“Tweed blazers and stacks of books and a bust of Shakespeare,” I say. “All you need is a little skull and a typewriter—” But I break off when Aiden looks at me for the first time this morning. My eyes widen. “Stop it,” I say. “Do you have a skull and a typewriter around here somewhere?”
“My sister gave me a skull,” he mutters as a faint flush works its way into his cheeks. “It’s not real.”
Well, this is a delightful development. I smile, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “I should hope not,” I say. “Can I see it? Please?” I add when he hesitates.
He sighs and points to the door right next to the bookcase. “In there,” he says, going back to his book. “On the desk.”
I barge into the bedroom and catch only a glimpse of the decor—navy walls; gray bedspread; simple, functional furniture—before finding the desk. Sure enough, sitting next to the lamp is a life-sized human skull.
“He’s so cute!” I call over my shoulder, my smile widening. “Or is it a she?” I bend over, addressing the skull. “Are you a girl skull?”
“I haven’t really thought about it,” Aiden says, and I turn around to find him in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, one finger keeping his place in his book.
“You have to name it, Aiden!” I say. “It needs a name! Something moody and brooding like you.”
He frowns. “I’m not moody and brooding.”
My snort of laughter is unladylike. “Of course you are.” I waltz up to him, pressing my finger into the little v-shaped crease between his brows. “Does that hurt?”
“Does what hurt?” he says, swatting my hand away.
“That face you make all the time. Does it hurt?”
“What face?” he says, and that little crease deepens. “I don’t make a face.”
“Yes, you do,” I say, grinning at him. “You walk around looking like someone who’s just checked the weather and discovered it’s supposed to rain for the next week.”
“I love the rain,” he says blankly.
Of course he loves the rain.
I lean in, invading his space just a touch as I give him a closer inspection. “How come you don’t have any wrinkles when you scrunch your face up like this? You’re probably going to have the audacity to age like fine wine.” I sigh, leaning back again. “I, on the other hand, will most likely shrivel up like a prune in my old age. My mom was only forty-two when she died, but she looked at least twenty years older than that.”
“Maybe,” he says slowly, looking thoughtful. “But if I recall correctly, your mom didn’t take care of her body, either.” He raises one questioning brow at me. “Right?”
“That’s true,” I admit. “She smoked toward the end too.”
He nods, a decisive jerk of his head. “So there.” He pauses, then says, “Speaking of that. What are you going to do tonight? I don’t know if it’s a good idea to go meet a stranger at eleven at night.”
I force myself to take a deep breath, mostly to combat the sudden nerves I feel. Talking with him made me forget, just briefly, what other things were going on in my life. “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m still deciding.”
“Well, I’d recommend against it,” he says. “The whole thing feels unsafe to me.”
“Mmm.” I nod, trying to distract myself by focusing on him. Then—“Hang on,” I say, my eyes widening as I look more closely. It’s possible I’ve gotten carried away in my inspection of his face as my gaze trails over everything I can see—the crooked nose, the defined cupid’s bow, the firm chin. I was wrong to pursue him at the time, but seventeen-year-old me still hadgreattaste. I’ve just noticed something new, however. “Is that—do you—” I swallow, reaching up and pointing to his earlobe. “Is your ear pierced?”
“Just the left one,” he says distractedly. He’s still standing in front of me, but he’s got his book open again, reading once more.
“When—how?—”
“I went through a phase.”
A phase? Aphase? I needsomuch more information than that. “When?” I say quickly. “What kind of phase? What kind of earring did you wear? Are there pictures? Can I?—”
“There are probably a few photos buried at my parents’ place,” he says musingly. Then he looks up from his book, his gaze finding mine. “But you’ll never see them.”
I will see those pictures if it is the last thing I do. I will run along con on his mother if it means I get a glimpse of straight-laced Aiden wearing anearring.
“I can hear the wheels turning in that brain of yours,” he says, sounding distracted once more as he looks back down at his book. “The earring isn’t even the best part.”
