But I'm not going to argue. I'm not willing to offer the details to explain it.
He opens his mouth to say something but the timer's beep cuts him off.
Refresh.
Registration Available.
Yes.
I add each class to my schedule. Latin Mondays and Wednesdays at ten. American Literature after lunch. Chemistry and Creative writing Tuesday and Thursday. Recitation Monday and Tuesday afternoons.
There.
It's done.
Brendon smiles as he offers me his hand.
I take it.
Squeeze tightly.
Move the cursor over submit.
Click.
Congratulations.
It's done.
And I'm officially a college student.
I jump to my feet.
Brendon gets to his.
Wraps his arms around me.
It doesn't feel like a platonic hug.
But it feels too good for me to complain.
Chapter Twenty
Kaylee
It's well past midnight when I finally float down from my high. I'm not sure exactly why I'm buzzing. If it's mostly because of his arms around me or if it's mostly nerves about school.
But I don't really care.
I need both.
So, when Brendon offers to take me shopping for school supplies, I jump. Insist we do it on a day I know Emma works.
It's not like I'm desperate to get him alone.
Not at all.
I grab Brendon's wrist as we step into Macy's.
We turn to the right, past the shiny shoes. Through the wall of perfume—I have to turn to my side, to face him, to avoid scents in my nose and eyes.
Past the makeup counters stocked with forty-dollar foundation and twenty-dollar lipstick. The kind of stuff Emma brags about buying with her employee discount.
Right to the handbags.
Huh?
"You have a Louis Vuitton obsession I should know about?" I tease.
"Who?" He raises a brow.
I point to the designer bags to our left. They're iconic. Brown with a tan logo.
Brendon steps forward. Checks the price tag. "Fuck. Really? For that?"
Several hundred dollars for a scrap of leather is obscene. But, hey, what do I know what it's like to have money? "You never spend on something you don't need?"
"Need is relative."
"Capitalism is for scum?"
He chuckles. "There's a line somewhere, yeah." He sets the bag down. "Would you buy one of those bags?"
"No. They're ugly."
"And I'm harsh?"
I laugh. "The color scheme doesn't do it for me."
"What about this?" He points to a similar bag in bright pink. Moves close enough to check the price tag. "Is this walking advertisement worth two weeks of waiting tables?"
"Not to me."
"But to someone?"
"It's a status symbol."
He raises a brow. "And that's a good thing?"
"I don't know. I'm never going to have status."
"I'm calling it now. When you write the next Hunger Games, you're going to spend your advance on hideous overpriced bags." His voice floats to that teasing tone. His dark eyes light up.
"I am not," I tease back. "But so what if I did? What's wrong with wanting people to see you as well off?"
He shakes his head. "That's what my mom was like. She needed a new car. A remodeled kitchen. The latest fashions. Even her nail polish was trendy."
"I remember." Sort of. "Is that really all she was?"
"No." His voice gets soft. "But that was too much of it. She wanted that for all of us. For me and Em too."
"Yeah?" I press my lips together. Brendon never talks about his late parents. Ever. And his expression—there's a softness to it. That's rare. I want every drop of it.
"Yeah. She wanted me to be this guy who wore Dockers and drove a BMW to high school."
"And you wanted to tattoo punk lyrics on your skin?"
"Basically." He takes a step forward. "I was never gonna be the kind of guy she wanted me to be."
"But you... you are a great guy. You know that, right?"
He says nothing. Turns back to me and looks me in the eyes. "Let's say I give you a grand to buy whatever you want."
"You will not."
"It's a hypothetical."
"I prefer actual cash."
"Don't we all." He chuckles. "Say I give you a grand. Say you have to spend it here. What will you buy?"
"One very expensive designer purse."
"Bullshit."
"Em would buy one."
"Em is Em."
"Still... I don't think it's wrong. Your mom was into a certain image, yeah. But you are too. It's just different." I drag my fingertips over his sleeve tattoo, tracing the lines from his wrist up to his bicep. "How much did this cost?"
His tongue slides over his lips. His eyelids flutter together. He's soaking up my touch.
But only for a second.
Then he's looking at me like he can control every one of his senses. "More than that purse."
"How much more?"
"More than you make in a month."
"A summer month?"
"Yeah."
Damn. I'm not exactly rolling in it, but I work a lot in the summer. And summers are busy. Tips are good.
"Don't give me that look."
"What look?" I stare into his deep eyes, trying to find... something. I'm not sure.
"I'm not like my parents." Hurt flares in his expression.
"I know. Just... we all care about how we appear to others. I know I do. I want people to think I'm strong and smart."
"You are."
I bite my lip. I'm not arguing this point, no matter how much I disagree.
He takes my hand. Leads me toward the colorful bags and backpacks to our left. The ones next to the giant silver gorilla. Kipling. My favorite. Half my bags are this brand.
Has he been paying that much attention?
His gaze goes to the backpacks on the wall. He picks up a teal one and turns back to me. "It matches your eyes."
It kinda does. "It's cute."
"Not cute enough for you." He sets it back down. Picks up a pink one next to it.
It's a beautiful shade of pink—halfway between pastel and Barbie bright.
He moves back to me.
His fingertips skim my bare skin as he peels my purse off my shoulder then slides the backpack over my arms, one at a time.
They brush my neck as he pushes my hair to one side.
I feel his touch everywhere.
I can't do friends.
Not even a little.
Not with the way my body is buzzing.
I want his body.
And his heart.
I want him to know me.
I want to crumble in his arms and let down every one of my defenses. To admit how terrified I am. About school and Grandma and my parents. And everything.
"How's that?" His breath warms my ear.
My knees knock together.
My sex cries out for attention.
My heart too.
Please, someone, somewhere. Please let me have him. I'm losing everything else. I just want this one little thing.