I force myself to turn toward the mirror. The backpack is cute and comfortable. But— "Pink? Really?"
"Pink is perfect for you."
"It's impractical."
"Then explain this." He holds up my dainty pink purse.
"Purses are supposed to be cute. Backpacks are utility."
"What about that bright blue Jansport with lyrics all over it?"
"You used to complain that I put too much pop music on it."
His eyes light up as he smiles. "If you'd just put something by The Dead Kennedys."
"How about The Smiths?"
"I'm not wearing eyeliner no matter how many times you ask."
I laugh and blush at the same time. Mmmm. Brendon in eyeliner. What a beautiful mental image. "How about Garbage or Hole? Something angry with instruments I can hear?"
He gives me a slow once over. "Why do you scribble lyrics on everything?"
I look up into his eyes. "Why do you have ink everywhere?"
"I asked first."
"I guess, I want to make it mine."
"But it's someone else's words."
"But when I put them together, they feel like mine. Besides, did you ever hear of someone getting lyrics they wrote as a tattoo?"
"Yeah."
"Really?"
"I did them once."
"Name. Dropper."
He shrugs, playing coy. "A huge pop star known for how much she hates her exes."
"Bullshit." It really is. "Why do you have so many tattoos?"
"Same reason."
"You want to mark your body?"
He nods. "Honestly?"
"Yeah." I press my lips together. He's going to tell me something he doesn't tell anyone. I need that. Every drop of it.
"At first, I wanted to piss off my mom. To prove to her, and myself I guess, that I'd never be a khaki wearing, golf playing yuppie."
"Did it work?"
"Yeah. She wrote me off right away."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was for the best. It hurt less when they..." His voice trails off. Like he doesn't believe it.
It must hurt. Even if things were tense. Just thinking about Grandma—it makes my entire body heavy. Which is why I'm currently rocking a nice state of denial. As long as I don't know the details, I can pretend things will be okay.
"It's more than that." I trace the lines on the back of his hand. His wrist. His forearm.
He nods. "It's a rush."
"And?"
"I like feeling in control."
Heat floods my cheeks. My chest. My sex. "Like you do during sex."
His expression gets intense as his eyes bore into mine. "Kay—"
"You don't talk about this with Dean?"
"You and I aren't friends like me and Dean."
"Well, yeah, I'm not an asshole. If you're embarrassed or something—"
He raises a brow try harder next time. He motions to the backpack, swiftly jumping over the subject. "It is perfect for you."
"Because it's feminine?"
He nods. "And innocent."
"Yeah?" We are friends and friends can talk about sex. "Like an untouched flower?"
"Didn't realize you were into that."
I nod as I slide the backpack off. Examine its pockets. "You know me. Boy crazy."
"You've dated."
This really is a nice backpack. Laptop pouch. Plenty of space for books. "Mostly double dates with Emma."
"You want to go on those?" There's an edge to his voice. But is it because he's looking out for me or because he's jealous?
"Sometimes." I try to focus on the pouches on the table. They're perfect for makeup. School supplies. Tampons.
He stares back at me. "You ever like any of these guys you date?"
"Sometimes."
He steps forward, planting his foot in front of me. "You kiss them?"
"Sometimes."
"More?"
His posture is strong, powerful, from his all black converse to the tip of his dark hair.
How am I supposed to answer when he's looking at me like that—like he's in control of the entire universe?
I pick up a fuchsia pencil case and undo its zipper. "You want to know this because?"
"Making conversation." His voice wavers.
It's more than that.
I want to know how much more. To know how far along he is on the I'll never think about you again/we're totally just friends journey.
I move away from the bags—this is enough—and start wandering through the first floor.
He follows. "Do you?"
I stop at the jewelry counter and pretend to examine a set of silver earrings. My eyes flit between him and the glass display case. Is he jealous? I'm not sure. "I have."
His jaw cricks. His hands curl into half-fists then unfurl.
He is jealous.
The thought fills me with feminine power.
"You let guys feel you up?" Envy drips into his voice.
I stare into his eyes. "Sometimes."
He stares back. "You let them touch your cunt?"
"What?" My cheeks flush. The salesgirl is only a dozen feet away. She's talking to another customer. Did she hear? Did both of them?
"You let guys stroke you to orgasm?"
"That isn't the word you used."
He wraps his hand around my wrist and leads me to the escalator. "It made you flinch."
"No."
"Yeah."
"No." I make eye contact through the mirrored wall. We look like opposites the way we always do—dark and masculine versus light and girly. But we look good together. "It didn't faze me at all."
He raises a brow. Breaks our mirror eye contact to turn to me. "Really?"
"Really." In theory.
Brendon leans in to whisper. He combs my hair back, behind my ear. "Then say it."
I move onto the next step. Then onto the second-floor tile. There's nothing but clothes here.
I turn and step onto the next up escalator.
Brendon follows. It's just us, on the way to the third floor.
"I, uh... do you always use that word?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"It's so vulgar."
"There's a power in vulgar. You're a writer. I'm sure I don't have to explain it to you."
"Right." It is a powerful word. I can't deny that. "It doesn't bother me."
"Bullshit."
"It doesn't."
He lets out a low chuckle. "Then say it."
"I can."
"Go ahead."
I step onto the third floor. Look around. No one nearby.
Okay. I can do this.
I can totally do this.
I take a deep breath, exhale slowly, ready the word on my tongue. "Cu..." My cheeks flush. "Cunt."
"Like it means something to you."
I stare at the white tile floor. The fluorescent lights are casting a yellow gaze. "Cunt."
Brendon laughs. "You can admit it bothers you."
"It doesn't."