Between Everything and Us Page 13

  I scramble out of bed and shuffle into the bathroom. I slide against the closed door and hang my head, consumed with this soul-sucking panic. About life. About having to get extensions on my finals. About relying on Beau of all people while I rest. About the way I enjoyed waking up to him.

  I’ve been failing at life hard lately. Today’s no different, I guess.

  I strip and step into the shower, melting as the hot water streams around me. I can’t breathe yet, but I open my mouth and inhale, feel the bubble of warmth chase down my throat and sink into my belly.

  I startle when the door clicks open. “Coming in, Evans.”

  Even though he can’t see me, I jump back and throw my arms over myself. “No, you’re not!” It comes out more like a pathetic croak.

  “Not in the shower, you perv.”

  I whip back the shower curtain and poke my head out. “No. You’re not. No.”

  “The steam is good for a chest cold.” Beau has his back to me as he lowers the lid on the toilet. I can’t argue with his back. Especially not when he’s shirtless.

  My eyes rake over the long line of his spine and the two dimples on his lower back, right above the low-sitting waistband of his pajamas. I expected there to be tattoos on his back, but there aren’t any.

  “What are you doing, Mati?”

  I drop the curtain from my hand and hide again behind the cheap piece of fabric. I’m not sure if I’m warm from only the water anymore.

  “I can see through the curtain, you know.”

  I gasp and reel around, swiping aside the curtain again to see him sitting smugly on the floor with a towel in his hand.

  “You can’t!”

  He shakes his head, laughing as he coughs. “No, but I can die now having seen your face at the idea.”

  I grab the bottle of shampoo off the crowded shelf and chuck it at him. “You’re an asshole.” I thought I was angry, but I’m laughing again. I’m not sure how I feel about how much I laugh when I’m around Beau. “And stop making me laugh,” I huff.

  I close the curtain and take a hungry sip of the warm water. I never knew you could be so sick that it feels as though you’re drowning in yourself. I’m desperate for air even when I’m surrounded by it.

  The shower feels amazing. For a few minutes, I’ve returned to the land of the living. I pretty sure I’ve been a zombie the past few days. But my hands are starting to prune and there’s no point in wasting water.

  “I want to get out. Can you leave?”

  His voice comes from the other side of the curtain when he answers, “Leave the shower on a while longer.”

  I stare at the curtain, afraid that I’m going to invite him to join me if I open my mouth.

  His hand snakes around the edge of the curtain, handing me a towel. “Get out, but we should stay in here a little longer.” His voice is soft, tentative.

  For once, I don’t fight him. I wrap the towel around me and step out of the shower, my eyes glued to the floor.

  “Go ahead. I won’t look.” He shuffles into the corner of the small bathroom, his back to me.

  I notice that he’s placed another towel on top of the toilet for my hair. I bite back my sarcasm and decide to trust him for once. He’s trying to be nice. I dry off, then wrap up in my short robe.

  I pull back the shower curtain and sit on the edge of the tub. “You can turn around.” I focus on my hands, on my chipped navy nails, on the cracked tile floor of our pink 1950s bathroom. He sinks down to the floor beside me, his hands gripping his knees.

  “Tonight’s Christmas Eve,” he says.

  I toss down a damp towel and sit beside him.

  He tilts his head, glancing at me with such intensity. “I think if we met a few years back, you might actually like me more.”

  I pause before I answer, noticing the scar along his jaw more than ever. “What’s wrong with you now?”

  Beau rests his head on his folded arms and stares at me sideways. Like this, he appears smaller somehow. Maybe it’s the sadness that fills his eyes. I want to drape my hand over his shoulder and pull him close.

  It’s frustrating to balance on this thin line between us.

  “You have everything in front of you, Mati.” He closes his eyes. “I can’t fucking breathe, and it’s your fault.”

  My heart does this strange flip about the same time my stomach flops. I have the feeling he’s not talking only about his cold.

  “Well, I was stupid a few years ago,” I say. “You wouldn’t have liked me.”

  A shiver runs down his body, the flesh of his tattoo sleeves prickling with goose bumps. I reach out without thinking and cup his forehead.

