“Violet, spit it out.”
I take a deep breath and continue, releasing his hand to splay mine wide in front of me. “I-I basically raised myself. It’s true that I lived in some really nice places—and some bad ones—but that’s not the same as having security, or having my parents back.”
I glance up, Summer and Kyle busy conducting electricity from a large round orb to their hair, which is now standing on end.
Cuties.
“Zeke, when we met, I didn’t think you and I were going to get along. I was afraid of you—that’s why I ditched our first appointment—but now I’m just afraid to like you. You’re not the worst.”
His large hand grapples for mine. Squeezes. “You’re not the worst, either, Pix.”
I give him a coy smile. “I know you like me, Zeke.”
He rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”
I yank his hand again so he looks as me. “No. I know you like me.”
We regard one another in the dim lights of the museum, wordlessly sizing each other up. His cool gaze rakes me up and down, still holding my hand, a sliver of white from his perfectly straight teeth peeking through his lips.
He’s smiling. “Prove it.”
I narrow my eyes, biting back my silly grin. “You prove it.”
“I thought I already did. I’m here, aren’t I? Do you think I’d be caught dead in a fucking kid’s museum if I didn’t like you?” He says it low, dragging me against his body, angling my chin up with the tips of his fingers. Brushing his mouth against my lips.
Kisses me once before releasing me.
It’s not exactly a declaration of love, not by a long shot.
But right now?
It’s enough.
Zeke: When you’re done dropping Summer off at her mom’s, you wanna study tonight at my place?
Violet: Will you be feeding me? I’m starving.
Zeke: Pizza?
Violet: Sounds delicious. No onion?
Zeke: Got it, no onion. My place at 8?
Violet: Your place at 8
Zeke: You need me to come grab you?
Violet: I can drive over, no biggie :)
Zeke: You sure? I can come get you.
Violet: It sounds like you WANT to come get me…
Zeke: Shit. Here I thought I was being sneaky. And Violet?
Violet: Yeah?
Zeke: Bring a toothbrush.
Zeke
“What do you suppose Elliot and Oz think of me being here?” Violet is lying across my bed, textbooks and laptop spread out in front of her.
“Who knows.”
She considers this, pretty brow contorted. “It’s just, Oz kept gawking at me in the kitchen when we were eating. Like I was an oddity.”
“He’s odd all right.”
Violet rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I meant. You would think your roommates haven’t seen a girl in the kitchen. The whole thing was all kinds of weird. N-No offense.”
“Oh trust me, none taken. Oz is a freak. Don’t think I didn’t catch him smiling at you like a big, dumb idiot.”
I don’t explain to Violet that the reason my roommates were acting like they’ve never seen a girl in the kitchen with me before is because they haven’t. They’ve seen girls stumbling drunk down the hallway to my bedroom. They’ve heard girls mid-coitus through our thin walls. But they’ve never seen me hanging out with one.
Technically, this is Violet’s third time here.
And technically, they did hear us mid-coitus through our thin walls.
But now I’ve started feeding her. My roommates watched me get plates and napkins and fucking cut her a slice of damn pizza—making meowing and whip-cracking sounds from the living room the whole time.
Ha fucking ha.
And when Oz and Elliot walked in to steal a few slices? They were elbowing each other in the ribcage like two juveniles and giggling. Oz took it a step further when he coughed, “pussy whipped” into his hand not once, but four times.
Total and complete fucking morons. Kyle has more maturity than the two of them combined.
Vi chews the end of her pen. “They’re goofy. What’s Elliot’s story?”
“Elliot’s story?” I shrug, taking my iPod out of its sleeve and tossing it on the bed next to her. “Actually, he’s a decent guy. Keeps to himself a lot, studies in his room. Doesn’t go out much, kind of a loner, but not in a bad way. He has goals and is pretty tunnel-visioned.”
“He sounds like my usual type.” She laughs, eyes twinkling mischievously.
“Your type?” I narrow my eyes, moving toward the bed. “What is your type?”
“You know, serious. Quiet. Studious.”
“Your type is boring.”
She flops down on her back, long, wavy blonde hair fanning out over my bedspread. “Yes, probably.”
“Well I can be quiet.”
“Sometimes.”
“And I can be serious.” What am I doing? I have nothing to prove.
“Sometimes you’re too serious, don’t you think?”
“I’m studious.”
“I know you try to be.”
“That wasn’t a nice thing to say,” I chide flirtatiously, palms hitting the mattress and brushing the books and laptop and iPad out of my way. “If I had feelings, you might have bruised one of them.”
I crawl up the bed, over the mattress, up her body, nudging her hair aside with my nose, lips brushing her ear. “You shouldn’t tease me, it isn’t nice.”