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And I want to keep it that way.
“Kay.” Brendon runs his fingertips over my forearm. “You okay?”
“Just thinking.”
“You ever share your writing with people?”
“Grandma reads my fan fiction. She’s encouraging.”
“Show me something.”
My cheeks flame. The thought of Brendon reading one of my bad poems… It’s horrifying. “Show me something in your sketchbook. Something that isn’t a tattoo mockup.”
His jaw cricks. His eyes fill with surprise. “I’ll jump if you do.”
“Maybe later. There’s not much time left.” And I’m not a good actor. I can’t pretend that I haven’t seen every inch of that sketchbook.
He nods. “Five minutes.”
“Five minutes.” I refresh the school’s website for good measure. It’s the same. The same Registration Not Available is there in all red.
“What else are you taking?”
“Huh?”
“Besides creative writing.”
“Oh. Advanced American literature. Chemistry. Latin four.”
“Latin four?”
“Yeah.” I chew on my fingernail. “It was supposed to be my elective. But now I have creative writing too.”
He chuckles.
“What?” I move on to the nail of my middle finger. Hit refresh. Registration not available.
“That’s perfect for you.”
“Thanks. I think.” Ring finger nail, here I come.
His hand curls around my wrist. “Kay.”
“Yeah?” I turn toward him. Get stuck staring into his eyes. God, those eyes are beautiful.
“You’re gonna be okay.”
In theory.
He moves closer. “You’re the smartest, strongest person I know.”
The compliment warms my cheeks and chest.
Even if it’s not true. I’m not strong. Certainly not as strong as Emma.
But I’m not going to argue. I’m not willing to offer the details to explain it.
He opens his mouth to say something but the timer’s beep cuts him off.
Refresh.
Registration Available.
Yes.
I add each class to my schedule. Latin Mondays and Wednesdays at ten. American Literature after lunch. Chemistry and Creative writing Tuesday and Thursday. Recitation Monday and Tuesday afternoons.
There.
It’s done.
Brendon smiles as he offers me his hand.
I take it.
Squeeze tightly.
Move the cursor over submit.
Click.
Congratulations.
It’s done.
And I’m officially a college student.
I jump to my feet.
Brendon gets to his.
Wraps his arms around me.
It doesn’t feel like a platonic hug.
But it feels too good for me to complain.
Chapter Twenty
Kaylee
It’s well past midnight when I finally float down from my high. I’m not sure exactly why I’m buzzing. If it’s mostly because of his arms around me or if it’s mostly nerves about school.
But I don’t really care.
I need both.
So, when Brendon offers to take me shopping for school supplies, I jump. Insist we do it on a day I know Emma works.
It’s not like I’m desperate to get him alone.
Not at all.
I grab Brendon’s wrist as we step into Macy’s.
We turn to the right, past the shiny shoes. Through the wall of perfume—I have to turn to my side, to face him, to avoid scents in my nose and eyes.
Past the makeup counters stocked with forty-dollar foundation and twenty-dollar lipstick. The kind of stuff Emma brags about buying with her employee discount.
Right to the handbags.
Huh?
“You have a Louis Vuitton obsession I should know about?” I tease.
“Who?” He raises a brow.
I point to the designer bags to our left. They’re iconic. Brown with a tan logo.
Brendon steps forward. Checks the price tag. “Fuck. Really? For that?”
Several hundred dollars for a scrap of leather is obscene. But, hey, what do I know what it’s like to have money? “You never spend on something you don’t need?”
“Need is relative.”
“Capitalism is for scum?”
He chuckles. “There’s a line somewhere, yeah.” He sets the bag down. “Would you buy one of those bags?”
“No. They’re ugly.”
“And I’m harsh?”
I laugh. “The color scheme doesn’t do it for me.”
“What about this?” He points to a similar bag in bright pink. Moves close enough to check the price tag. “Is this walking advertisement worth two weeks of waiting tables?”
“Not to me.”
“But to someone?”
“It’s a status symbol.”
He raises a brow. “And that’s a good thing?”
“I don’t know. I’m never going to have status.”
“I’m calling it now. When you write the next Hunger Games, you’re going to spend your advance on hideous overpriced bags.” His voice floats to that teasing tone. His dark eyes light up.
“I am not,” I tease back. “But so what if I did? What’s wrong with wanting people to see you as well off?”
He shakes his head. “That’s what my mom was like. She needed a new car. A remodeled kitchen. The latest fashions. Even her nail polish was trendy.”
“I remember.” Sort of. “Is that really all she was?”
“No.” His voice gets soft. “But that was too much of it. She wanted that for all of us. For me and Em too.”
“Yeah?” I press my lips together. Brendon never talks about his late parents. Ever. And his expression—there’s a softness to it. That’s rare. I want every drop of it.
“Yeah. She wanted me to be this guy who wore Dockers and drove a BMW to high school.”
“And you wanted to tattoo punk lyrics on your skin?”
“Basically.” He takes a step forward. “I was never gonna be the kind of guy she wanted me to be.”
