"What do you want?"
I motion to the trees behind us. "I want to come on your hand. Like you promised."
His smile gets devious. "Oh no, sweetness. You aren't even close to desperate enough yet."
He's evil.
Really, he is.
He spends the entire afternoon leading me around the massive park, teasing me, winding me up.
The sun sinks into the horizon, streaking the sky red.
He drags me to a hidden thicket of trees, rolls my shorts and panties to my knees, and slides his hand between my legs.
I come twice.
Then two more times at his place.
I wake up in his bed, smile plastered on my face.
I like him.
I really, really like him.
And I don't even care that it's going to end in heartbreak.
Only that I get him now.
Chapter Seventeen
Iris
Walker motions to the silver sign like it's a precious gem.
I tilt my head to one side. "And…"
"You didn't like the restaurant?"
"It was amazing." Really. I had no idea ramen was supposed to taste like that and not like ten cents a pack sodium overdose.
"Trust me." He pulls the glass door open and motions after you.
I step into the tiny, crowded store. We're the oldest people here by quite a few years. It's mostly teenagers and just barely not teenagers.
The illuminated menu on the wall promises small, medium, or large teas filled with fruit and sugar. All with or without boba.
I've lived in Southern California for long enough to know that boba means fat tapioca balls soaked in sugar syrup. Boba tea slash bubble tea is sweet, vaguely fruit flavored tea with said tapioca balls.
Back in high school, Lily and I walked forever to get to the nearest boba place. (It was not nearly so trendy back then). She went through a phase where she adored grapefruit green tea. I copied her. I always did.
I take my place in line.
Walker places his body behind mine. Wraps his arms around my waist and brings his mouth to my ear. "We can skip it if you're dead set on coffee."
He's close. It's not I want to tear your clothes off. It's I want to hold you all night. I want to kiss your pain away. I want to give you everything.
But, right now, it doesn't scare me.
I want more of it. All of it.
I lean closer. "No. I'm in."
"Trying a new thing?"
"Please, Beverly Hills Boy. My sophomore year of high school, I devoured a grapefruit green tea nearly every day."
"And here I am thinking I'm rocking your world."
"You are. Just not with this."
His laugh is soft. He pulls me closer. Leans in to whisper. "You have it recently?"
"Not since high school."
"This place is the best. Uses fresh fruit."
"Thank you for the infomercial." There are oranges, limes, and grapefruits all over the store. It does suggest the use of actual fruit. "When are you drinking sugary tea?"
"When I feel like it."
"I don't buy it."
"Buy it." He brushes my hair behind my ear. "I only do shit I feel like."
"Always?"
"Yeah."
"Doesn't that get in the way of work and paying your bills and getting an oil change?"
"No."
"You never wake up and think no fucking way am I moving today?"
"Of course."
"Explain the discrepancy."
"Yeah. I'm not always psyched for leg days. But I know I want to get bigger, stronger. So, I go to the gym. It's for me."
"And the oil change?"
"I take care of my car."
"Cleaning your apartment?"
"Same thing. I want it clean. That's how I want to live. Yeah, there's shitty stuff about being an adult, but, mostly, I love it. I'm in charge of my days. I want bubble tea, I get it. I want to invite a hot grad student to watch a sci-fi classic, I do it."
"What about work?"
"I have days I can't deal with the bullshit, but mostly, I love the shop. And the guys there. Even if they're idiots."
A teenage girl with blond pigtails clears the register.
I move forward, dragging him with me. "How did you get into doing tattoos? Were you one of those kids who had a sleeve planned by middle school?"
"Kinda. I always wanted ink. Maybe it was adolescent rebellion. Maybe it was vanity. Maybe it was the thrill of marking my body. I'm not sure."
"What is it now?"
"I like it."
"That's it?"
"Yeah."
"But it's so… simple."
"Why make shit complicated?"
Because life is complicated. Things are complicated. Making them simple—that's the hard part.
The line moves. Only two customers to go. I have to make up my mind. The smell of citrus brings me back to a hundred afternoons in a similar shop, giggling about boys and complaining about homework with Lily.
Walker presses his palm into my stomach. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I move forward to break his touch. "You still haven't said how you got into tattoos."
"Dean."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. We were friends back in high school."
"You went to the same school?"
"Different ones. But we were in the same scene."
"Scene? Really?"
"People say scene."
"Name one other person."
He pulls me closer. "You like mocking me."
"Yeah. You like mocking me."
He nods. "You're cute when you're flustered. Or needy."
I swallow hard. Sex is appealing. Very appealing. It makes sense. And with Walker, it feels…
It feels like everything.
But I want to have this conversation too. I want to know more about him. "Okay, you were part of the same scene."
He shakes his head kids these days. "We bounced around all the parties… everywhere." He moves closer. "How old are you?"
"No game." I shake my head.
"All right, when did you graduate high school?"
"A long time ago. And that's the same question. You thought you could trick me?"
He laughs. "You're in grad school, so you're at least twenty-two."
Twenty-five. But close enough.
He smiles. "Older."
"Oh my God!"
"Let's say you're twenty-two."
"No. Twenty-two was a horrible year. Let's say… let's just not say."
He laughs. "You gonna be one of those women getting Botox the day she turns thirty?"
"Maybe. What's it to you?"
He laughs. "You're so fucking cute flustered." He leans in to brush his lips against my neck.
Mmm. It's sweet. Soft. Caring.
My heart melts.
My stomach flutters.
I clear my throat. "You have a point."
"You're distracting me."
"You should take responsibility."