Ugly Love

Chapter thirty-nine


MILES


I stand in the doorway of my bedroom and watch her sleep. She doesn’t know it, but I do this every morning she’s here with me. She’s what starts my day off right.

The first time I did this was the morning after I met her. I couldn’t remember much from the night before. The only thing I remembered was her. I was on the couch, and she was stroking my hair, whispering, telling me to go to sleep. When I woke up in Corbin’s apartment the next morning, I couldn’t get her out of my head. I thought she had been a dream until I saw her purse in the living room.

I peeked inside her bedroom just to see if anyone was in the apartment with me. What I felt the moment I laid eyes on her was something I hadn’t felt since the moment I first laid eyes on Rachel.

I felt like I was floating. Her skin and her hair and her lips and the way she looked like an angel while I stood there and watched her brought back so many feelings that had become foreign to me over the past six years.

I had gone so long refusing to allow myself to feel anything for anyone.

Not that I could have controlled the feelings I was experiencing toward Tate that day. I couldn’t control them if I’d wanted to.

I know, because I tried.

I tried like hell.

But the second she opened her eyes and looked at me, I knew. She was either going to be the death of me . . . or she was going to be the one who finally brought me back to life.

The only problem I had with that was the fact that I didn’t want to be brought back to life. I was comfortable. Protecting myself from the possibility of experiencing what I had experienced in the past was my only priority. However, there were so many moments when I forgot what my only priority was supposed to be.

When I finally caved and kissed her, that was the point at which everything changed. I wanted so much more after experiencing that kiss with her. I wanted her mouth and her body and her mind, and the only reason I stopped was that I felt myself also wanting her heart. I was good at lying to myself, though. Convincing myself that I was strong enough to have her physically and no other way. I didn’t want to get hurt again, and I sure as hell didn’t want to hurt her.

I did anyway, though. I hurt her so much. More than once. Now I plan to spend a lifetime making it up to her.

I walk to my bed and sit on the edge of it. She feels the bed shift, and she opens her eyes but not all the way. A hint of a smile plays on her lips before she pulls the covers over her head and rolls over.

We officially began dating six months ago, and that’s been plenty long enough for me to realize she’s not at all a morning person. I lean forward and kiss the area of blanket covering up her ear.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” I whisper.

She groans, so I lift the covers up and slide in behind her, wrapping myself around her. Her groan eventually turns into a soft moan.

“Tate, you need to get up. We have a plane to catch.”

That gets her attention.

She rolls over cautiously and pulls the covers from over our heads. “What the hell do you mean we have a plane to catch?”

I’m grinning, trying to contain my anticipation. “Get up, get dressed, let’s go.”

She’s eyeing me suspiciously, which makes total sense, considering it’s not even five o’clock in the morning yet. “I know you know how rare it is for me to have an entire day off, so this better be worth it.”

I laugh and give her a quick kiss. “That all depends on our ability to be punctual.” I stand up and pat the mattress several times with the palms of my hands. “So get up, get up, get up.”

She laughs and throws the covers off of her completely. She scoots to the edge of the bed, and I help her stand up. “It’s hard to stay irritated with you when you’re this giddy, Miles.”

? ? ?

We reach the lobby, and Cap is waiting at the elevator just as I asked him to. He has her juice in a to-go cup and our breakfast. I love the relationship they have. I was a little worried to reveal to Tate that I had known Cap all my life. When I finally told her, she was irritated with both of us. Mostly because she assumed Cap was telling me everything she confessed to him.

I assured her Cap wouldn’t do that.

I know he wouldn’t, because Cap is one of the few people in this world I trust.

He knew just the right things to say to me without appearing as though he were lecturing me or giving me advice. He’d always say just enough to make me think long and hard about my situation with Tate. Luckily, he’s one of the few people who grow wiser with age. He knew what he was doing with both of us all along.
     



“Morning, Tate,” he says to her, grinning from ear to ear. He holds out his arm for her to take, and she looks back and forth between us.

“What’s going on?” she asks Cap as he begins to walk her toward the lobby exit.

He smiles. “The boy is about to take me on my first-ever ride in an airplane. I wanted you to come along, too.”

