“Who knows?” Parrish replies, his voice surprisingly light considering the punishment Tess handed down to both of us. The scariest part of it all is that she hasn’t said a word to me about any of it. After she called us out at the café, we got in the car, came home, and handed over our electronics. She and Paul took our doors and then … that was it. Back to being WASP-y again. “Maybe I am?”
“Don’t forget: we share a hallway. I see your comings and goings.” I plop down on his bed, even though the very act of it makes him cringe. I pretend not to notice; if he asks me to leave then I’ll leave. Like I said, setting and respecting boundaries is important. “Anyway, you never answered the question: was that design for me?”
Parrish turns toward his desk—that is, away from me—and puts his hands atop it. He seems pained by something, but I’m afraid to ask. This sort of light, easy conversation is rare for us. We’re usually fighting or … making out, I guess.
“I haven’t been able to decide on a design for you.” His voice is low, thick with contemplation and maybe even a dose of surprise. When he glances over his shoulder to look at me, our gazes lock and I feel trapped in it, mired in this strange connection we’ve seemed to have since moment one. “Who the fuck are you. And what are you doing in my house?” Well, okay, maybe not since moment one … “Or maybe I’m not supposed to decide for you? Why don’t you pick something for yourself?”
“You’re the artist,” I say automatically, but then again, he has a point and I hate to admit that. “Guess it can’t hurt to give it some thought, am I right?”
“You’ll have my ink inside your skin forever.” That’s his reply. Like, really? Who says things like that? “I would say it’s definitely worth some thought.”
“There’s always laser removal.” Parrish turns the rest of the way around, perching that perfect ass of his on the edge of his desk. He folds his arms over his chest, and even though he’s wearing that stupid Whitehall hoodie of his—the gray one with the ironic best and brightest quote on it—I can see the muscular set of his shoulders. I know he works out: I’ve seen it. Did I ever mention that there’s a home gym downstairs? Did I need to? Nah, the Vanguards are that rich. The only thing we’re missing is an indoor bowling alley. Cue the eyeroll. “Well, there is.”
There’s a long pause where neither of says a thing. After a while, the silence just gets too heavy for me to take.
“Thank you, by the way.” The words hurt a little bit coming out, but they need to be said. “I owe Chas and Lumen thanks, too, but … you got punished because of me.”
“I made my own choice.” He rises to his feet and flicks the light off. There aren’t any screens in here now, so the room is plunged into total darkness. My breath catches as Parrish moves over to the opposite side of the bed and lies down beside me. After a moment, I lie back, too, and end up staring at a ceiling covered in glow-in-the-dark stars.
“Tess put them up when we moved in; you’re not allowed to judge.”
I turn my head his direction, even though I can’t see him just yet. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, my mind wanders, and I end up trying to mentally calculate how far apart our mouths are. Or what the risks are of lying here beside him with no door. If Tess comes in and sees this, what will she do? What will she think? At this point, what else can she take away from me? No punishment is greater than being stripped of my ability to see and contact Maxine or talk to the Banks. Nothing. I decide to stay right where I am.
“I wasn’t judging. I like them, actually. I want to be the sort of person who can put glow-in-the-dark stars on their ceiling when they’re fifty years old and still smile about it.” I turn my attention back up to the ceiling, listening to the low, easy cadence of Parrish’s breathing.
I can smell him, too, which I know sounds creepy as fuck. He just … god, he smells good.
“Why do you always wear that perfume?” he asks, like he’s annoyed at me but also like he can read my mind. Did I make a loud sniffing sound or something? Dear god, please tell me I’m not embarrassing myself here.
“Me?” I ask, genuinely confused. “I’m not wearing any perfume. You’re the one that douses himself in freaking dewy clovers and citrus every day.”
There’s a long, pregnant pause there that makes me sweat a bit.
“Dewy clovers?” A genuine laugh follows that question, one that’s masculine and smoky and more relaxed than I’ve ever heard it before. Parrish and I have known each other, what, three months now? First time I’ve heard a laugh that sounds so genuine, so stripped of its caustic bullshit and princely rich boy echo. “I’m not sure what, exactly, a ‘dewy clover’ smells like. But I can promise you this: I’m not wearing anything either.”
My heartbeat mysteriously picks up speed, racing so fast and so loud that it actually drowns out the sound of Parrish’s breathing. I wonder if he can hear it, too? There’s a rustling as he sits up and … does something. I think he’s taking off his hoodie and … wow, has it been this fucking hot in here all along or … I’m sweating up a storm all of a sudden.
“So … we’re just smelling … each other?” It sounds a lot weirder coming out of my mouth than it did in my head.
Another long pause.
I adjust my arm, and it brushes up against his, bare skin to bare skin. It’s an accident, but no less potent because of it.
“Get out of my room, Dakota.”
“Yep, it’s time to leave.” I stand up and pause awkwardly at the open door before padding through and crawling into my own bed. The lights in my room are already off, but it’s not quite as dark, moonlight streaming through the wall of windows. If I listen carefully, I can hear Parrish adjusting his covers. “Hey Parrish.”
Several seconds pass before I hear him sigh.
“Yeah?”
“Should I be looking forward to this trip … or dreading it?”
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in.
“I’ll be honest,” he says, his voice so quiet that I have to lay perfectly still to hear it. “It’ll probably suck. Most trips with Kimber do.”
I stifle a laugh, but I can’t keep the smile off my face. It only lasts for about a minute though before I start thinking of Maxine’s forlorn expression as I climbed into Tess’ car. I could see her on the sidewalk, dark hair plastered to her forehead by the rain as she watched us drive away. I have no clue when I’ll be able to talk to her again, let alone see her. Or my grandparents.
And Saffron … what the hell was that all about?
“Has she told you about your father yet? … If she hasn’t, she should—before he finds you.”
A strange thought comes to me, about that night when I woke up outside, the night that I keep telling myself was a dream. Even with all my other electronics gone, I’ve got the new phone Maxx gave me. I’ll keep recording every night, just to see. So far, nothing’s happened and I’m starting to truly believe it was a nightmare instead of a reality.
But then … I just can’t shake the sense of wrongness that Saffron gave me with that conversation. Before he finds me? Why wouldn’t I want my bio dad to find me? Is he a monster? Did he hurt Tess? Are any of the things she wrote in Fleeing Under a Summer Rain true?