Only Between Us by Mila Ferrera Page A

titanium white, and the paint comes squirting out of the uncapped top. And it’s so perfect that I chuckle. I can’t help it.
    “Caleb? That you, bro?” It’s Markus. Fuck .
    I look at Romy, whose green eyes are wide. No. No no no. I don’t want her to look like that. Not after what just happened. “Um. Yeah, it’s me,” I call out. “I’m … busy.”
    Romy’s gazing at me with this pleading look. She needs me to rescue her, but I’m dazed and stupid and don’t know how. “I’m …” I yank my t-shirt down over my jeans, feeling sticky and damp and uncoordinated as I step from my studio and wave at Markus, who’s carrying in some piece of twisted metal he must have scrounged from a junkyard. Or stolen out of someone’s garage, considering that it’s nearly ten and raining buckets. Behind me, I can hear Romy messing with her clothes. If I can get rid of Markus, I’ll have a chance to talk to her. I could make sure she’s all right. Maybe she’d help me figure out if I’m all right.
    “What are you up to?” I ask Markus, striding forward to meet him before he can get any closer.
    The muscles of his tattooed arms are straining as he slowly sets down the rusty piece of junk in his stall. It looks like part of a car engine. “Picked this up on the side of the road. I’m doing another welding project and this would be a great base.” He straightens up and glances over at me, then does a double take. “Are you all right?”
    “What?” I look down at myself, my wet, hanging clothes. I shove my hand in my pocket. Not that he could tell where my fingers have been, but—“I was … working on something. I got inspired.”
    He smiles. “Cool. Do you want to show me?”
    I take a step backward. “Oh. No. Not ready to show anyone.”
    He looks toward my studio and his eyes go wide. “What are you doing, Caleb?” Frowning, he shoulders past me before I can stop him, and that’s when I realize that one of my paintings is leaning against the center table, its ripped canvas hanging from the splintered frame. “Oh, man, why would you do this?” Markus asks.
    I freeze, wanting to sink through the floor. As if on cue, Markus turns his head. And sees Romy in my studio. “Oh. Hi there,” he says to her.
    With her arms folded over her chest, Romy steps out of my space, her cheeks full-on red. “Hey. I was, um.”
    “We were …,” I say, my thoughts whirling. “We were talking about painting.”
    I’ve said a lot of stupid things in my life, but that may top the list.
    Markus smirks. “Yeah? Looks like an intense conversation.” He’s staring at the front of Romy’s shirt and skirt. Which are, of course, soaked, because I was on top of her a second ago. And it’s not like she looks like she’s just walked in from the rain, either. Her light blue skirt is dry on the sides but has a wet shadow right down its center, where my hips were pressed between her legs.
    “I have to go,” Romy says.
    “I’ll walk you out,” I say quickly. Our eyes lock. Words tumble over each other in my head, but I can’t string enough together to form a sentence.
    Markus says something about letting us continue our conversation about painting, but Romy’s already headed to the door, and I trail her, fighting the urge to grab her arms and force her to look at me. She holds onto the railing as she descends the steps. I catch a glimpse of the ink on the inside of her arm and realize I never even took the time to see what it says. I don’t know the first thing about her, and I just fingered her in my studio and now she’s escaping.
    It’s not like I haven’t done things like this before. I’ve had my share of casual encounters.
    The thing is, this didn’t feel casual. Not to me, at least.
    “Romy, wait,” I call as she disappears into the classroom. I reach the doorway as she emerges with her toolbox. She sets it down and pulls on her raincoat. “Can we … can I … are you …” I stammer.
    Her hands go