She tells him she doesn’t believe this is his first time in an airplane.

“It’s true,” he says. “Just ’cause I have the moniker don’t mean I’ve ever been on a real plane.”

The look of appreciation she shoots me over her shoulder is enough to declare this day one of my favorites, and it’s not even daylight yet.

? ? ?

“You okay back there, Cap?” I say into the headset. He’s seated right behind Tate, staring out his window. He gives me a thumbs-up but doesn’t take his eyes off the window. The sun hasn’t even broken through the clouds yet, and there’s not very much to see at this point. We’ve only been in the plane ten minutes, but I’m pretty sure he’s just as fascinated and mesmerized as I hoped he would be.

I return my attention to the controls until I reach optimal altitude, and then I mute Cap’s headset. I glance at Tate, and she’s staring at me, watching me with an appreciative smile spread across her lips.

“Want to know why we’re here?” I ask her.

She glances over her shoulder at Cap and then looks back at me. “Because he’s never done this before.”

I shake my head, timing it just right. “Remember the day we were driving back from your parents’ house after Thanksgiving?”

She nods, but her eyes are curious now.

“You asked what it was like to experience the sunrise from up here. It’s not something that can be described, Tate.” I point out her window. “You just have to experience it for yourself.”

She immediately turns and looks out her window. Her palms press against the glass, and for five minutes straight, she doesn’t move a muscle. She watches it the entire time, and I don’t know how, but I fall even more in love with her in this moment.

When the sun has broken through the clouds and the airplane is completely filled with sunlight, she finally turns back to face me. Her eyes are filled with tears, and she doesn’t speak a word. She just reaches for my hand and holds it.

? ? ?

“Wait here,” I tell her. “I want to help Cap out first. A driver is taking him back to the apartment, because you and I are going to breakfast after this.”

She tells Cap good-bye and waits patiently in the plane as I help him down the steps. He reaches into his pocket and hands me the boxes, then flashes me one of his approving smiles. I shove the boxes into the pocket of my jacket and turn back toward the steps.

“Hey, boy!” Cap yells, right before climbing into the car. I pause and turn around to face him. He looks at the plane behind me. “Thank you,” he says, waving his hand down the length of the plane. “For this.”

I nod, but he disappears inside the vehicle before I can tell him thank you in return.

I climb back up the steps and into the plane. She’s unbuckling her safety belt, getting prepared to exit the plane, but I slide back into my seat.

She smiles at me warmly. “You’re incredible, Miles Mikel Archer. And I have to say, you look pretty damn hot flying an airplane. We should do this more often.”

She gives me a quick peck on the mouth and begins to get up out of her seat.

I push her back down. “We’re not finished,” I say, turning and facing her full on. I take her hands in mine and look down at them, inhaling slowly, preparing to say everything she deserves to hear. “That day you asked me about watching the sunrise?” I look her in the eyes again. “I need to thank you for that. It was the first moment in more than six years I felt like I wanted to love someone again.”

She blows out a quick breath with her smile and pulls in her bottom lip to try to hide it. I lift a hand to her face and pull her lip out from beneath her teeth with the pressure of my thumb. “I told you not to do that. I love your smile almost as much as I love you.”

I lean forward to kiss her again, but I keep my eyes open so I can make sure that I’m retrieving the black box first. When I have it in my hand, I stop kissing her and pull away. Her eyes fall to the box and immediately grow wide, moving back and forth between the box and my face. Her hand comes up to her mouth, and she covers her gasp.

“Miles,” she says, continuing to trade glances between me and the box in my hands.

I cut her off. “It’s not what you think,” I say, immediately opening the box to reveal the key. “It’s kind of not what you think,” I hesitantly add.

Her eyes are wide and hopeful, and I’m relieved by her reaction. I can tell by her smile that she wants this.

I pull the key out and flip her hand over, then place it in her palm. She stares at the key for several seconds and looks back up at me. “Tate,” I say, looking at her with hope. “Will you move in with me?”

She looks down at the key one more time, then says two words that bring an immediate smile to my face.

Hell and yes.