  “You’re hot.”

  He opens his eyes and smiles. A gentle, sincere smile that I haven’t seen before. “So you’re saying there’s a chance?”

  I shake my head and chuckle, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “You have a problem. You need to stop.”

  The corner of his mouth kicks up.

  I want kiss his mouth for an indecent amount of time, sick or not. Instead, I haul myself to my feet and hold out my hand.

  “You get your wish, dying man. I’ll make you soup if you promise to rest.”

  His hand locks with mine, even as he stands on his own. Beau runs his thumb over my wrist, distracting me enough that I don’t notice at first that he’s tugged me against him.

  Beau bumps his fist under my chin, drawing my gaze up to his. I blink a few times, waiting for words to come, but we’re both staring at one another’s mouths, waiting.

  The steam swirls around us, and my heart is racing as if I’m about to pass out again. I brace my hands on his chest, swaying closer. I drop my forehead to rest against his collarbone, his skin feverish against mine.

  Behind us, water bursts from the rusting showerhead, and the rain outside strikes the window. His chest rises up and down against the heel of my palm, beating against it as though I make him nervous.

  Beau is a furnace from his fever, and with my ear to his chest, I hear the nasty pop and crackle inside him with each breath. He sets his chin on top of my wet hair, and we stay like that for a few minutes, lost to the swirling steam and dizzying tension.

  “What are we doing?” I finally whisper.

  Beau clears his throat and pulls back, his hands curled over my shoulders. “We’re hugging it out.”

  I wish he’d stop being so confusing.

  “I’m sorry I’ve hurt you, Mati.”

  My mouth goes dry, and it takes a few awkward swallows before I can speak again. “I’m still going to make you soup. You don’t have to butter me up.”

  My attempt at teasing falls flat under his serious stare.

  “Don’t make me into something I’m not. You deserve someone better than me.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Matisse

  My parents call at the ungodly hour of seven the next morning to wish me a Merry Christmas. They grill me about how I’m feeling, if I’m taking my medicine, if I’m getting enough rest. Beau pantomimes the entire conversation. It makes the torturous phone call easier to bear.

  Things seem fine between us until Cole calls me a little later in the morning.

  We’ve texted since the night of the concert. Nothing serious, nothing flirty. He’s too polite, I guess, or maybe it’s just mixed messages.

  Beau side-eyes me while I’m on the phone until I roll over, biting back a smile. He acts like nothing happened in the bathroom yesterday, that we weren’t locked up in the most sexually passive-aggressive hug in history. I try my best to follow his lead, but I think some of it’s my fault, too. Ever since Beau watched over me from the corner of the ER room, I’m second-guessing everything.

  We spend the rest of the day in bed, watching a marathon of Christmas movies. We watch It’s a Wonderful Life twice once he learns it’s my favorite. Beau’s determined to know all of Jimmy Stewart’s lines. His impression sounds strange with his cold, his gravelly voice a few octaves lower than
usual. It’s funny…and heartfelt. It doesn’t escape me that he’s trying to make me smile while we’re both miserably sick and stuck in bed.

  Over the next six days we watch plenty of TV and movies, play video games, and I even manage to mail out my portfolio in time to make the deadline. The Black Plague or not, I’m still pretty invincible when I want to be.

  I slowly start apprehending his sweatshirts and sweatpants, loving the way they dwarf my frame. That anger that was so electric between us fades, and I get comfortable in not having to hide being close to him. Not having to hide that I actually want to be near him.

  Tonight is New Year’s Eve. I leave for Maine in the morning, now that I don’t sound like I’m dying. Only now I wish I didn’t have to go back at all.

  The blanket fort we’ve been struggling to build in the living room for the past two hours wobbles, threatening to collapse on us.

  “Hold up your corner, Mati, or I’m going to punch you in the throat.” He can’t say it without snorting, the dork.

  Under the plaid sheet we stripped from his bed, the filtered light casts shadows over Beau that draw out his eyes—the way they’re a bit droopy from too much cough syrup, the way they keep sweeping over me in quick glances. I know it’s not my fever anymore causing my cheeks to heat. It’s him. It’s us.

