Tempting Page 4

  I have time, money, and space for fun.

  The only thing stopping me is me.

  "I wish we had more time." Mom's voice is as sad as her smile. She unwraps her arms, opening herself and inviting me in.

  I don't want her invitation.

  I want to tell her to go fuck herself. She can't un-invite me from my life then offer comfort. That's bullshit.

  Them being vague about the details of Grandma's condition—that's bullshit.

  It's not like Grandma is some relative we never see. She's practically my best friend. She taught me how to curl my hair, how to make an almond butter and jelly sandwich (cooking is one thing I still can't master), how to tell which games at the boardwalk were rigged (most of them).

  We used to play with dolls and Legos and even Dad's Star War's figurines.

  Now, it's more talk about boys and hair and school, but we're just as close. She calls every week. At least.

  I want to yell and scream.

  But I won't. I never do.

  Someone has to be the one in control. The one who keeps it together.

  Someone has to be the one everyone can count on.

  I accept my mom's hug. I sink into it. I try to find comfort in the embrace, but it feels like betrayal.

  They should have asked me.

  This is my life too.

  I don't want things to change. I don't want them to leave. I don't want Grandma to die.

  But I can't stop any of it.

  I'm not in control here.

  Not even a little.

  I release my mom's embrace and take a step backward.

  Dad is waiting at the kitchen table, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the floor.

  He looks up at me. His hazel eyes fill with pride. "Kay, I'm going to miss you so much. We'll call every day. And visit as soon as we can." He smiles. "Or we can fly you out to visit with Grandma. How would that be?"

  I want to tell him to throw away his shitty consolation prize, but I don't. The thought of visiting Grandma is too inviting. The affection in his voice is too earnest. "Okay."

  He steps forward and pulls me into a hug. "I'm so proud of you. We all are. You're going to ace your classes."

  My mouth gets sticky. Everyone is sure I'm going to excel. Everyone expects me to get everything right, all the time. It's a lot of pressure. Even if most of it comes from myself. "Thanks, Dad."

  "You're such a bright young woman. I'm not sure what we did to get so lucky. I love you so much, baby girl."

  "I love you too."

  He steps backward. Reaches for his suitcase, the black one with the plain red tag.

  He looks to Mom. "I guess we better go. Security at LAX is always a nightmare."

  Mom nods. "Are you going to be okay alone, Kay? We can drop you off at the Kanes' house."

  I shake my head. I need to say goodbye to everything.

  And I need to figure out how I'm going to survive constant proximity to Brendon. He's off limits.

  I know that.

  I just don't know how to convince my body or my heart to get on board with the get over Brendon plan.

  My eyes go to the clock on the wall, the plain black one we got at Target last year. It's the only thing in here I picked out.

  Their flight takes off in an hour and a half. They've been waiting for me to get home. To say goodbye.

  Warmth crawls into my chest. It threatens to break up the stone growing around my heart.

  But that's not happening.

  If they want forgiveness, they should apologize.

  "I'll be okay. Let me know when you get in." I hug Mom and Dad one last time. Go through one last round of goodbyes.

  Then I watch them walk out the door.

  And I settle into the couch.

  And I soak in all the feelings whirring around my chest.

  I'm alone.

  I have Brendon and Emma, but as long as I keep everything to myself, I'm alone.

  I hate everything about this.

  I could talk to Emma, but she's angry on my behalf. She starts ranting about how awful my parents are, about what a traitor Brendon is for siding with them, about how everything in the world is unjust.

  She's right.

  But I don't want her being pissed for me.

  I'm plenty pissed myself. It's just... I can never quite find the words to express it. Not verbally. Not to anyone else.

  The only place where I can really get my feelings out is my journal.

  I've always loved pouring my feelings onto the pages. Though love isn't the right word. It's more of a frantic need. If I skip a few days, my thoughts turn into a jumbled mess. I get fuzzy. Overwhelmed.

  My head goes to dark places.

  Last year, my head started going to dark places all the time. It was before Grandma got sick. It wasn't for any reason, really.

  It was like falling asleep. It happened slowly, then all at once. Food stopped tasting good. Everything I read—even The Hunger Games—failed to grab my attention. Class was boring. Parties, hangouts, and study sessions stopped appealing.

  I didn't hang out with anyone but Emma.

  And I didn't even want to see Emma. It was some combination of her insistence and inertia that got me watching Disney movies at her place every afternoon.

  Otherwise, I didn't do anything but go to school and work. But even that felt so hard. Like there was always a ten-pound weight on my chest.

  I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think. I didn't even want Brendon.

  I was empty.

  I started seeing a therapist. According to her, I have high functioning depression. Instead of falling apart and doing nothing, I channel my self-loathing into achieving.

  Apparently, it's my broken brain. Instead of telling me I'm not good enough, it latches onto grades. They aren't good enough. But then they never are. Even when they're straight As.

  It took a while to find an anti-depressant that took the edge off without dulling me completely. The first one made me tired. The second kept me from coming. The third gave me nightmares. This one is tolerable. It pushes all those thoughts about hurting myself to the back of my head.