I lean forward and kiss her. Our legs and arms and mouths become two pieces of a puzzle, fitting together effortlessly. She winds up in my lap, straddling me in the cockpit of the airplane.

It’s cramped and tight.

It’s perfect.

“I’m not a very good cook, though,” she warns. “And you do laundry way better than I do. I just throw all the whites and colors together. And you know I’m not very nice in the morning.” She’s holding my face, spouting off every warning she can, as if I don’t know what I’m getting myself into.

“Listen, Tate,” I tell her. “I want your mess. I want your clothes on my bedroom floor. I want your toothbrush in my bathroom. I want your shoes in my closet. I want your mediocre leftovers in my fridge.”

She laughs at that.

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” I say, pulling the other box from my pocket. I hold it up between us and open it, revealing the ring. “I also want you in my future. Forever.”

Her mouth is open in shock, and she’s staring at the ring. She’s frozen. I hope she doesn’t have doubts, because I have absolutely none when it comes to wanting to spend the rest of my life with her. I know it’s only been six months, but when you know, you know.

Her silence makes me nervous, so I quickly remove the ring and pick up her hand. “Will you break rule number two with me, Tate? Because I really want to marry you.”
     



She doesn’t even have to say yes. Her tears and her kiss and her laugh say it for her.

She pulls back and looks at me with so much love and appreciation it makes my chest hurt.

She’s absolutely beautiful. Her hope is beautiful. The smile on her face is beautiful. The tears streaming down her cheeks are beautiful.

Her

love





is





beautiful.





She exhales a soft breath and leans in slowly, gently pressing

her lips to mine. Her kiss is filled with tenderness and affection

and an unspoken promise that she’s mine now.

Forever.

“Miles,” she whispers against my mouth, teasing my lips with

hers. “I’ve never made love in an airplane before.”

A smile immediately forms on my lips. It’s as if she somehow

infiltrated my thoughts.

“I’ve never made love to my fiancée before,” I say in response.

Her hands slowly slide down my neck and shirt until her

fingers meet the button on my jeans.

“Well, I think we need to rectify that,” she says, ending her

sentence with a kiss.

When her mouth meets mine again, it’s as if every last piece of

my armor disintegrates and every last piece of ice surrounding

the glacier that was my heart melts and evaporates.

Whoever coined the phrase, I love you to death obviously never

experienced the kind of love Tate and I share.

If that were the case, the phrase would be I love you to life.

Because that’s exactly what Tate did.

She loved me back to life.

The

end.





EPILOGUE


I think back to the day I married her.

It was one of the best days of my life.

I remember standing next to Ian and Corbin at the end of the

aisle. We were waiting for her to walk through the doors when

Corbin leaned over and whispered something to me.

He said, “You’re the only one who could have ever met my

standards for her, Miles. I’m happy it’s you.”

I was happy it was me, too.

That was more than two years ago, and every day since then,

I’ve somehow fallen in love with her a little bit more.

Or flew, rather.

I didn’t cry the day I married her, though.

Her tears were

falling

falling

falling

that day,

but mine weren’t.

I was convinced they never would.

Not in the way I wished they could.

It was eight months ago when we found out we were having a

baby.

We weren’t trying to have a baby, but we also weren’t not

trying.

“If it happens it happens,” Tate said.

It happened.

When we found out, we were both excited.

She cried.

Her tears were

falling

falling

falling,

but mine weren’t.

As excited as I was, I was also scared.

I was scared of the fear that comes along with loving someone

that much.

Scared of everything bad that could happen.

I was scared that my memories would take away from the day I

became a father again.

Well, it just happened.

And I’m still scared.

Terrified.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor says.

A girl.

We just had a baby girl.

I just became a father again.

Tate just became a mother.

Feel something, Miles.

Tate looks up at me.

I know she can see the fear in my eyes. I also know how much

pain she’s in right now, but she still somehow manages a

smile.

“Sam,” she whispers, saying her name out loud for the first

time. Tate insisted we name her Sam in honor of Cap’s real

name, Samuel.

I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

The nurse walks over to Tate and lays Sam in her arms.

Tate begins to cry.

My eyes are still dry.

I’m still too scared to look away from Tate and down at our

daughter.