  “Really,” I say, purposely dropping my corner to spite him. “You have to threaten physical harm?”

  Beau drops his corner, too, the sheet billowing out above our heads like a parachute. I’m reminded of elementary school and knobby knees, of being under a cloud of colors as I ran around a circle of classmates in a game of Duck, Duck, Goose.

  The colors aren’t the same, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m still running in circles, waiting to be caught.

  With a whoosh, the rest of the blankets collapse and cover us.

  “If you had held up your corner—” he starts.

  “If you hadn’t opened your mouth—”

  Beau props the sheet above our heads with his hand up in the air like a tent pole as we laugh and fall back onto the heaped couch cushions. At least the mattress we dragged out is comfortable. The whole fort-building thing was easier when I was younger. I guess that’s the advantage of being an only child—there was never more than one architect.

  The doorbell buzzes, and my eyes light up. We’ve been surviving off soup, ramen, and crackers. Now that both of our fevers have broken, we’re starving. Tonight is the perfect time for a Chinese food feast.

  I tap my nose. “Not it.”

  Beau’s too busy laughing to take me seriously. I look like crap. Not that I’m planning on going out on a hot date with the takeout guy, but a girl can dream. Which is why Beau should be answering the door.

  “Fucking Christ,” Beau says, in between coughing. “It’s only Chinese food. He’s not going to care if you’re not wearing a bra.”

  I do, not that anyone would notice. Except for my roommate who’s grinning at me. Beau’s Canucks sweatshirt is huge and perfectly worn-in, but not exactly forgiving.

  I crawl out of what should have been a good idea and flip Beau off. But when I turn back to answer the door, I smile to myself.

  As I’m signing the delivery receipt, I hear a pained groan from behind me as Beau attempts to stand. I’ve noticed over the past few days that, while I got better, Beau isn’t. He acts tough—I mean, he looks like a badass when he’s geared up to ride—but I can’t help the way my stomach knots up when I hear him cough and struggle for air.

  “We can eat there,” I say, walking into the kitchen to grab drinks.

  “I have to get off the floor eventually.”

  I peek out into the living room, my hand braced on the cupboard, while he struggles to pull himself up to his knees. I’ve been so selfish trying to get better on my own I think I’ve overlooked Beau.

  I’m the world’s shittiest roommate.

  I bring out two glasses of water. We moved most of the furniture, so I drag a table by the couch and straighten the cushion. Beau watches me, trying to appear as though he means to be stuck on his knees. I know better.

  “Stuck there, Grandpa?”

  He flips me off. I guess I deserve it, but we’re even for the bra comment. I swoop in before he can protest and wrap my arm around his waist. As soon as he’s standing, he pulls away and kicks the couch, cursing under his breath, before he sits beside me.

  I reach for an egg roll, then offer him the box to pick one of his own. We never talk; we just pass food out as though we’re on an assembly line. It’s strange how we’ve learned each other so well.

  Lo mein are spilling out of my mouth when he says, “Are you sorry you’re stuck with me tonight?”

  I choke on my mouthful of food, not expecting a question like that from Beau. I swallow and try to gracefully recover. “Where else would I be?” I hide behind my glass of water while he stares into his carton of broccoli and beef, stabbing it mercilessly with chopsticks.

  “You’re feeling better,” he says quietly, attacking his food. “You could go out.”

  Ryan Seacrest is annoyingly cheerful on TV as midnight draws closer.

  “I’m where I want to be.” I should stop there, but I don’t. “Even if you have terrible fort skills.”

  Beau’s head snaps up. “My fort skills are fine, Evans.” He sticks a piece of broccoli into my mouth, and whatever just happened between us dies away. That doesn’t stop me from scooting closer though. Or Beau from wrapping an arm around my shoulder as I cuddle against him after we’ve cleaned up supper.

  My heart races a bit when he brushes his hand over my hair as the countdown nears. I press closer, snuggled up under the blanket, and hear the parts of him work like the gears of an old clock—the inhales, the rise of his ribs, the exhale, the beat of his heart firm against my ear. It’s comforting.

