Where we left off, p.3
Where We Left Off, page 3
I also want to push that dirty blond friend of his out of the window.
Why is Tate friends with him? He seems like a jerk.
I go to my Design and Technology class and end up making a mock-up poster for the Homecoming dance. It’s mainly dark navy except for the text, and in the centre I overlaid an in-motion shot of a girl twirling so fast that all you can make out is her waistline and the lifted hem of her baby pink dress. Cliché but cute. It probably won’t get picked anyway.
My good mood exceeds the final bell and I’m still a little shimmery when I’m cleaning up the dishes after dinner with my mom.
I hear the door slam outside from across the street, but I’m so zoned into my History notes that I don’t go to the window and check. Okay, the main reason why I don’t check is because I’m scared that one of these days I’m going to see him with a girl. It’s a fully-fleshed out nightmare that I sometimes traumatise myself with for about an hour and a half before I go to sleep.
I am truly insane.
Once I finish highlighting and annotating my History notes I stuff the work into its binder and kick back my chair. I’m just stretching my neck, hair cascading down my shoulders and my arms lifted over my head, when I notice him.
It’s literally eight p.m. and I swear that Tate left his house at around half six. I leave my lamp on, because I don’t want him to notice the change, but I sink down further in my chair so that he’s less likely to catch me as I stare.
He’s sat on the top of his porch steps in his hoodie and track shorts, and with what looks like a homework binder and paper pad laid out behind him, under the shield of the porch roof. His elbows are bent up on top of his large tan knees and he has his hands splayed over his ears on the outside of his hood. His eyes are shut tight and his fringe is falling over his face, dripping a little from where the rain has caught him.
What. The. Hell.
I thought that after his sports practices he came home to eat and then left again to hang out with his friends.
Has he been sitting out there alone every night?
Cautiously I stand up and reaching out slowly I turn off my lamp. Tate senses the change like an animal and his eyes shoot up to my bedroom window. I wonder if he can see me. As I contemplate this I remember that I didn’t change out of my uniform tonight and, suddenly impish, I decide that maybe now is as good a time as any.
I slip my fingers into the knot of my school tie, gently ease the length through the loop, and then I throw it onto the floor next to my school bag.
Tate sits upright.
So you can see me, Tate.
I’m feeling bold and I like it. I tug my sweater vest up at the sides, slide my fingers beneath the hem, and then I pull it over my head, before dropping it to the floor with the tie.
He’s really on the edge of his seat now. Shirt? Skirt? What could possibly be next?
I move over to the ledge so that I can see him clearly through the rain that’s streaking my window. We’re watching each other like two primates in the wild. Neither of us has blinked in the past thirty seconds.
I’m going to be sneaky this week. Every day that I hear the slam of the door I’m going to wait for ten minutes and then see if he’s still outside. Then I’ll wait an hour and check again. By Friday, if I realise that he’s been sitting outside of his house every single night, I’m going to do something about it.
But for now?
I flick the top button of my shirt through the hole and then I whip my curtains shut.
Chapter 5
Present
Tate’s former bedroom is in the attic.
Although I did start silently haemorrhaging when Mitch told me where I would be sleeping, I am quietly buzzed about residing in the attic, as it will really facilitate my hermit agenda.
But I couldn’t stay to check it out after dinner. I was weirdly wired and there was this energy in the house that was getting too charged, so I decided that, after Mitch took me for my hand appointment this morning, I would permit myself an unaccompanied house tour. In solitary. Completely alone. Every stalker’s dream.
Mitch took me back to my mom’s, I ingested my antibiotics, and then they left together to start putting boxes in her secret storage unit. I was given a large navy suitcase to decant my essentials into so I piled in winter clothes, my skincare bits, and about thirty books too many, before attempting to start working on the zipper. Impossible, obviously. I took out the skincare and whipped it shut.
Naturally it starts pouring down when I realise that my raincoat is at the bottom of the case so, needing an alternative, I pull on a hoodie instead and then I head out of my mom’s house.
Mitch and my mom were supposed to be back by now so I decide to wait for them in the little shielded bit over our front door - that is, until I see another truck pulling up onto the street.
It turns out that the scraggy metal death-trap I pitch-forked my fist on was Mitch’s, and the sexy black Ford truck I spotted on his curb yesterday belongs to Tate. Before he has a chance to park in front of the driveway I yank up the suitcase handle and begin speed-wheeling it to the sidewalk.
He opens his door and drops his legs down over the step. He’s so tall that his feet are planted on the curb, knees bent.
“Backpacking?” he asks, with one large hand still gripped around the steering wheel. I can see the tendons of his forearm flexing through the sleeve of his shirt.
I walk right up to him and then make a sharp fuck-you left turn, heading down the street.
“Get in the truck and I’ll put your case in the backseat.”
I ignore him and I continue ignoring him, even as I hear him jog up to me, puddles of rain splashing loudly against his boots.
“You’ll drown in this weather,” he says, a teasing lilt in his bass tone.
I scowl up at him and my glasses streak with raindrops immediately. I keep walking though, stubborn bitch that I am.
