“I did,” I quip, pointing to the stack of textbooks on the coffee table.
She laughs and shakes her head. “That’s not what I mean. Where are your photos and stuff?”
I have a stack of photos sitting in a box in my closet, snapshots of my dad and me when I was little. They’re private. Precious. I keep them put away for a reason.
I brush my hand across the stubble dotting my chin. “Why’d you come over here, Lauren? What’s your so-called emergency?”
It sure as shit wasn’t the need to discuss my décor.
She turns to face me and her hazel eyes catch mine.
“I wanted to apologize.”
Her words are the last thing I was expecting.
She takes a step toward me, and her eyes fall to my bare feet. Her tongue wets her lips, and I wonder if she realizes what she’s doing or if it’s a subconscious response to being in my apartment, alone with me.
“Apologize for what?”
My voice sounds gruff, filled with something I’d rather not name.
“At dinner…Preston—well, he was acting like a real jerk and I didn’t want you to think that I hang out with people like that…that I’m like that.”
“He wasn’t so bad,” I assure her. “He was just throwing a tantrum.”
She scoffs in disbelief. “Yeah, but he crossed a line.”
“Well if you think he’s so rude,” I continue, “why do you hang out with him? Why do you want to impress him?”
She turns away. “I don’t know. I think I keep hoping he’ll turn into something he’s not.” There’s a long pause and then she continues without looking at me, “Someone like you.”
I’m in uncertain waters, so I revert to lawyer mode and continue asking questions. “And what am I, exactly?”
“I don’t know how to put it…someone genuine, someone who tries—a hero.”
I can’t help but smile at her assessment. “I’m not a hero, Lauren.”
“You look like one.”
I swallow and try to keep my gaze away from her bare legs, the smooth skin that runs from her delicate ankle up the length of her calf…higher. She is not a little girl.
But she’s not yet a woman, either, I remind myself.
“Beau?” she asks.
My eyes flick up and I realize she’s turned and caught me staring at her legs.
My heart pounds in my chest and I fist my hands by my sides. Suddenly, I regret holing myself up in this apartment and focusing so much on school. I should be dating, fucking women my own age. I wouldn’t be having this reaction to a goddamn McGehee girl if I hadn’t abstained for the last few months.
“Do you want me to go?” she asks breathily. She knows she’s in over her head.
“Yes, and don’t tell your—” I start, before remembering that I haven’t done anything untoward. “You shouldn’t have come in the first place.”
But she doesn’t leave, and I don’t kick her out. We stand there with half an apartment’s worth of distance between us and—against the guidance of the angel on my shoulder—I’m imagining what that thigh would feel like under my palm, like smooth butter or spun silk.
“The other day when I asked you if you would have appreciated a girl who knew how to lead, you said you would. You said you’d want a girl who was confident and bold.”
I see what’s about to happen as if half of my brain is processing the next few seconds through an alternate timeline. I see her working up the confidence to cross the room toward me, to tip up all the way up on her toes and plant a kiss—probably her first kiss—on my mouth. She’d tremble in my arms, give me anything I wanted. I could take and take and take even though she’d have no clue what she was giving.
Back in reality, she steps toward me and I hold up my hand.
“Lauren.”
Her name comes out sharply, like a heavy door slamming shut. It’s a warning, a bucket of cold water. This isn’t going to happen like it does in the movies she’s seen. She is too innocent, too pure.
24 hours ago, she would have given anything to go to the movies with Preston, to hold hands with Preston, to…I don’t know, share a fucking banana split with Preston. Now here she is, making clumsy moves on a man she hardly knows. If anything can remind me of her glaring youth, it’s her capacity for caprice.
“You need to go,” I say, moving back to my door and whipping it open.
She pauses as she steps past me, reaching out for my fist, but I move it away before she can touch me. That way, when I see Mr. LeBlanc tomorrow, I can still look him in the eye, man to man.
“No one is a hero, Lauren—not me, and definitely not Preston,” I say, tone rough and clear. Her brows furrow as I continue, “Guard your heart and focus on school—that’s what’s important.”
She doesn’t look as upset as she did earlier when I shot her down on my doorstep, and that concerns me. I need to snuff out her hope, prove that her actions tonight were a mistake. This will not be the first night of many.
I DON’T TELL anyone about the night I snuck over to Beau’s apartment, not even Rose—especially not Rose. I tried to talk to her about Beau the night of the pool party when we were up in my room and I was hovering by the window, trying to sneak a peek into his apartment. He was still in there with the brunette girl, studying—or so I hoped.
“Will you give it up already? You’re not going to be able to see them having sex.”
I whip around to where she’s sprawled out on my bed, flipping through TV channels. “What are you talking about?”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing? Trying to spy on that guy?”
“His name is Beau.”
She laughs. “Bo-bo, right—whatever. I don’t know why you bother swooning over him.”
“I’m not swooning over him. I’m into Preston.”
She smirks and shakes her head. “Maybe you have a crush on Preston, but you talk about Beau nonstop.”
“No I don’t!”
She arches a dark brow. “Earlier, I had to listen as you described his smile in excruciating detail.”
“There’s a dimple, that’s all. You can’t deny that he’s hot.”
“Uh huh. He’s not going to date a high school girl though. You might as well just forget about him.”
I stiffen. “I don’t want him to date me…but, still…why wouldn’t he?”
“Uhh, because you’re jailbait? Because he’s like seven years older than you? Because he’s currently boning that pretty brunette? Need I go on?”
Her observations leave me with a weight in the pit of my stomach.
“My dad is older than my mom,” I point out.
“Okay, but I bet they didn’t start dating when your mom was still in high school.”
No, they met in college.
“He doesn’t treat me like I’m in high school.”
That doesn’t convince her of much.
“And besides, I’m not trying to date him.”
I’m not. I’ve just fully come to terms with the fact that I have an all-consuming crush on him. I volley back and forth between Beau and Preston, though something feels off, like they don’t even belong in the same category. That’s the problem—Beau isn’t easy to categorize. He isn’t my peer, and he isn’t a parent. He’s a man, an island unto himself. Powerful, older, intimidating. I blush thinking about him because deep down, I know he doesn’t even belong in my thoughts. I shouldn’t be running through our encounters, dissecting our every move. The prospect of being with Preston is fun, silly—he might make me a little dizzy, like the teacup ride in a kiddie park. Beau, on the other hand, is the Tower of Terror, the ride that makes my palms sweat and my heart race.
For so long, my focus has been on Preston, on my silly crush and my predictable feelings. He elicits just the right amount of toe curling, without all the messy feelings and drama that come with deep desire. But then I met Beau. I know he doesn’t belong in my world and I don’t belong in his, but here we are, sharing our little Garden District realm. I don’t want to profess my love or run off to Mexico with him, I just want more time to toe this line between us, in the gray area that shouldn’t exist. I don’t expect that he’ll ever notice me, but I can’t help hoping he does.