  If I keep up my routine—healthy diet, not too much sugar, just enough caffeine, cardio every day, journaling every night—those ugly thoughts stay at bay.

  But they never go away.

  And they never will.

  I'm broken.

  I'll always be broken.

  I've accepted it, mostly.

  But no one else has. No one else knows.

  If they find out, they'll leave.

  So, I keep it to myself. I keep all my writing—the poems, the stories, the journal entries—to myself.

  Fan fiction is fine, but anything personal—that's mine.

  I write things from my heart all the time. Words get caught in my throat and I spill my guts on the page. It's like that expression. How do you write? It's easy. You just cut yourself and bleed on the page.

  Only there's nothing in the expression about guarding your scars with your life.

  Writing in my journal makes me feel at peace.

  Writing, period, makes me feel at peace.

  It's my favorite thing in the world.

  But I'm not brave or foolish enough to share it with anyone.

  That means it's staying a hobby.

  That means it's staying mine.

  I fall back on my bed. It's still covered in my Little Mermaid bedspread. I've had it since I was a kid. Emma's addiction to Disney movies is contagious. I love all the Disney princesses too. Every one of them.

  But there's something special about Ariel. She knows exactly what she wants. She's fascinated by the human world. Even though it's strange and foreign, she wants to be a part of it. And she's willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen. Even give up her family. Her home. Her voice.

  I want to be that bold.

  That sure of myself.

  But here—my journal—is the only place I can really hear m
y voice.

  I bring my pen to the page and I let all the ugly thoughts in my head flow through my pen.

  I want to show this to someone.

  No, not to someone.

  To him.

  But there's too much risk. He might run in the other direction.

  One day, I'll be brave enough to open my heart.

  I close my journal and trace the Latin saying scribbled over the back.

  Serva Me, Servabo Te.

  Save me and I'll save you.

  I want that. One day.

  But it's as much of a fairy tale as The Little Mermaid.

  Chapter Seven

  Kaylee

  I'm still in my pajamas, fixing coffee and tea, when Brendon knocks on the door.

  "Hey." His steady voice flows through the wood.

  "Give me a minute." I've worn this exact outfit at his place a hundred times. But right now it feels too revealing, too personal.

  I move to my room, grab the outfit I laid out last night. High-waisted shorts and a v-neck t-shirt. Cute. Flattering. Practical.

  I change as quickly as I can, dart back to the door, pull it open. "Hey."

  Light surrounds him like a halo. It casts highlights over his dark hair and his strong shoulders.

  God, his shoulders are bare.

  He's wearing a muscle tank and shorts. It would look douchey on anyone else. On Brendon, it screams trace all the lines of the ink running down my shoulders. Don't you want these arms around you? Don't you want every bit of everything I have to give?

  I can't have that.

  I can't have a single bit of it.

  It would kill Emma.

  Even if it wouldn't, Brendon doesn't want someone broken. He ends all his "relationships" when things get complicated.

  He nods to the boxes sitting in the living room. "I'll start loading."

  I motion to the carafe on the counter. "Coffee first?"

  "Coffee after."

  "As long as I can have tea first."

  "I'd never deprive you."

  He's talking about tea, but my body doesn't catch the nuance.

  My skin tingles. My stomach flutters. Heat spreads down my torso, collecting at the apex of my thighs.

  I allow myself a moment to gawk as he picks up the first box and carries it to his car. Okay, then the second.

  He shoots me an are you going to watch or help look.

  I make my way to my bedroom and finish my last bits of packing. It's just clothes now. I have a lot of them. Nothing compared to Emma, but when my entire bed is covered with a quarter of my wardrobe...

  Maybe I have a problem.

  I pack my last set of dresses. Then all the toiletries I left out for this morning. I do one last wipe down of the bathroom, so everything is pretty and pristine.

  Now, it's just my...

  Oh God.

  Brendon is in my doorframe, his eyes on my bed. Not just on the Little Mermaid comforter, but on the collection of underwear on top of it.

  It wouldn't be so bad if I owned anything remotely sexy. But that's all cotton and comfort bras.

  Not what I want him imagining when he...

  No.

  It doesn't matter.

  Brendon doesn't look at me that way.

  I think.

  He's not saying anything.

  I'm not saying anything.

  We're just standing in this room with my underwear on display, saying nothing.

  His gaze moves to the walls. "I'm sorry I missed seeing it in its glory."

  "Huh?"

  He nods to the bare walls.

  "Oh." He's never been in my room. With the way my heart is pounding and my body is buzzing, it makes perfect sense. He's here. My bed is there. It would be so easy to combine those two things. "I'm going to attempt to recreate the majesty at your place."

  "Our place."

  "Our place." It feels funny on my tongue, but I will get used to it. The house in Venice Beach isn't Brendon and Emma's place. It's our place. My place.

  I live with Brendon.

  I live with the guy who refuses to leave my head.

  I can handle that. Totally.