He steps in front of me and blocks my attempts to skirt around him. He’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt and it’s plastered to his chest. I can see every curve and ridge of his torso.
Every. Single. One.
“You don’t have to shotgun with me, you can ride in the back with your case if you want.” His voice is quieter now and he looks a bit dejected. And also flushed.
Interesting.
Without a word I U-turn back to the house, dragging the case behind me as the rain lashes at my face. I feel him pluck the case from my hand and I watch as he jogs ahead of me to his truck, opening one of the back doors and sliding it inside.
I roll my eyes at him as he shuts the door. Then he re-opens it, remembering the unlikelihood of me wanting to shotgun with him.
“I’ll drive,” I say, and I hold my hand out for the keys.
He folds his arms over his chest. I wish that my glasses were clearer so that I could get a better view. “You don’t have a licence,” he replies flatly.
I make an impatient grippy motion with my outstretched palm. “I’ll risk it.”
“Get in the car please. You’re getting really wet.”
I am actually. My hoodie weighs about fifteen stone.
I turn away from him and hop into the back. He closes the door behind me, surprisingly gently. When he gets into the driver’s seat I realise that I’ve got a horribly perfect view of him thanks to the rear-view mirror. I slink down in my seat to avoid him catching any glances.
“Your case weighs a lot,” he says as he pushes off the curb and starts making his way to Mitch’s house.
I look down at my hand. “I had to stock up on knuckle-dusters.”
His eyes meet mine briefly and then he looks back at the road. “Would you like some music?”
I stare at him in the rear-view mirror, my mouth agape. Surely he wouldn’t-
His fingers move, hovering over the radio button. They pull back slightly. Then he presses it. There’s a CD in the player and I recognise it immediately. This is my CD. The car is quivering with tension and I don’t think that either of us is breathing anymore.
When he pulls up to Mitch’s house I scramble out of the truck before he’s even stopped the car. I drag my case out with me and it thuds painfully against the pavement. I wouldn’t be surprised if that registered on the Richter scale.
Tate steps out of the driver’s side and closes the door, looking down at me hesitantly. The rain runs like sweat over his skin.
“I’ll take you to… your room,” he says cautiously.
My room.
His room.
I swallow but maintain my glower, albeit blinking a bit weirdly because of the torrential downpour. “Okay.”
His eyes stray to my outfit – a severe hoodie, oversized-men’s-jeans, ball cap situation – and a pained look creases his brow before he turns to the house and unlocks the door.
Wow, I look so bad that it caused him physical pain.
When he unlocks the door he pushes it open and then steps aside so that I can enter first. A little flicker licks at the dry campfire in my stomach. I stomp it out immediately.
We both leave our shoes under the porch roof outside before heading in. Once we’re inside he says, “If you leave your hoodie in the kitchen I’ll put it in the dryer for you.”
I refuse to remove any items of clothing in front of him. “I’ll chance the pneumonia,” I respond dryly.
He stares down at me, a tense flex in his jaw. He turns to disappear into the kitchen for a moment and when he comes back out I hear the hum of the heating system. He doesn’t look at me again as he ascends to the bedroom.
My bedroom.
I know why he’s being so amenable and he damn well ought to be. I hope that he is ridden with guilt over what he put me through.
When Tate opens the bedroom door, he looks at me over his shoulder, like he’s thinking of letting me through first again. The stairwell to the attic is so narrow that pressing past him would undoubtedly result in me getting totally rolling-pinned, so he thinks better of it, chest heaving, and heads into the room.
There’s a tiny flutter in my chest when I drink in the room. It would be cramped for most people but, at my height, it’s cosy. Dark curtains, pillow cases, and quilt covers. A lamp on each side, framing the bed. The downpour outside creates a calming, repetitive thumping sound against the roof above us, and there’s beautiful bespoke wood panelling everywhere.
It’s rustic, and my little loner heart loves it.
I press my hand into the black comforter and the bed gives a little squeal.
“I’ll leave you to unpack,” Tate says in a deep, strained voice. I look over to him and he’s standing rigidly in the doorway, his hulking body stiff with discomfort. “Should I close the door?”
I turn fully around so that I’m facing him head on and I give myself three seconds to appreciate why I feel so uncomfortable around him. Tan skin flushed with the sting of the rainstorm. Chocolate brown hair now a tousled, dripping mess. His hard-earned manual-labour muscles twitching with the need to break some logs with his bare hands. Did I mention that he’s more than a foot taller than me? Because he is.
He’s standing in my damn bedroom. I’m going to be sleeping in his damn bed. He’s my mom’s boyfriend’s son.
And he was the worst thing to ever happen to me.
I flip back towards the bed so that I’m no longer facing him and I pull my sodden hoodie up over my head.
“You should definitely close the door.”
Chapter 6
Three Years Ago
We were never pre-assigned seats for Biology so it’s one of the only classes wherein I get to sit next to my best friend Kit. Her name is actually Kitty but she insists on the shortened version because it sounds more curt. Take-no-shit Kit. Very appropriate.
She’s sweeping her long black hair into a ponytail whilst Mr Miller draws a DNA ladder on the whiteboard when she gives me a nudge with her elbow.