I’m not afraid of what I’ll feel when I look at her.

I’m afraid of what I won’t feel.

I’m terrified my past experiences have ruined any ability I have

to feel what every father should feel in this moment.

“Come here,” Tate says, wanting me closer.

I sit down next to them on the bed.

She hands Sam to me, and my hands are shaking, but I take her

anyway.

I close my eyes and release a slow breath before finding the

courage to open them again.

I feel Tate’s hand fall gently to my arm.

“She’s beautiful, Miles,” she whispers. “Look at her.”

I open my eyes and inhale sharply when I see her.

She looks just like he did, except that she has Tate’s brown

hair.

Her eyes are blue.

She has my eyes.

I

feel

it.

It’s all there.

Everything I felt the first time I held him in my arms is every

single thing I’m feeling now as I look down at her.

Believing that I lacked the ability to love someone in this

capacity again was the only fear I had left to conquer.

One look at Sam, and she just helped me conquer that fear.

She’s already my hero, and she’s only two minutes old.

“She’s so beautiful, Tate,” I whisper. “So beautiful.”

My voice cracks.

My face is covered in tears.

Falling

Falling

Falling.

For the first time since the moment I held Clayton in my arms,

I’m crying tears of joy.

Rachel was right. The pain will always be there.

So will the fear.

But the pain and fear are no longer my life. They’re only

moments.

Moments that are constantly overshadowed with every minute

I spend with Tate.

And now with every minute I spend with Sam.

Me and Tate and Sam.

My family.

I kiss her on the forehead, and then I lean over and kiss Tate

for giving me something this beautiful again.

Tate lays her head on my arm, and we both watch her.

Our daughter.

I love you so much, Sam.

I’m looking down at the perfection we created when it hits me.

It’s all worth it.

It’s the beautiful moments like these that make up for the ugly

love.





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Sunday, October 28, 2012

7:29 p.m.


I stand up and look down at the bed, holding my breath in fear of the sounds that are escalating from deep within my throat.

I will not cry.

I will not cry.

Slowly sinking to my knees, I place my hands on the edge of the bed and run my fingers over the yellow stars poured across the deep blue background of the comforter. I stare at the stars until they begin to blur from the tears that are clouding my vision.

I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my head into the bed, grabbing fistfuls of the blanket. My shoulders begin to shake as the sobs I’ve been trying to contain violently break out of me. With one swift movement, I stand up, scream, and rip the blanket off the bed, throwing it across the room.
     



I ball my fists and frantically look around for something else to throw. I grab the pillows off the bed and chuck them at the reflection in the mirror of the girl I no longer know. I watch as the girl in the mirror stares back at me, sobbing pathetically. The weakness in her tears infuriates me. We begin to run toward each other until our fists collide against the glass, smashing the mirror. I watch as she falls into a million shiny pieces onto the carpet.

I grip the edges of the dresser and push it sideways, letting out another scream that has been pent up for way too long. When the dresser comes to rest on its back, I rip open the drawers and throw the contents across the room, spinning and throwing and kicking at everything in my path. I grab at the sheer blue curtain panels and yank them until the rod snaps and the curtains fall around me. I reach over to the boxes piled high in the corner, and without even knowing what’s inside, I take the top one and throw it against the wall with as much force as my five-foot, three-inch frame can muster.

“I hate you!” I cry. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

I’m throwing whatever I can find in front of me at whatever else I can find in front of me. Every time I open my mouth to scream, I taste the salt from the tears that are streaming down my cheeks.

Holder’s arms suddenly engulf me from behind and grip me so tightly I become immobile. I jerk and toss and scream some more until my actions are no longer thought out. They’re just reactions.

“Stop,” he says calmly against my ear, unwilling to release me. I hear him, but I pretend not to. Or I just don’t care. I continue to struggle against his grasp but he only tightens his grip.

“Don’t touch me!” I yell at the top of my lungs, clawing at his arms. Again, it doesn’t faze him.

Don’t touch me. Please, please, please.

The small voice echoes in my mind and I immediately become limp in his arms. I become weaker as my tears grow stronger, consuming me. I become nothing more than a vessel for the tears that won’t stop shedding.