  I never thought I’d say that about Beau.

  That thought sends me into a panic. I wiggle away as the countdown starts.

  Fifty-five, Fifty-four, Fifty-three…

  What’s wrong with me? I can’t sit still. The clock on TV is an ominous tick-tock that drums against my ears.

  Twenty, nineteen, eighteen…

  “Everything okay, Mati?”

  “Yeah. Mmhmm.” I say it too quickly.

  Oh. My. God. I am in so much trouble.

  Three, two, one…

  On TV, cheers erupt and confetti rains down on Time Square. “Auld Lang Syne” begins playing, and I sink back against the couch.

  “Happy New Year, Mati.”

  I have a dumb smile on my face, even as the party hat I made earlier tips over to the side of my head. It’s better than the Christmas tree we made of stacked beer cans, duct tape, and the fairy lights from my room. I reach up and try to straighten it. “Happy New Year.”

  I’ve leaned closer again. So has he.

  “Maybe we should…you know?” Beau motions between us, crooking his finger.

  “It’s tradition…”

  “Just a friendly…” His hands cup my face, drawing me nearer. We smell like Vicks and Chinese food, not how I thought this would go if we tried again.

  Our breathing is shaky, and his hands tremble over my cheeks. “So…”

  I nod, waiting.

  His lips touch mine, a soft press. First at the corner of my mouth, then slowly sliding to the middle. Electricity bolts through me, and my eyes pop open to stare back into his. He pulls away, not letting go of my face. I can’t tell what he’s thinking or how…

  His eyes search mine, but I don’t know if I have an answer for the question that just happened between us.

  Beau draws me closer, and this time our kiss feels like falling. It doesn’t matter that we taste like Vicks or that our noses are stuffy and we can’t breathe well. It’s not exactly the most romantic kiss in history, but I’m getting dizzy exploring his lips—the warmth of his mouth, the gentle swipe of his tongue against my lips. And when he’s kissed me senseless, he tips my hea
d back and trails his lips over my chin and down my neck. I’m hot, my body burning up.

  I throw my arms around his neck and twist so that I can straddle his lap. I feel him between my legs, and I think I might just melt. I want him, this kiss, and more.

  I sigh into his mouth, certain that if I don’t pull away, I’ll end up sleeping with Beau tonight. That’s only going to complicate things. I don’t want to mess it up. I break our kiss and burrow my head against his shoulder, afraid of what’s coming next.

  Beau wraps his arms tight around me as we both struggle to steady our breathing. We stay like that for a while—me curled up in his lap, his arms around me.

  “Happy—” He swallows. “—New Year, Matisse.”

  I nod into his shoulder. “I think I’m going to bed.” I lean back and search his eyes. “In my bed. Maybe.” I’m scared, but not mad. And scared only because I actually felt something kissing him. I’ve never really felt that before. So changed and moved. Dizzy and hot. Wanting and comfortable. It’s a crazy push and pull.

  He squeezes his eyes shut, then inhales a deep snore through his stuffy nose. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Beau?” I don’t want this to be the end. I don’t want to have to keep drawing lines between us.

  “Yeah?”

  I frame his face with my cold hands and force him to look at me. His stare is still over my shoulder when I smile. I think I’ve gotten under Beau Grady’s skin. I kiss his cheek, my fingers brushing the hair that’s fallen over his forehead. When our eyes finally connect, I swallow, then force on a smile. “Happy New Year.”

  Beau

  I don’t sleep after Mati goes to bed…in her room. I try until I give in and take a freezing shower to wash away the want and guilt.

  It’s strange not having her beside me, not having her hogging the blankets or kicking me in the shins. I miss that small whistling snore of hers.

  Maybe I ruined everything. Maybe we took it too far. Maybe we’re not taking it far enough.

  It’s the maybes that are slowly suffocating us.

  Mati grabs her cup of coffee from me in the morning, blushing. Our fingertips rest over one another’s for a while, maybe too long. I’m about to lean in and kiss her when she pulls away, nervously rambling on about the weather.