  He nods to the bedside drawer. "I can make myself scarce if you need to pack anything personal."

  "Why would I..." Oh. My blush spreads to my chest. I stammer. "No. I don't. I don't have one of those."

  He arches a brow. Teasing. Maybe.

  "No. But. Um." I'm going to die of embarrassment. "I don't use those."

  "You're missing out."

  "What?" I manage to look at him for an entire second. Two even. His expression is light, but there's curiosity in his eyes. He really wants to know. "Why do you care?"

  He shrugs. "You should get one."

  "Oh." This is... My head is spinning.

  I can't place his tone.

  Is it you should get one so I can use it on you?

  Or is it masturbation is healthy and awesome, you should get a vibrator awkward but necessary mentor/Dad/older brother talk?

  I...

  Uh...

  My body goes straight to the former.

  I can't think.

  The only thing in my head is the glorious mental image of him peeling off my panties and pressing a vibe to my clit.

  Fuck.

  We're going to live together. We're going to be roommates. Or even... it's more like he's my legal guardian.

  He doesn't see me that way.

  We're friends.

  We're only ever going to be friends.

  I need to act like this is normal. Like we're two adults talking about sex toys like adults do. "I thought guys were bothered by—" I can say the word. "Vibrators."

  "In your vast experience?"

  "Yeah." Okay, so I've never exactly had a guy over here. I've never had a guy's hands below my waist. Or mine below his. But I listen in class, at work, at the shop. I've heard guys talk about sex toys like they were only for desperate women.

  "It's a tool. That's it."

  "And that doesn't threaten you?"

  "No."

  "You're that... confident?"

  He gives me a long once over. His eyes settle on mine. "We're not having his conversation."

  "You brought it up."

  "Even so."

  There's something in his eyes.

  An awkwardness I don't recognize.

  Because he sees me as a sister?

  Or because he's desperate to use a vibrator on me?

  It takes the entire morning to unpack my stuff. The room—my room—has a desk but it's lacking most of the other furniture I need.

  We get lunch at the taco place down the street, make plans to get furniture tomorrow, argue about who is going to stay in the master bedroom until we get my bed. I insist he stays in his room. He insists the couch.

  Eventually, I break and agree. And it has nothing to do with how much I want to be in his bed, wrapped up in sheets that smell of him.

  It's not like that's the only reason why I relent.

  Not at all.

  God, this really is amazing.

  I fall back onto Brendon's four poster bed.

  I sink into the smooth sheets.

  They smell like him. Like his earthy soap and like something distinctly Brendon.

  God, they smell good.

  I let my eyelids flutter closed and let my head fill with dirty thoughts.

  Him next to me.

  Pulling my t-shirt over my head.

  Unhooking my bra.

  Sliding it off my shoulders.

  Dragging his fingertips up my torso, between my breasts, around my nipples.

  Pressing his lips to mine.

  He thinks I'm sweet. Innocent.

  Everyone does.

  And I am.

  I'm a virgin, sure. But I'm not naïve.

  I know what I want.

  It's him.

  A knock on the door pulls me back to the moment.

  "I'm heading to work. You gonna be okay a
lone?" Brendon asks from the hallway.

  He explained it at lunch—he and Emma have a strict knock, enter only if invited policy.

  "Yeah. I have to get started on my summer reading."

  "Call me if you need anything."

  "I'll be fine."

  "Promise."

  "Brendon—"

  "If you'll be fine, it will be an easy promise to keep."

  It's a compelling argument. Even if I have no intentions of calling him. No matter what I need. "Okay. I promise."

  "See you tonight."

  "You too."

  His footsteps move down the hallway. Then the stairs.

  I can just barely hear the front door shut.

  Emma is at work—she works at a department store at the promenade.

  I'm alone here.

  I've never been alone here before.

  It's the perfect chance to work out some of this tension.

  But not yet.

  It sounds stupid, but I can't touch myself in the middle of the afternoon. That's so... intentional.

  I only ever masturbate before bed. So it's for insomnia relief as much as anything else.

  Still, I should take advantage of being alone in Brendon's room somehow.

  Reading isn't quite as exciting or naughty as masturbating to thoughts of my new roommate slash guardian, but hey—

  I do have dirty books on here.

  I'm capable of fun. Of sexy. Of bad.

  Just, I'm going to do it by myself in my pajamas.

  I toss my sleep shorts on the bed.

  Set my Kindle on the dresser.

  Right next to the faded black sketchbook.

  Wait.

  That's Brendon's sketchbook.

  It's right there.

  I've never seen it by itself.

  In his hands? Yeah.

  On his lap? Absolutely.

  Nestled under his arm? Of course.

  It never leaves his sight.

  And he snaps it fast whenever I get close.

  This is it.

  All the secrets to what's in that beautiful head of his.

  His secrets.

  None of my business.

  I pick it up. Run my fingers over the worn leather cover. Undo the snap holding the pages together.

  This is his.

  It's private.

  Yes, I want to know why his smiles are so rare.

  I want to know what it is he's thinking about when he's sitting on the deck alone.