It was the first night Lucas ever spent in my house, in my bedroom, on the couch. It took him a few hours to fall asleep, and I watched as his chest rose and fell, his search for peace finally found in his sleep.
It was heartbreaking, breathtaking, and in a way, it was kind of beautiful.
Lucas Preston was beautiful.
Chapter Six
LUCAS
Lane found out about this craft store a few months ago via Reddit. Yes, apparently there’s a Reddit page for everything. Even craft junkies like her. And, apparently, she traded one Saturday shift for three Sunday shifts at the small movie theater where she works so she could hop on a bus to check it out. When she told me that she’d been, I got so mad. I gave her this huge lecture about how girls like her shouldn’t be traveling on buses by themselves. I yelled, told her she was naive and she should have told me she was going so I could’ve driven her. Then she started getting angry back because she’s crazy. She said that my anger was unjustified and that I was overreacting. I told her she was an idiot. She said I was stupid. We froze each other out for three days. Those three days sucked. So I apologized—even though I didn’t really know what I was sorry for—and told her she was right. She wasn’t. If anything, she was stubborn and clueless. Still, I conceded. Like I said, those three days sucked. She forgave me quickly, then started on about how she was old enough to do what she wanted. It wasn’t about her want to go visit the stupid store. It was about her safety. So I told her that, which then led to another argument. Another three days of suckage, and then, on the fourth day, she opened her locker and there—next to her psychology textbook—was half a Snickers bar.
So, I’m a sucker who hates fighting with his best friend.
She was still wrong.
I was right.
The end.
“This place needs some form of organization,” I whisper, hovering behind her.
“It’s kind of what makes it amazing, though,” she says, half turning to me, her smile uncontainable. She steps over a random pile of who-knows-what. “All this yarn and thread and patterns everywhere.”
“Is there something you’re looking for in particular?” I ask. It’s not that I’m in a rush to get out, but I’m hungry. And antsy. I skipped my run and now I have all this built-up adrenaline, and I don’t know what to do with it.
She smiles up at me, and the adrenaline doubles.
I smile back. “You have a list, don’t you?”
“It’s only a small one. I promise,” she says quickly, her hands on my chest as if she’s trying to calm me. Now she’s biting her lip, her full, strawberry-tasting bottom lip, and an image flashes into my mind with what I could do with all that built-up adrenaline. It includes her, her bed, and her lack of clothing.
Blink. Push out fantasies. Breathe.
I say, “Take your time. Honestly.”
“You can sit over there,” she tells me, removing her hands from me and pointing to a chair covered in yarn. Put your hands back on me, Laney. “Go on your phone or something. I won’t be long.”
“I left my phone on your bedroom floor.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll help you find what you’re looking for. What’s your next project?”
She seems to hesitate. “A cross-stitch.”
Without so much as a flinch, I say, already making my way to the right area, “So we need to find all the right colored threads, right?”
She nods.
Good. I can do that. It’s time-consuming and mind-numbing and it’ll take my thoughts away from her, her bed, her naked in her bed.
She told her dad she’d dated. Oh, hey random thought I tried to forget about. Nice of you to sneak up on me like that.
I place my hand between us, palm up. “List me.”
We spend two and a half hours in the store without so much as a single complaint from me. Maybe because I still feel guilty about last night, or maybe because she’s smiling and happy and no longer sad, because I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t like seeing her sad. Or… maybe because I can’t stop thinking about her “dating” other guys. What does that even mean? She goes on dates, then they drop her off at home and she goes to her room and knits me gloves? Or does she go on a date, sneak the guy back to her room through the basement door and have wild monkey sex with them in the same bed I was just fantasizing about? Wait! Am I sleeping in another guy’s sweat and leftover sex juice when I get into her bed at night? What the fuck, Lane?!
“Are you okay?” she asks, sneaking up behind me. Sneaky Lane. I don’t like Sneaky Lane. Sneaky Lane sneaks guys into her room and does sneaky things to them. “You look lost.”
I am lost, Lane—drowning in visions of you with faceless guys having over-the-top sex in positions I’ve only ever seen on the Internet. Obviously, I don’t say that to her. That would make me insane. “I’m fine,” I tell her. “Did you see anything else you like?”
She nods, her eyes bright. “And now that I’m not saving for college, I can buy all the things!”
I pout, and her hands go to my chest again. I should pout more often.
“We should finish up here and find somewhere to feed you. You look hungry.”
I exhale loudly and place a hand on her waist, the other holding the basket filled with different colored threads. “I am hungry,” I tell her, just not for food. I tighten my grip so I can pull her closer to me. Her arms are at her sides now, her tits pressed against my chest. She got them right after she turned fourteen. Her tits, not her arms. I remember because it was the summer I spent the most time in the lake. I was too embarrassed to show exactly how my body reacted to her body. Stupid uncontrollable body and stupid uncontrollable hormones.
“Where’s the list?” she says, her voice hoarse. She clears her throat, repeats the question. Her cheeks are red. She’s blushing. Fidgeting. Her eyes won’t meet mine. Her body’s reacting to my body. To the closeness. So… maybe not-so-stupid uncontrollable bodies. I like that she’s blushing. That she hasn’t pulled away. That she’s bending over, giving me a clearer view of her tits as she picks up the list from the basket. She turns to face the wall of threads but doesn’t move too far, her back’s to my chest, my hand on her waist, the top of her head an inch below my chin. Coconuts, lime, and Laney. “What number are you up to?” she asks.
One, I almost say. It’s not the answer she’s looking for, but it’s the only number in my head. I have one year left with Laney. One year to make her see me the way I see her.
One.
I’m holding her hand.
I don’t know how it happened, when it happened, but we’re crossing the road toward a diner and we’re holding hands, and not in the way I hold Lachlan’s hand when we cross the road, but in the way I hold my girlfriend’s hand. Because I have one of those… a girlfriend, not a hand. Grace has been my girlfriend for about six months, and she’s the only girl I’ve ever stuck with through an entire summer. Grace is shorter than Lane, blonde, beautiful. She runs track, like me, and knows the demands and the self-control it takes to be where we are. She’s also easy—not sexually, but that, too, I guess—but she’s fun and we get along, which makes me an asshole for enjoying holding another girl’s hand more than hers because like I said, she’s my girlfriend.
