When he sees me, he sets the plate down and gives me a broad smile. I rush into his arms for a long hug.
“Mmm,” he says into my hair. “I missed you. It’s been too long.”
“I just saw you this morning for coffee.”
“I was going into withdrawals. I need a kiss.”
I grin and get up on tiptoes to give him what he wants.
Marina clucks her tongue. “None of that hanky-panky in my kitchen.”
I break away from my boyfriend but keep my arms stretched around his neck. “Did you just say hanky-panky?”
Marina’s response is to shoo us out of the room.
We twine our fingers and go down the steps into the basement, taking his sandwich with us. Ezra slips off his work boots, and I turn on the TV.
It’s campaign season, so of course, the first commercial to pop up is one for Harrison Wallace. “Like you, the most important thing in my life is my family.” The commercial cuts to pictures of Wallace’s perfect blond wife and three perfect blond kids. They’re in a kitchen, cooking together. “This election, my vote is for better healthcare. I want to build more hospitals and bring better healthcare funding to Tennessee. Vote for me, Harrison Wallace, for senator, because your family matters.”
I shut my eyes. It’s a brilliant commercial. It would be in poor taste for Wallace’s campaign to come right out and attack me for being a drug user, but he can get away with playing up his own family. That commercial was the most wholesome thing I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t be surprised if homemade apple pies and lemonade started flying out of the TV.
There’s no room for error in Dad’s campaign. I understand enough about politics to know that if we were in any other part of the country, say New York or California, my mistakes wouldn’t become as major a campaign point. Because let’s be honest, elections in the South are all about family values. They’re about tradition.
Ezra bumps his knee against mine. “You all right?”
I paste on a fake smile. “Definitely.”
“Liar. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“Fine. It’s been a long week, I’m tired, and I’m hungry.” I side-eye his sandwich.
With a laugh, he passes me a triangle, and we chew, content in the silence.
Since Mom and Dad aren’t coming home tonight, there’s no rush to fool around before they get back. I love just relaxing with Ezra on the couch, on the rug, in the armchair. We keep moving around the room as he play-wrestles with me and tickles me, but I always end up in his lap again, kissing his lips, curling my fingers into his hair.
My smile is real now.
He slightly lifts my top and runs his warm fingers over my lower back. Heat flares in his green eyes. I want to take this further, but Marina could walk through the basement on her way to the laundry. I hope she wouldn’t be doing a load of clothes on a Friday night, but you never know.
“Let’s go to my room,” I say between kisses.
“You are insatiable.”
I playfully push his chest. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No, it’s a very, very good thing. I love that about you.”
“You love that I’m horny?” I tease.
He bursts out laughing. “I love that you always go for what you want. I wish I could do that.”
I roll my eyes. “I hate it when you sell yourself short. You can do whatever you want, Ez.”
“You don’t get it. I can’t.”
I take a deep breath and lay it out there. “I was doing research online, and most colleges offer help for people who have learning disabilities.”
He winces when I say that, although I don’t entirely get why. It’s not like it’s something he can help; it’s a genetic thing. I guess it’s sort of like mental illness. It’s not rare by any means, and it’s not anything to be ashamed of, but people are still scared of the stigma that comes along with it.
But I don’t know what else to call dyslexia other than a learning disability. I certainly can’t call it a problem or an issue. Because it’s not.
“I think if you explain your situation to Cornell, they would help. You could go back to school.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me, Tease? I thought you were horny.”
I pinch his arm. “I’m being serious!”
“You’re serious all the time.”
“I am not,” I reply, even though the guidance counselor said something very similar.
I’ll show them who’s serious.
I launch an attack, tackling him to the carpet. He retaliates with tickles. I squeal and escape by crawling away. Laughing, he chases after me on his hands and knees. He snatches my ankle, pulling me up close to him, pinning me to the floor and pushing his hips to mine with a sexy grin. I can feel his hardness through my leggings; it makes me gasp. Gasp—and think naughty thoughts. We’re still getting to know each other again and haven’t slept together, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think about it.
He softly kisses my lips, cupping my cheek with his hand. When he opens his eyes and smiles lazily, I flip him onto his back and straddle his hips.
“I have one more thing to say,” I announce.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he mutters.
“I’ll stop being serious after I say this.”
“Fine, go ahead.”
“Please call Cornell and ask how they can help.”
“Taylor, seriously. We’ve been through this. I hate classes. I hate taking notes. I hate writing papers. I hate reading. I’m happy now.”
“But you want to be an architect.”
“What I want and what’s going to happen are very different things. You think my dad would pay for me to go to school to become an architect?”
“You could always get student loans.”
With his hands wrapped around my waist, we sit in silence, looking at each other.
He’s right. I am being way too serious for a Friday night. So I start another wrestling-tickling fight, and for a second time, I end up in his lap with his arms straitjacketed around me. He kisses my nose.
That’s when I hear a throat being cleared.
I fall off Ezra’s lap backward, then scramble to a sitting position. I swivel around to find Oliver.
“Oll!” I squeal, jumping to my feet and hurtling myself into his arms. It’s so good to see my brother. I hug him hard, then step back to take him in. Same disheveled auburn hair. Dark jeans, a corduroy jacket with elbow patches, a white button-down, and brown loafers. Totally an outfit my mother bought him. His eyes glare from behind his glasses.
He pats my back stiffly. “What’s going on here?”
“Creepy,” I say. “Your voice sounds just like Dad’s.”
No one laughs at my joke.
I start, “Ezra and I—”
“Oll, I need to speak with you in private,” Ezra interjects.
“Oh, come on,” I complain. “Just tell him now.”
“Tell me what? That my best friend is fooling around with my baby sister?”
“We need to talk,” Ezra repeats.
Oliver nods at Ezra. “Upstairs.”
My brother storms out of the room. Ezra takes a few long, steadying breaths, stands, and adjusts the front of his jeans. He blushes when he notices me staring. Then he trudges up the steps after Oliver.