I am weak, and I’m letting him win.

Holder loosens his grip around me and places his hands on my shoulders, then turns me around to face him. I can’t even look at him. I melt against his chest from exhaustion and defeat, taking in fistfuls of his shirt as I sob, my cheek pressed against his heart. He places his hand on the back of my head and lowers his mouth to my ear.

“Sky.” His voice is steady and unaffected. “You need to leave. Now.”





Saturday, August 25, 2012

11:50 p.m.


Two months earlier . . .


I’d like to think most of the decisions I’ve made throughout my seventeen years have been smart ones. Hopefully intelligence is measured by weight, and the few dumb decisions I’ve made will be outweighed by the intelligent ones. If that’s the case, I’ll need to make a shitload of smart decisions tomorrow because sneaking Grayson into my bedroom window for the third time this month weighs pretty heavily on the dumb side of the scale. However, the only accurate measurement of a decision’s level of stupidity is time . . . so I guess I’ll wait and see if I get caught before I break out the gavel.

Despite what this may look like, I am not a slut. Unless, of course, the definition of slut is based on the fact that I make out with lots of people, regardless of my lack of attraction to them. In that case, one might have grounds for debate.

“Hurry,” Grayson mouths behind the closed window, obviously irritated at my lack of urgency.

I unlock the latch and slide the window up as quietly as possible. Karen may be an unconventional parent, but when it comes to boys sneaking through bedroom windows at midnight, she’s your typical, disapproving mother.

“Quiet,” I whisper. Grayson hoists himself up and throws one leg over the ledge, then climbs into my bedroom. It helps that the windows on this side of the house are barely three feet from the ground; it’s almost like having my own door. In fact, Six and I have probably used our windows to go back and forth to each other’s houses more than we’ve used actual doors. Karen has become so used to it, she doesn’t even question my window being open the majority of the time.

Before I close the curtain, I glance to Six’s bedroom window. She waves at me with one hand while pulling on Jaxon’s arm with the other as he climbs into her bedroom. As soon as Jaxon is safely inside, he turns and sticks his head back out the window. “Meet me at your truck in an hour,” he whispers loudly to Grayson. He closes Six’s window and shuts her curtains.

Six and I have been joined at the hip since the day she moved in next door four years ago. Our bedroom windows are adjacent to each other, which has proven to be extremely convenient. Things started out innocently enough. When we were fourteen, I would sneak into her room at night and we would steal ice cream from the freezer and watch movies. When we were fifteen, we started sneaking boys in to eat ice cream and watch movies with us. By the time we were sixteen, the ice cream and movies took a backseat to the boys. Now, at seventeen, we don’t even bother leaving our respective bedrooms until after the boys go home. That’s when the ice cream and movies take precedence again.

Six goes through boyfriends like I go through flavors of ice cream. Right now her flavor of the month is Jaxon. Mine is Rocky Road. Grayson and Jaxon are best friends, which is how Grayson and I were initially thrown together. When Six’s flavor of the month has a hot best friend, she eases him into my graces. Grayson is definitely hot. He’s got an undeniably great body, perfectly sloppy hair, piercing dark eyes . . . the works. The majority of girls I know would feel privileged just to be in the same room as him.

It’s too bad I don’t.

I close the curtains and spin around to find Grayson inches from my face, ready to get the show started. He places his hands on my cheeks and flashes his panty-dropping grin. “Hey, beautiful.” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond before his lips greet mine in a sloppy introduction. He continues kissing me while slipping off his shoes. He slides them off effortlessly while we both walk toward my bed, mouths still meshed together. The ease with which he does both things simultaneously is impressive and disturbing. He slowly eases me back onto my bed. “Is your door locked?”

“Go double check,” I say. He gives me a quick peck on the lips before he hops up to ensure the door is locked. I’ve made it thirteen years with Karen and have never been grounded; I don’t want to give her any reason to start now. I’ll be eighteen in a few weeks and even then, I doubt she’ll change her parenting style as long as I’m under her roof.
     



