I try to act like a badass, but honestly, I’m nervous as hell.
I should’ve told him no this morning. I’d stopped writing on the walls, and doing anything more illegal would be risking too much. I have acceptance letters to NYU, Cornell, and Dartmouth. Like I’m going to jeopardize that simply because I’m infatuated with him and will use any excuse to be close to him.
Actually it was hard to refuse him anything while he was inside me. I would’ve told him I’d tattoo his name on my neck if he wanted.
He’d probably love that. I glance over at him, laughing inside at the idea. His brown hair, wispy and sticking up a little, is pushed forward, and I stare at his mouth, remembering the warmth of the smooth metal ring grazing the dozens of places he’s kissed on my body.
I suddenly want to know everything. What he was like as a kid. What his favorite kinds of music are. Where he goes when he wants some peace and quiet and whom does he go to when he needs to talk.
Who does he love? Who’s there for him? Who knows him best?
Who knows him better than me? I can’t help the jealousy I feel at that thought. He has an entire life and history with people who aren’t me.
I chew on the corner of my mouth, feeling so many things I know I shouldn’t say.
But I want to.
“I like you,” I tell him, looking down, my voice quiet.
I see him turn his head toward me, not saying anything.
“You said some nice things last Friday night,” I go on, “and I wanted you to know—in case you don’t already—that I actually kind of like you.” I raise my eyes, seeing him watch me with something I can’t read going on in his eyes. “I know I can be…me. I don’t get sappy, and I don’t give up what’s going on in my head a lot. It’s hard for me.” I pause, feeling a little more resolute. I want him to know. “But yeah, I like you.”
I know it’s not much, but it’s a lot for me, and I hope he knows that. Admitting I like him makes me vulnerable, and that’s not usually a card I ever give up. Not anymore.
Because, to be honest, I don’t just like him. It’s more than that. I think about him.
I miss him when he’s not around.
It’ll hurt if he has to leave as suddenly as he appeared.
He’s quiet, and the heat of embarrassment blankets my skin. Awesome. Good going, Ryen. Maybe all he liked about you was that you weren’t clingy, and now you’re acting like you’re in love with him.
“When are we going to be there?” I ask, my tone curt as I try to change the subject.
I watch as he slowly pulls over to the side of the road and parks next to a wall of trees.
“We’re here now,” he answers.
I peer around the hedge, taking a better look, and then dart my eyes around, taking in the quiet, spacious neighborhood.
“This is Trey’s house,” I point out, my guard definitely up now.
He nods, taking off his seatbelt. “There’s something of mine in there. A family heirloom.” He gestures to Trey’s house on the right. “And I need it back.”
“What are you talking about? Why would Trey have something of yours?”
He shakes his head. “Not Trey.”
“What?”
He takes my phone out of my hand and punches some buttons on the screen as I try to figure out what the hell’s going on. There’s something of his in there? Something he wants back? Trey and his entire family are at the baseball game, so no one’s home.
Are we breaking in?
“Masen, I’m not breaking into his house.”
“You don’t have to.” He hands my phone back to me. “I programmed in my number. I think it’s about time you had it anyway. Call me if anyone comes home or you see anything weird.”
What?
I stare at him, appalled, but he just climbs out of the truck and jogs for the house.
Excuse me?
I push open the door, jump out, and slam it behind me, chasing after him. “I can’t believe you!” I whisper-yell, catching up to him in the middle of Trey’s lawn. “You won’t tell me anything, and now you’re breaking and entering, and you’re involving me? I could get into trouble, and yes, I don’t mean to seem like a hypocrite, being Punk and all, but I don’t want to do this.”
He stops, and I clutch my phone in my hand, kind of wanting to throw it at him. Where the hell does he get off? He has friends. Why not ask them?
“Why would you ask me to do this?” I demand.
“Because it’s important.”
He glares at me, but I don’t think he’s angry.
Letting out a breath, his expression softens as he approaches me. “Because I need what’s in there, and because…you’re the one I trust. You’re the one I want here.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’m serious, Ryen. Trust me, would you?”
“I trust people who don’t deliberately put me in danger,” I shoot back. “I thought we were doing something at the Cove or climbing a water tower or something. Not breaking into the principal’s house.”
“You break into the principal’s school,” he points out.
I twist up my lips, folding my arms over my chest. Jerk.
He regards me for a moment and then drops his eyes. Taking my hand, he places his keys in my palm. “You’re right. Go ahead and take the truck to your house. I’ll meet you there,” he tells me, relenting. “It’s only a mile away. I can walk it.”
What? No—
But he turns around and walks for Trey’s house, not giving me a chance to protest. I don’t want to get in trouble, but I don’t want him getting in trouble, either.
Something of his is in the house. So we’re not taking anything that doesn’t belong to them then. Okay.
I let out a sigh and run after him.
Just go. Don’t think.
I wonder how many people who got prison sentences said the same thing when they committed their crimes.
I see him head for the front door, digging something out of his pocket, but I eye the doggy door on the garage and then look around me. Anyone could drive by or a neighbor could possibly spot Masen at the door, trying to get in.
“The doggy door is a better idea,” I tell him, knowing Trey’s parents probably took the Husky with them to the game.
He jerks his head, eyeing the rectangular hole in the door. “I can’t fit through there.”
Of course not. Their dog is big but not that big.
I shake my head, hesitating for a moment. But then I heave a sigh and move toward the door.
I can try to convince myself that I know this house, having been here before, and I can get him through it and try to find what he needs a lot faster than he can. But the truth is, I want to know what he’s looking for and why. So far he’s been like a ghost, and I’m curious.
Crouching down, I push my hand through the doggy door, listening for feet to come running or a bark. But all I hear is leaves rustling in the wind.
Mason comes up behind me, and I stick my head through, seeing only the inside of the pitch-black garage. Sliding my arm in, I turn on my side, maneuver my shoulders through the tight space, and put my hands down on the cold cement floor, wiggling my body through the small hole.
I inhale the musty air and make out the little, green dot of light by the kitchen door, guessing that must be the opener.
Stepping cautiously in the dark, I hold out my hands and move toward the door, trying to avoid the pool table, couch, and other furnishings I know are in the converted man-cave.
“Don’t turn on any lights,” Masen calls.
“Duh.” My foot hits the step, and I reach out my hand, pressing the button for the opener. The motor starts turning, and the garage door begins to lift up. Masen bends down and slides in under the door, and I press the button, lowering it again.
I twist the handle to the kitchen door and open it, immediately seeing moonlight streaming through a large kitchen window. Masen comes in behind me, closing the door, and I inhale, smelling Trey. It’s funny how people smell like their houses. Or vice versa.
Combinations of leather and wood furniture, Febreeze, laundry soap, the different colognes and perfumes your parents and siblings use, the food your family cooks…all coming together to create a single, solitary scent in your house.