Probably in reaction to the expression on my face as I scan the immediate area for possible muggers.
She tilts her head, narrows her eyes, and purses her lips. “I haven’t decided if I want you to come up yet or not.”
“Fair enough. I’ll give you one minute to decide before calling my driver.”
Another summer breeze tousles the loose hair around her shoulders as she takes a deep breath, probably to calm herself. After a beat, she asks, “Is my mom still doing your laundry?”
“No. She lives in Cleveland.”
“I am aware of that. Why do you smell like my mom’s fabric softener?”
“Are you aware that the fabric softener your mother uses is a commercial brand that’s available all over the country?” She doesn’t need to know that I bought five million in stock of the conglomerate that owns the company that makes the fabric softener Mrs. Montgomery uses. For sentimentalandfinancial reasons.
“Shut up. Now I’m feeling homesick.” She swats at my bicep, and I delight in witnessing the surprised expression on her face when she realizes I am not the soft boy I was when she used to punch my arm.
“I know the feeling.” And I do. I’ve never experienced a feeling of nostalgia for Cleveland or my childhood, but I do have exceptionally fond memories of my time with everyone in the Montgomery family. Their home is my only memory of a home, really. My best friend’s parents were the only good parents I knew.
Olivia looks up at me and holds my gaze. I am acutely aware that this is the first time she’s held my gaze for this long today. Her eyes are watery, and her lower lip quivers.
And now she just looks mad. She swats at my arm again. “Fine. You can come up.”
CHAPTER 3
OLIVIA
Iam so mad at him for making me blush and get all teary-eyed, and I’m mad at myself for blushing and getting all teary-eyed. I have got to pull it together, because this—no matter how inconveniently hot he has become and no matter how many zeros live in his bank statement—is still Johnny B. Nerdballs.
This is the Johnny B. Nerdballs who watched every singleStar WarsandStar Trekmovie ever made and insisted on marathons where they were screened in chronological order as opposed to release order. He always carried two backpacks filled with books. He left sticky notes on our kitchen counter written in Elvish.
But I liked him anyway.
To a point.
I’m realizing that I’ve missed him a lot.
And I hate that.
There was a moment when we were walking down the street in silence. I had the chance to experience two things I’d never felt with Johnny before—an appreciation of how tall he is, and a sense of security. I’ve never walked the streets of San Franciscowith someone from back home before. I felt so comfortable for a second that I almost reached out to put my arm around him.
Actually,comfortableisn’t the right word for how it felt. It was like rewatching a favorite movie from my childhood while riding a rickety old roller coaster. The part of the roller coaster where you’re going up.
But the point is—I didn’t put my arm around him.
I want to punch him in the bicep again.
But I won’t.
Because if I touch him again at all, I have a feeling I will want to touch him a lot. All over. Over and over. And no good will come of that.
As I open the door to my apartment, I call out for my roommate, but Callie doesn’t respond.
There’s a small hallway that leads to the living room.
John follows me slowly. Cautiously. Like I’m leading him down a dark alley in Chinatown at night.
“We weren’t expecting guests…” I say, with more of an apologetic tone than I’d like, as we reach the living room. I open the curtains to let some light in, to illuminate all the dust—which, to be fair, is mostly incense ash. I like to think so anyway. I pick up various items of clothing and footwear and coffee mugs that are on the hardwood floor.
We have pretty nice furniture; it’s just covered with Callie’s design books and magazines and notebooks and our discarded apparel. “Callie—that’s my roommate—and I… We’re both busy. So you know, not a lot of time to tidy up. Can I get you something to drink?”