Not that her parenting style is a negative one. It’s just . . . very contradictory. She’s been strict my whole life. We’ve never had access to the internet, cell phones, or even a television because she believes technology is the root of all evil in the world. Yet, she’s extremely lenient in other regards. She allows me to go out with Six whenever I want, and as long as she knows where I am, I don’t even really have a curfew. I’ve never pushed that one too far, though, so maybe I do have a curfew and I just don’t realize it.

She doesn’t care if I cuss, even though I rarely do. She even lets me have wine with dinner every now and then. She talks to me more like I’m her friend than her daughter (even though she adopted me thirteen years ago) and has somehow even warped me into being (almost) completely honest with her about everything that goes on in my life.

There is no middle ground with her. She’s either extremely lenient or extremely strict. She’s like a conservative liberal. Or a liberal conservative. Whatever she is, she’s hard to figure out, which is why I stopped trying years ago.

The only thing we’ve ever really butted heads on was the issue of public school. She has homeschooled me my whole life (public school is another root of evil) and I’ve been begging to be enrolled since Six planted the idea in my head. I’ve been applying to colleges and feel like I’ll have a better chance at getting into the schools that I want if I can add a few extracurricular activities to the applications. After months of incessant pleas from Six and me, Karen finally conceded and allowed me to enroll for my senior year. I could have enough credits to graduate from my home study program in just a couple of months, but a small part of me has always had a desire to experience life as a normal teenager.

Of course, if I had known then that Six would be leaving for a foreign exchange the same week as what was supposed to be our first day of senior year together, I never would have entertained the idea of public school. But I’m unforgivably stubborn and would rather stab myself in the meaty part of my hand with a fork than tell Karen I’ve changed my mind.

I’ve tried to avoid thinking about the fact that I won’t have Six this year. I know how much she was hoping the exchange would work out, but the selfish part of me was really hoping it wouldn’t. The idea of having to walk through those doors without her terrifies me. But I realize that our separation is inevitable and I can only go so long before I’m forced into the real world where other people besides Six and Karen live.

My lack of access to the real world has been replaced completely by books, and it can’t be healthy to live in a land of happily-ever-afters. Reading has also introduced me to the (perhaps dramatized) horrors of high school and first days and cliques and mean girls. It doesn’t help that, according to Six, I’ve already got a bit of a reputation just being associated with her. Six doesn’t have the best track record for celibacy, and apparently some of the guys I’ve made out with don’t have the best track record for secrecy. The combination should make for a pretty interesting first day of school.

Not that I care. I didn’t enroll to make friends or impress anyone, so as long as my unwarranted reputation doesn’t interfere with my ultimate goal, I’ll get along just fine.

I hope.

Grayson walks back toward the bed after ensuring my door is locked, and he shoots me a seductive grin. “How about a little striptease?” He sways his hips and inches his shirt up, revealing his hard-earned set of abs. I’m beginning to notice he flashes them any chance he gets. He’s pretty much your typical, self-absorbed bad boy.

I laugh when he twirls the shirt around his head and throws it at me, then slides on top of me again. He slips his hand behind my neck, pulling my mouth back into position.

The first time Grayson snuck into my room was a little over a month ago, and he made it clear from the beginning that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. I made it clear that I wasn’t looking for him, so naturally we hit it off right away. Of course, he’ll be one of the few people I know at school, so I’m worried it might mess up the good thing we’ve got going—which is absolutely nothing.

He’s been here less than three minutes and he’s already got his hand up my shirt. I think it’s safe to say he’s not here for my stimulating conversation. His lips move from my mouth in favor of my neck, so I use the moment of respite to inhale deeply and try again to feel something.

Anything.

I fix my eyes on the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars adhered to the ceiling above my bed, vaguely aware of the lips that have inched their way to my chest. There are seventy-six of them. Stars, that is. I know this because for the last few weeks I’ve had ample time to count them while I’ve been in this same predicament. Me, lying unnoticeably unresponsive, while Grayson explores my face and neck, and sometimes my chest, with his curious, overexcited lips.

Why, if I’m not into this, do I let him do it?

