wonder if she’s as aware of me as I am of her. “I’m the one who wants Chinese.”
“I want it, too.” I circle my fingers around her slender wrist, feel her wildly beating pulse beneath my touch. I want more than just Chinese food, that’s for damn sure. I feel like we’re talking in secret code. Saying one thing and really meaning another.
At least, I am.
“Fine. I order, you pay.” She doesn’t try to tug out of my grip and I take advantage, sweeping my thumb slowly over the inside of her wrist in the lightest of caresses. I swear I feel her shiver, and when I look at her, I find her staring at me like she’s so fucking hungry she just might gobble me up.
“Sounds good.” I let my hand drop from her arm, disappointment clanging through me like a living, breathing thing. The tension between us is fucking ridiculous. If nothing happens tonight, I’m afraid I might burst. At the very least, I’ll have to go whack off after she leaves, like some sort of deranged pervert in need of constant relief.
I want her but I don’t. I’m attracted to her though I shouldn’t be. I’m high, and it’s not just from the weed.
I’m also high on Chelsea.
Chelsea
He’s pushing through his assignments way quicker than I thought he would. I knew Owen was smart. I’d studied his student file well enough to see he just lacked focus or flat-out didn’t apply himself. His past grades reflected that. Going to college does that to a person. It’s all so much, sometimes too much, and students either thrive or they fail.
I’d thrived. The structure, the complexity of the courses, all of it had given me such a rush I’d dived right into my classes headfirst and never looked back. No one cared how old I was here; none of my past mattered. I could blend in, become someone new, someone free.
But I’m
not
free. I’m still tied to the guilt of my mother and the anger with my father. Deep down inside, I’m still a scared, too-smart-for-her-own-good little girl who’s afraid to really live for fear she’ll get hurt.
Boys are trouble
, my mom would say.
Then they grow up to be men and become even more trouble. Stick with yourself, sweetie. Count on only you. Everyone else will just disappoint you.
Mom had whispered those words of so-called wisdom to me when I was fifteen. The year before I graduated high school. I’d known there was trouble in my parents’ marriage. From the time I was eleven, when I became privy to a secret phone call between my dad and one of his mistresses, I knew he was unfaithful to Mom.
He didn’t love her. And if he didn’t love her, he didn’t love me. That’s what I believed at fifteen. I would listen to Mom talk about how awful men were, how bad they treated women. She would talk that way when she was mad at him, when she knew he was cheating on her.
Then he’d sweet-talk her, convince her she was the only one for him, and she’d change her tune. Her reaction to him, the constant push and pull between them, left me a confused mess most of the time, especially over boys and relationships.
I don’t really talk to my dad. He’s tried. He’s called me a few times, but I always hang up when I hear the recorded message from the jail. He has to know I don’t want to have contact with him.
When Mom was in one of her moods, working me over, she told me I needed to do right by my father and stand by him. So right before he was convicted for his crime last year, I’d gone to visit him in jail. He’d promised me he would get out. He’d be acquitted. He’d been so sure, so convincing, I believed him.
I’d gone home and begged my mom to let me go to court. I wanted to watch. Wanted to be there when he was set free and we could celebrate together. She told me no. Her excuse? I was too young and might not be able to handle it.
I’d been so confused, so devastated, I hid away in my room, crying into my pillow, believing that my mom didn’t understand. Why would she ask me to stand by
“I want it, too.” I circle my fingers around her slender wrist, feel her wildly beating pulse beneath my touch. I want more than just Chinese food, that’s for damn sure. I feel like we’re talking in secret code. Saying one thing and really meaning another.
At least, I am.
“Fine. I order, you pay.” She doesn’t try to tug out of my grip and I take advantage, sweeping my thumb slowly over the inside of her wrist in the lightest of caresses. I swear I feel her shiver, and when I look at her, I find her staring at me like she’s so fucking hungry she just might gobble me up.
“Sounds good.” I let my hand drop from her arm, disappointment clanging through me like a living, breathing thing. The tension between us is fucking ridiculous. If nothing happens tonight, I’m afraid I might burst. At the very least, I’ll have to go whack off after she leaves, like some sort of deranged pervert in need of constant relief.
I want her but I don’t. I’m attracted to her though I shouldn’t be. I’m high, and it’s not just from the weed.
I’m also high on Chelsea.
Chelsea
He’s pushing through his assignments way quicker than I thought he would. I knew Owen was smart. I’d studied his student file well enough to see he just lacked focus or flat-out didn’t apply himself. His past grades reflected that. Going to college does that to a person. It’s all so much, sometimes too much, and students either thrive or they fail.
I’d thrived. The structure, the complexity of the courses, all of it had given me such a rush I’d dived right into my classes headfirst and never looked back. No one cared how old I was here; none of my past mattered. I could blend in, become someone new, someone free.
But I’m
not
free. I’m still tied to the guilt of my mother and the anger with my father. Deep down inside, I’m still a scared, too-smart-for-her-own-good little girl who’s afraid to really live for fear she’ll get hurt.
Boys are trouble
, my mom would say.
Then they grow up to be men and become even more trouble. Stick with yourself, sweetie. Count on only you. Everyone else will just disappoint you.
Mom had whispered those words of so-called wisdom to me when I was fifteen. The year before I graduated high school. I’d known there was trouble in my parents’ marriage. From the time I was eleven, when I became privy to a secret phone call between my dad and one of his mistresses, I knew he was unfaithful to Mom.
He didn’t love her. And if he didn’t love her, he didn’t love me. That’s what I believed at fifteen. I would listen to Mom talk about how awful men were, how bad they treated women. She would talk that way when she was mad at him, when she knew he was cheating on her.
Then he’d sweet-talk her, convince her she was the only one for him, and she’d change her tune. Her reaction to him, the constant push and pull between them, left me a confused mess most of the time, especially over boys and relationships.
I don’t really talk to my dad. He’s tried. He’s called me a few times, but I always hang up when I hear the recorded message from the jail. He has to know I don’t want to have contact with him.
When Mom was in one of her moods, working me over, she told me I needed to do right by my father and stand by him. So right before he was convicted for his crime last year, I’d gone to visit him in jail. He’d promised me he would get out. He’d be acquitted. He’d been so sure, so convincing, I believed him.
I’d gone home and begged my mom to let me go to court. I wanted to watch. Wanted to be there when he was set free and we could celebrate together. She told me no. Her excuse? I was too young and might not be able to handle it.
I’d been so confused, so devastated, I hid away in my room, crying into my pillow, believing that my mom didn’t understand. Why would she ask me to stand by
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