I look over at her and her fierce cat eyes are locked onto mine like a target. How is she not the most popular girl in school? She’s definitely the hottest. For some reason people always avoid the nerds.
She hisses over to me, “Did you submit your poster to the Homecoming committee?” just as her overly-stretched hair bobble snaps and flies across the room, Pablo Picasso at the whiteboard evidently none the wiser.
I nod at her. Kit is on every committee available. It’s her attempt at forced social interaction, which she says is for the maintenance of her natural animal requirements, otherwise she would undoubtedly avoid our classmates like the plague.
“You better have,” she continues, pinning her hair back with a red clippy-grip instead. “No way am I letting Madden’s get picked.”
I write “I don’t think mine is very good” on a scrap piece of paper and push it over to her.
She pushes it back to me and whispers, “This note is better than Madden’s poster.”
I don’t know who Madden is but I laugh and get back to copying Mr Miller’s diagram into my Bio book. I glance over at Kit and she’s drawing a severed penis with a sad face on her hand.
Once Biology class ends and we try to get out of the room we have to shove our way through the bulging swarm because there’s a blockage in the upper corridors. Everyone is pressed up against the window panes, trying to get a glimpse at the outside sports courts.
“That sophomore team is annoyingly good,” Kit remarks as I put my biology book into my locker. “It’s going to be so gross when some of them go pro, and whenever we see them on TV we’ll remember what assholes they were in high school.”
We push past the wall of bodies and make our way downstairs.
“Wanna objectify them a bit?” she asks, craning her neck over the students by the windows as we walk down the corridor.
“We’ll only encourage them,” I say.
In reality, the reason why I don’t want to look is because I have purposefully been avoiding Tate Coleson all week and I know that he will be out there scoring hoop after hoop with the other sophomores. I watched him like a sleuth all of last week and in a stomach-sinking twist it turns out that he does sit outside alone every single night.
There’s something that none of the girls at the windows know.
Kit slips into a small gap and peeps out at the court. She sighs dramatically. “I hate this. Why couldn’t I be more gay? This feels so anti-feminist.”
We have one more minute until the next bell for class so I wait with her as she watches the court melancholically. I stand with my back to the window, my heart thumping hard as I think about what I’m going to do when I see Tate outside again tonight. I’m so nervous that my hands are sweating. I rub them down the front of my skirt and I shakily re-tie my ponytail.
“Oh my God, incoming,” Kit hisses, and she shoves herself against me as the crowd moves away from the doors to make room for the players heading inside to the water fountain. I keep my eyes on my shoes but I can hear the bass tones of their voices as the joke around and get their drinks.
“Cocky pricks,” she whispers. Then she adds, “Whose penis do you think is the tiniest?”
The bell will ring any second now so I push myself off the wall and turn to walk to class. I feel Kit behind me but I can sense her potent glower on the boys up ahead.
“The blond one,” I whisper to her, and she nods earnestly in agreement.
As we approach them I feel a wild animalistic pull and I can’t seem to stop myself from shooting a glance towards the big sweaty bodies lounging around the fountain. The boy with spiky black hair is drinking directly from the spout, his eyes on us as he lets the water gush between his lips, over-spilling only slightly. I look away, mortified but also mesmerised, and my eyes naturally find the most beautiful thing in the area. Tate’s smooth tan skin is glistening with sweat and rain, and his hands are fisted low in the pockets of his basketball shorts. His eyes are scorching, like liquid fire, as they pierce into mine. They burn a message deep in my brain that says I know what you know about me.
I send back I know that you do. And I’ll see you tonight Tate.
*
Now that the moment is here I am a lot less confident in my plan. I know that I shouldn’t be going out there – we haven’t exchanged one word to each other in our entire lives – but he seems so depressed and alone. If I was in his… giant shoes, I would want someone to look out for me.
I go to my window and look down at Tate’s porch. His head is ducked just outside of the porch roof, allowing the rain to run down the tousles of his hair, and his hands are gripping his head, pressing firmly against his ears.
Enough.
I run quietly downstairs, not wanting to disturb my mom from her work in her office, and I quietly unbolt the door. Once I’m outside I look up at Tate’s porch, and to my surprise he is now on his feet. It’s as if he knew that I was about to come out here. It’s as if he was awaiting me.
I’m instantly fifty times more nervous than I was a minute ago, so I watch my feet as I step in puddle after puddle instead of looking up at his face. It takes all of ten seconds to get across the street and then I’m standing right in front of him.
I risk a glance at his face and he’s frowning down at me, large tan hands clenched at his sides.
“You shouldn’t be over here,” he says in a commanding tone. He almost sounds like he’s disappointed in me. I’m actually a little confused as to why I’m over here myself, so I shuffle on my feet for a moment, my wellies squelching.
I glance at the door behind him because I can hear sounds coming from inside, his mom and her boyfriend both home from work for the day.
“I… I brought you something,” I croak out. I’m embarrassed and breathless because I have never spoken to this boy in my life, and now I am deciding to technically give him a present. I hold my hand out and cringe for being such a weirdo.
His brow creases even further. “What’s this?” he asks. He’s looking at me like I’m insane, which is probably accurate.