I’ve never had any emotional connection to the guys I make out with. Or rather, the guys that make out with me. It’s unfortunately mostly one-sided. I’ve only had one guy come close to provoking a physical or emotional response from me once, and that turned out to be a self-induced delusion. His name was Matt and we ended up dating for less than a month before his idiosyncrasies got the best of me. Like how he refused to drink bottled water unless it was through a straw. Or the way his nostrils flared right before he leaned in to kiss me. Or the way he said, “I love you,” after only three weeks of declaring ourselves exclusive.

Yeah. That last one was the kicker. Buh-bye Matty boy.

Six and I have analyzed my lack of physical response to guys many times in the past. For a while she suspected I might be gay. After a very brief and awkward “theorytesting” kiss between us when we were sixteen, we both concluded that wasn’t the case. It’s not that I don’t enjoy making out with guys. I do enjoy it—otherwise, I wouldn’t do it. I just don’t enjoy it for the same reasons as other girls. I’ve never been swept off my feet. I don’t get butterflies. In fact, the whole idea of being swooned by anyone is foreign to me. The real reason I enjoy making out with guys is simply that it makes me feel completely and comfortably numb. It’s situations like the one I’m in right now with Grayson when it’s nice for my mind to shut down. It just completely stops, and I like that feeling.
     



My eyes are focused on the seventeen stars in the upper right quadrant of the cluster on my ceiling, when I suddenly snap back to reality. Grayson’s hands have ventured further than I’ve allowed them to in the past and I quickly become aware of the fact that he has unbuttoned my jeans and his fingers are working their way around the cotton edge of my panties.

“No, Grayson,” I whisper, pushing his hand away.

He pulls his hand back and groans, then presses his forehead into my pillow. “Come on, Sky.” He’s breathing heavily against my neck. He adjusts his weight to his right arm and looks down at me, attempting to play me with his smile.

Did I mention I’m immune to his panty-dropping grin?

“How much longer are you gonna keep this up?” He slides his hand over my stomach and inches his fingertips into my jeans again.

My skin crawls. “Keep what up?” I attempt to ease out from under him.

He pushes up on his hands and looks down at me like I’m clueless. “This ‘good girl’ act you’ve been trying to put on. I’m over it, Sky. Let’s just do this already.”

This brings me back to the fact that, contrary to popular belief, I am not a slut. I’ve never had sex with any of the boys I’ve made out with, including the currently pouting Grayson. I’m aware that my lack of sexual response would probably make it easier on an emotional level to have sex with random people. However, I’m also aware that it might be the very reason I shouldn’t have sex. I know that once I cross that line, the rumors about me will no longer be rumors. They’ll all be fact. The last thing I want is for the things people say about me to be validated. I guess I can chalk my almost eighteen years of virginity up to sheer stubbornness.

For the first time in the ten minutes he’s been here, I notice the smell of alcohol reeking from him. “You’re drunk.” I push against his chest. “I told you not to come over here drunk again.” He rolls off me and I stand up to button my pants and pull my shirt back into place. I’m relieved he’s drunk. I’m beyond ready for him to leave.

He sits up on the edge of the bed and grabs my waist, pulling me toward him. He wraps his arms around me and rests his head against my stomach. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just that I want you so bad I don’t think I can take coming over here again if you don’t let me have you.” He lowers his hands and cups my butt, then presses his lips against the area of skin where my shirt meets my jeans.

“Then don’t come over here.” I roll my eyes and back away from him, then head to the window. When I pull the curtain back, Jaxon is already making his way out of Six’s window. Somehow we both managed to condense this hour-long visit into ten minutes. I glance at Six and she gives me the all-knowing “time for a new flavor” look.

She follows Jaxon out of her window and walks over to me. “Is Grayson drunk, too?”

I nod. “Strike three.” I turn and look at Grayson, who’s lying back on the bed, ignorant of the fact that he’s no longer welcome. I walk over to the bed and pick his shirt up, tossing it at his face. “Leave,” I say. He looks up at me and cocks an eyebrow, then begrudgingly slides off the bed when he sees I’m not making a joke. He slips his shoes back on, pouting like a four-year-old. I step aside to let him out.

Six waits until Grayson has cleared the window, then she climbs inside when one of the guys mumbles the word “whores.” Once inside, Six rolls her eyes and turns around to stick her head out.

