eyes squint up at me, mocking me. “No article, no pen? I’m just admiringhowunprepared you are.” His grip brings my attention to the quickening pulse in my wrist. He suddenlyreleases it, the mockery in his eyes guarded with the kind of caution you use with a stranger. He nods, permitting me to grab a pen, and offers me a shallow grin.
I roll my eyes, grateful his mood has improved enough that teasing me is on the table, even if it was fleeting. Taking the pen, I hop back onto the bed and finish the article. My eyes are heavy, intent on falling shut, when I hear the alarm on Ben’s phone go off.
Stretching my arms above my head and legs out across the bed, I stifle a yawn. “I think I need to sit with this, “ I admit, certain I don’t have any coherent thoughts after half-reading-half-sleeping through the article. It’s not that it wasn’t interesting, it was that half way through I was overcome with exhaustion. I’m not about to offer my half-baked ideas to Mr. Feminist Literature Aficionado over here.
Standing out of his chair, Ben mimics my upward stretch before agreeing. The hem of his shirt inches upward, and despite the fact that I just saw him shirtless an hour ago, my mind takes the bait. My hands tingle with the desire to fist the sides of his shirt, and I imagine him leaning over me on this bed, making it easy for me to pull the shirt off him. I picture my hands tracing the labyrinth of ink on his chest, his hard, smooth muscles possibly twitching in anticipation of where my hand might go next. “Let’s regroup tomorrow. I can’t say I totally grasped everything either,” he says before grabbing my bag and placing my now slightly crumpled article into it.
“Well, thank you,” I say with a breath, reaching for the bag in his hand. “The bedwasinsanely comfortable. Ten out of ten. Truly.” I wink just as his fingers brush mine, and I feel him still just as I do. Our gazes are locked for a second too long, broken only when I watch his gaze settle on my mouth. The attention is unnerving, and I involuntarily bite my lip before pressing them together. If there were only an inch between my lips and his, Iwouldn’t be surprised. Despite the distance between our faces, my face heats anticipating him closing the distance with ease. My pulse is erratic, waiting for him to press those supple lips against mine. I lean in just enough for him to notice, and his gaze shifts back to mine. Ben’s lips betray him by erupting in a smile. He looks away, scoffing, his hand running through his hair, and when he lands back on me his eyes glitter with amusement. I release a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, the anticipation fleeing my body, lust-filled regret moving in to replace it. A nervous laugh escapes me as I pull the bag over my shoulder and move toward the door.
“Okay well… I’ll leave the way I came I guess.” What I’m sure is an awkward smile graces my face. I couldn’t pretend to be unaffected if I tried.
“Not a chance, Beckett. I’m opening your doors and everything.” His hand rests on the top of the door frame, an easy feat given his height. I walk ahead of him, slightly ducking my head to hide the girlish grin I’m biting down. We approach the front door and I spin around to offer him my hand. He looks down, studying my manicured hand before firmly gripping it and tilting his head in question. His hand feels so good in mine, and I feel like I’ve won a prize just by holding a part of him like this.
“This is a partnership, remember, Cabot?” I remind him, shaking his hand. “Today you brought… pens. And paper. Tomorrow I’ll send you earth-shattering revelations about popular romance and women’s reading culture.”
Returning the shake, he releases my hand and reaches behind me to grab the door handle. The angle results in him crowding me, the top of his chest just inches from my nose and I can’t help but try to breathe him in. His scent brings me back to that night in the bar. I’m brought out of the thought when his hand gently grips my waist, adeptly rotating me just enough topull the door open. I’m halfway through the threshold, my back to him, when I feel him murmur, “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Walking down the tree lined street, I tilt my face toward the sun and angle it into the breeze, eager to feel the incoming season wash over me. Unlike so many college campuses, Astor’s immediate vicinity is carefully curated, the student housing mixed in with storied brownstones, interspersed with both mom and pop shops and restaurants attractive to both students and faculty. Our proximity to Boston means we don’t need much else; a quick 30 minute drive and you’re already in Beacon Hill. I almost drove to Ben’s, but the moment I stepped outside today I knew it was walking weather.
Brownstones line the cobblestone streets, the stones differing shades of brown and terracotta. I’m rarely over on this side anymore; the cobblestones aren’t necessarily compatible with some of the footwear I’m known to live in when I’m spending time at the newspaper office. This side of campus isn’t practical for that, nor is it near the places I frequent for any of my stories. Ian doesn’t keep me on the preppy, lifestyle beat— thank god— but that doesn’t mean I wouldmindhaving to be here.I guess I don’t need a reason, but a reason always helps.The thought appears the moment my eye snags on the bus stop that would drop Lily and I off on our little city quests.
Lily would drag me down here for any reason. The stop at Astor was definitely not the closest stop on the way to Boston’s city center, but we took any chance we could to get close to our future school. The farmer’s market, obscure metal concert, pop-up shop, dog adoptions, skateboarding competition, regionalbook fair— anything. She never needed a reason to do something that she thought would bring her, or me, joy. The vigor with which she lived had always left me in awe of her. She was so intentional. I could find a million excuses not to come down here, but every time we did, and we sauntered back to the bus station to head back to our prep school, we were filled to the brim with excitement. We’d arrive back to the dorms sated by our expedition, Lilyalwaysthe commander who just knew what we needed.
Lily knew for the both of us. She knew that whatever compass existed in others, the compass that points true north or whatever, didn’t point true north for me. That with my mother barely around, I needed her to guide me through this life. She was my touchstone. I felt rooted when I was with her. Her death detached me from that rootedness, but there are moments when I feel it again. Like that night at the bar. Like right now, walking through the autumn breeze after an afternoon with Ben.
An afternoon with Ben. Something flutters in my stomach at the thought of more afternoons with Ben, but I fight the urge to identify the something as butterflies. My best attempts to ignore my attraction to Ben are trampled by the way he simplylooksat me. Ben’s eyes search me, sear me,exploreme— I’ve never been so looked at in my life. His gaze, so focused and restrained, makes my body hum with excitement. I can’t keep away either, if I’m being honest with myself, andthatis the problem. The extent to which I’m drawn to him unsettles me.
Of course I had to ask him to stop. I can’t encourage whatever this thing is between us.
Rounding the corner toward the outskirts of campus, my contemplative bubble is burst by a shrill reminder of my current reality.
“Olivia, did you not die when you saw that dress? I died.” Sleaze oozes from Genevieve’s voice. You wouldn’t know itlooking at her. While she’s not a demure girl, she’s not an overtly sexual one either— that is, until she leans over the table and grabs your boyfriend’s hand in playful banter. She’s a snake, Gen is. She slithers in the grass, playing coy and harmless, until she rears her head and you see the vicious colors hiding on the underbelly. While she hasn’t shown it to me yet, I know it’s coming.
“Pity you were somehow resurrected,” I jeer, unable to conceal the ire reemerging now that I’m faced with this bitch.
