“Has he texted you at all?” Am gives me a pitying smile.
I shake my head. I can’t pick a worst part of this situation. Is it that Austin knows I had a massive crush on him in high school? Is it the embarrassing words I wrote to describe it? Reading them makes me want to claw my eyes out. Or perhaps it’s that he’s living in my goddamn house, and I now have to see him every day?
“I doubt he will. He thinks I’m obsessed with him.” My throat tightens.
“Well … weren’t you kind of?” Bevan is in a bitchy mood this morning.
“Do you want me to tell Callum all the stuff you wrote in your notebook about him freshman year?” I glower, feeling bitchy myself.
Her lips form a thin line. “You know, I don’t get the whole Van Hewitt obsession. The family is stuffy and snobby. That house of theirs, the one the grandfather lives in? It used to be like a slaughter plant. Fucking gross.”
“I’m not enamored by his family.” I roll my eyes.
“You kind of sound like it in that letter. Maybe you should explain.” Amelie goes over to her dresser and starts to undress.
With the number of times we’ve seen each other naked, her body might as well be my own.
“Oh yeah, and say what? I’m mortified, Am. The last thing I want to do is come face-to-face with him, much less explain why I wrote that. Jesus, I was fourteen! And dumb. It was puppy love. But what we were doing here, all these years later? That could have been something. Now I’m just …”
“Sad.” Bevan sits up and puts an arm around me. “And that’s okay.”
Shortly after we have our morning chat, the girls and I are up and at ’em. Amelie is off to an earlier class while Bevan heads to the gym. Scott must have stayed the night somewhere because it’s open and empty when I pass his room. Callum isn’t anywhere to be found, and I’d know if he was home because the guy is so fucking loud it’s insane. Even just walking around, he’s heavy on his feet.
I have no idea where Austin is, but hopefully, the universe will let me catch a break and he’s already left for the day.
Wandering down to the kitchen, I decide to make myself scrambled eggs and coffee with extra, extra vanilla creamer as a sympathy meal. I put on a playlist, one with rap beats to drown out my thoughts and do my best to lift my mood.
My eggs are bubbling in the pan with the cheese and milk when I hear a door shut upstairs, then footsteps coming down toward the first floor. I literally jump into the air and scurry away into the pantry to hide.
The footsteps slow in the kitchen, and I hold my breath. Dear God, if you have any mercy, you will not let Austin Van Hewitt come in here looking for a snack.
I press my ear to the door, fully aware that I look crazy and my eggs are definitely a burnt mess by now. Whoever it is seems to walk out of the kitchen, and when I hear the front door slam with its signature creak, I let out the breath I was holding.
By the time I make it to the frying pan, my eggs are scorched.
Great. So on top of a burnt breakfast, I’m going to have to sneak around the corners of my house and pray I don’t bump into Austin.
Maybe he’ll move out, but I’m probably not that lucky. No, I’m going to have to stare my humiliation in the face for the rest of the year.
16
Austin
I’ve been tiptoeing around my house like a goddamn burglar for three days.
And I’ve never felt more like one than I do now, coming in at two a.m. after my radio shift. My brain is haggard and wiped, I feel like I’ve been up all night studying, and I was just sitting at the station playing smooth jazz because one of our DJs called out at the last minute.
The house is dark and silent with no trace of life, which is kind of better than me walking in to a lively party, dinner at the big table in the kitchen, or a binge session of a show in the living room.
Because it’s been awkward as hell here. I’m assuming the other two girls know, because Bevan has been flipping me off or glaring at me while Amelie is just avoiding me altogether. Callum shook his head and chuckled the other day when I passed him on the way to our shared bathroom. And Scott either doesn’t care or is oblivious, but the guy always lives in his own world and is barely home.
Of course, Taya hasn’t spoken to me. For the record, I’m avoiding her as well, obviously. I don’t even know what to think at this point. I’ve gone back and forth in my head so many times that I feel like I’ve been riding around on a permanent roller coaster this week.
One second, I’ll think she’s just like everyone else in my hometown. A user, a girl after my last name, someone who just wants to claim she slept with a Van Hewitt. And the next, I remember the expression on her face when she realized what that letter said.
It wasn’t the face of someone who had been caught red-handed. Taya hadn’t looked guilty or like she was trying to hide some kind of intention she had. No, she looked embarrassed. She looked sad. She looked helpless to explain what she’d been thinking. There is a difference there, and I’m not sure I thought about that until now.
Still, I’m defensive. This has been my whole life, trying to keep people away from me who mentioned my last name too much.
But here I am, sneaking around in the dark again. I try not to make too much noise as I unlock the front door and walk in. No one in the living room or the hallway. The downstairs bathroom is empty. Bevan’s field hockey stick sits by the bench where we all take our shoes off, and Amelie must have baked something again because the whole first floor smells like cinnamon. Amelie is always baking. As I walk through the dining room, which has most of its furniture moved because of the most recent party, I see Callum’s backpack and textbooks all over the floor. Then there is Scott’s photography equipment, backdrops, and carrying straps that he leaves in this room. Apparently, he’s incredibly talented and barely has to try. From what I know of him, that sounds pretty accurate.
It strikes me that these people are becoming integrated into my life. I’ve lived with them for over a month now, and I know their habits. I’ve learned their likes and dislikes, their schedules. We know each other in ways that no one else will, and it makes us a dysfunctional sort of family.
As I enter the kitchen, the light from the fridge illuminates the room, and I move closer. Bent over so that the most spectacular ass is highlighted in her pink pajama pants, Taya is examining the contents inside. She straightens and plucks a grape out of a bag on the top shelf and then pokes at a Tupperware full of noodles. She removes a cup of yogurt and then thinks better and puts it back.
My lord, but she’s beautiful. I only see the slope of her back, the slender curve of her hips, the way her hair whispers down her shoulders as she moves ever so slightly. I remember the way her long, slender legs draped across my lap, her thighs parting as I planted her in a straddle. The way she gyrated on top of me, how I’d gone rock-solid in a second flat.
Blood rushes to the head of my very disappointed dick. I should slink off, go up to the attic, keep up this game of avoiding for as long as I can.
But like usual, when it comes to Taya, I can’t help myself.
“I won’t tell Bevan you’re eating her food if you won’t.” My voice is low, but she still jumps.