“Funny how we’re whores because you didn’t get laid. A*sholes.” She shuts the window and walks over to the bed, plopping down on it and crossing her hands behind her head. “And another one bites the dust.”

I laugh, but my laugh is cut short by a loud bang on my bedroom door. I immediately go unlock it, then step aside, preparing for Karen to barge in. Her motherly instincts don’t let me down. She looks around the room frantically until she eyes Six on the bed.

“Dammit,” she says, spinning around to face me. She puts her hands on her hips and frowns. “I could have sworn I heard boys in here.”

I walk over to the bed and attempt to hide the sheer panic coursing throughout my body. “And you seem disappointed because . . .” I absolutely don’t understand her reaction to things sometimes. Like I said before . . . contradictory.

“You turn eighteen in a month. I’m running out of time to ground you for the first time ever. You need to start screwing up a little more, kid.”

I breathe a sigh of relief, seeing she’s only kidding. I almost feel guilty that she doesn’t actually suspect her daughter was being felt up five minutes earlier in this very room. My heart is pounding against my chest so incredibly loud, I’m afraid she might hear it.

“Karen?” Six says from behind us. “If it makes you feel better, two hotties just made out with us, but we kicked them out right before you walked in because they were drunk.”

My jaw drops and I spin around to shoot Six a look that I’m hoping will let her know that sarcasm isn’t at all funny when it’s the truth.

Karen laughs. “Well, maybe tomorrow night you’ll get some cute sober boys.”

I don’t think I have to worry about Karen hearing my heartbeat anymore, because it just completely stopped.

“Sober boys, huh? I think I can arrange that,” Six says, winking at me.

“Are you staying the night?” Karen says to Six as she makes her way back to the bedroom door.

Six shrugs her shoulders. “I think we’ll stay at my house tonight. It’s my last week in my own bed for six months. Plus, I’ve got Channing Tatum on the flat-screen.”

I glance back at Karen and see it starting.

“Don’t, Mom.” I begin walking toward her, but I can see the mist forming in her eyes. “No, no, no.” By the time I reach her, it’s too late. She’s bawling. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s crying. Not because it makes me emotional, but because it annoys the hell out of me. And it’s awkward.

“Just one more,” she says, rushing toward Six. She’s already hugged her no less than ten times today. I almost think she’s sadder than I am that Six is leaving in a few days. Six obliges her request for the eleventh hug and winks at me over Karen’s shoulder. I practically have to pry them apart, just so Karen will get out of my room.
     



She walks back to the door and turns around one last time. “I hope you meet a hot Italian boy,” she says to Six.

“I better meet more than just one,” Six deadpans.

When the door closes behind Karen, I spin around and jump on the bed, then punch Six in the arm. “You’re such a bitch,” I say. “That wasn’t funny. I thought I got caught.”

She laughs and grabs my hand, then stands up. “Come. I’ve got Rocky Road.”

She doesn’t have to ask twice.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


I have no idea how I came into the position of writing acknowledgments for my eighth book. It’s definitely a surreal moment, and one I would never have been able to experience if it weren’t for the following people.

The entire Dystel & Goderich team, for your continued support and encouragement.

Johanna Castillo, Judith Curr, and the entire Atria Books family. You guys keep it fun, and I’m forever grateful to be part of one of the coolest publishing teams in the industry.

To all my friends and beta-readers, you guys know who you are. Your feedback and support continue to baffle me. Know that I love you and thank you and couldn’t do this without any of you.

My amazing family. I don’t know how I lucked out and got the best one, but I’ll never take any of you for granted. Especially my four boys.

FP gals, y’all always know exactly when to fire the glitter cannons and release the unicorns. We make a great team.

To my Weblichs. We may not know how to properly pronounce Weblich, but we wear the name with pride. I don’t even know what to say, other than thank you for giving me a place to go when I need encouragement, a good laugh, and a nice reality check.

To the CoHorts for your unrivaled support. You make this job not a job at all.

And last but definitely not least, to my NPTBF. I will forever be grateful for being disorganized and not knowing how to pack jewelry. Otherwise, I would have missed out on one of the greatest, oddest, most unethical and random relationships of my life.