Monica Murphy - Four Years Later

Nothing changes. I go to school, I play football, I work, I get high, sometimes I get drunk, I want to knock Wade and Des’s heads together. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Then Chelsea walks into my life and I’m thinking differently. I think … I want to ask her out. On a bona fide date. And I never want to date anyone. I fuck around and that’s it. Something lasting isn’t what I want. A quick lay? That’s always worked.

But it’s not working when it comes to Chelsea. I want more. And I doubt she wants to give it to me.

Chelsea

I’m nervous. Owen should be here any minute for our meeting and I don’t know what to do, what to say. The last time we saw each other, I’d been so stiff and uncomfortable I hardly said anything to him. Then I bolted out of the room like a frightened chicken without saying goodbye.

He probably hates me.

I pace the classroom, too agitated to sit. Back and forth in front of the whiteboard, my gaze constantly straying to the door no matter how much I tell myself I don’t care when he shows up. I’d prefer he never show up.

I am also a complete liar.

Yet again I dressed with care, wanting to impress him despite myself. Another good pair of jeans; these are old and worn, a little faded and comfortable, yet they make my legs look long. Not that I care about what my legs look like. Or any part of me. I just want to look nice. Not because I’m trying to catch Owen’s eye or whatever.

God, I sound like such a failure even in my own mind. I stop pacing and hang my head, staring at my feet. I’m wearing fake Ugg boots—it was cold this morning—and I have my jeans tucked into them. And a big, slouchy cream-colored sweater that keeps slipping off my shoulder and revealing my pale pink, lacy bra strap.

I withhold the groan that wants to escape. My entire outfit looks calculated. Even Kari asked me earlier this morning when we were both getting ready for class who I was dressing for, and I lied. Told her no one. She doesn’t know about Owen. She never seemed to care what happened that night at The District when I left her with Brad. I told her I found a ride home when she asked. That I saw someone I knew and he offered.

She never questioned me beyond that. Kari’s too wrapped up in her own thing lately. I know she’s been seeing Brad casually but he’s not giving her the attention she wants.

What a surprise.

The door creaks open and my gaze jerks to the door. There he stands, looking like complete male perfection, wearing a blue-and-red plaid flannel unbuttoned shirt over a white T-shirt and dark jeans with boots that are for whatever reason unlaced. His hair is a haphazard mess and that sexy golden-brown scruff still shadows his face.

My God, he’s just … devastating.

“Hey.” He pulls the door shut behind him with a quiet click, then leans against it. “How’s it going?”

Swallowing hard, I flip my hair back, exposing my bare shoulder and the pink bra strap. His gaze drops immediately to it and my skin warms as if he actually touched me. “It’s … going well.” I tug my neckline up but it immediately falls off my shoulder again. I should have worn a tank top.

“You look good,” he says as he pushes away from the door and slowly saunters toward me.

Oh. I hadn’t expected such a quick compliment. Or any sort of compliment. “Thank you.” I clear my throat, pray for strength. Just like that, it comes to me. “You look good, too.”

He smiles crookedly, without revealing any teeth, as he approaches the table I’m standing next to. “So you’re talking to me.”

I have to tilt my head back when he stands so close so I can meet his gaze. “Why wouldn’t I be talking to you?”

“Last time we met here, I think you might’ve said fifteen words to me, tops. And every one of them you had to force out.”

“You were counting?” And am I flirting? This is … so unlike me.

“I figured I pissed you—” He presses his lips together, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Made you mad.”

Really? When was I supposedly mad at him? Freaked out? Yes. Embarrassed? Oh yeah.

“You know, when I kept saying that one particular word to you.” It’s as though he can read my mind. Freaky. “You ran out of my house like your shoes were on fire, and then we met here the next day and you hardly talked to me.” His eyes seem to bore into mine. “I figured you might not show up today.”

“Oh, now I am offended. I never, ever ditch my tutoring appointments unless I’m sick. Like on-my-deathbed sick.” And even then, I’ve missed only one session since I started working. I take all of my jobs pretty seriously.

“You’re really offended?” He raises a brow and my heart trips.

I roll my eyes. “No. I think … we might’ve had a misunderstanding.”

“I think so, too.” His voice lowers and he shuffles closer to me. So close I can see tiny golden flecks in his green, green eyes. “So you’re not mad at me?”

“I’m not.” I shake my head. “Actually, I’m proud of you. You’ve completed all the assignments you needed to do so you could catch up in your English class. Right now, you have a solid B minus.”

He smirks, looking pretty proud of himself. “I have one more test to take. I bet I can bring that grade up to a B.”

“I bet you can, too. I also hear you’re going to get back on the football team within the next few days.”

Pulling out the chair he was holding onto, he indicates for me to sit with a wave of his fingers. I do so, consciously aware of his hands at the top of the chair, pushing it closer to the table. When he pulls them away, his fingers brush against the skin of my bare shoulder and a shiver moves through me.

If he can make me all shivery with an innocent touch, I’m in huge trouble. Imagine what might happen if we decide to take it further?

Keep dreaming, Chelsea.

“Where’d you hear that?” He pulls out the chair next to mine and settles in, just like he did that first day we met and he set me on edge by being so close.

I’m having a total repeat performance. Just like that, I’m on edge. If he nudges that thigh of his any closer, it’ll be brushing next to mine. Anticipation curls through me at the thought. “I had a meeting with your counselor this morning. She’s actually the counselor for a few of my students.”

“Are you talking about good ol’ Dolores?” He grins and shakes his head. “How old do you think she is, anyway?”

Poor Dolores. She’s a former chain smoker; her face is covered in wrinkles and her voice is so raspy I almost mistake her for a man when I talk to her on the phone. She’s sweet, but she probably should have retired about five years ago. “I don’t know. Fifty?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I really hope that was a joke.”

“Definitely.” I smile and zip open my backpack, reaching in to pull out his file so I can flip it open. “I hear she’s seventy-plus.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it if she was ninety-plus.” He flicks his chin toward the open file. “Why do you have that?”

“Just because you’re off the hook with English doesn’t mean you don’t still have work to do.” I tap the edge of the file with my index finger. “You have your creative writing portfolio to work on.”

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “About that. Can’t I just drop the class? Isn’t it an elective?”

“Well, you could, but it’s already kind of late. You pull out now, you’ll have a big, ugly W on your schedule and that’ll mess up your grade point average.” I pull the file closer to me and look over the list of assignments he still needs to complete for his portfolio. I decide to push him. “I thought you were a decent writer. A lot of this stuff you need to do isn’t too hard.”

He puffs out his chest. “I’m better than just a decent writer.”

“Prove it.” I push the assignment sheet toward him so he can read it over. “Write something. Like a poem or whatever.”

He glances at the list, then looks up at me. “Do you like to write poems?”

I wrinkle my nose. I’m not a flowery kind of girl. I prefer facts and figures. Math and history. Though I am strong at composition when I set my mind to it. Truly, I shouldn’t have been assigned to Owen. I’m not the perfect match for his tutoring needs, but I was one of the few people available and they chose me. “Not really.”

“I thought all girls liked to write about love and sadness.”

Is that what he writes about? I doubt it, but who knows? “I’m not like most girls.”

“I know.” His smile softens as his gaze roves over my face. “That’s what I like most about you.”

Oh. I am so. Done for.

Owen

I’m racking my brain for a subject. I don’t normally write poems. Well, I used to, when I wanted to be just like Drew Callahan when I grew up, but nothing—and no one—inspired the supposed poet inside of me, so I gave it up near the end of my freshman year in high school.

I still can’t believe what I said to her. It’s as if I took some sort of truth serum before I showed up and I can’t help but be honest with her. Not that I mind. It’s kind of nice, saying what I want and not playing any games. What’s going on between Chelsea and me isn’t all about sex or a one-time thing. It’s almost like we’re friends.

Right. I’m becoming friends with a girl I’d also really like to get naked with. That sweater she’s wearing is sexy as hell. It keeps slipping off her shoulder, revealing creamy pale skin and a lacy bra strap that just begs for my fingers to push it off. Kiss her there …

Shit.

“There must be something you want to write a poem about,” Chelsea says.