Interim (27 page)

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m not jealous of you or anything. I’m so over Regan Walters. But I guess I just feel like you two have your own thing going, and I don’t really fit into it.”

“You and I were friends first,” Jeremy reminded her.

“Jeremy, what the fuck are you talking about? Sure, we talked to each other at school, but that’s because we really didn’t have any other options. Bullshit circumstances are the only things that brought us together. I mean, how can we really be friends? We don’t know anything about each other except that we’re victims. And we rarely even talk about that!”

“Okay, then, what do you wanna know?” Jeremy asked. “I’ll tell you anything.”

“That’s just it, loser. I don’t wanna know. I liked it the way it was. We talked when we needed to. We didn’t talk when we didn’t need to.”

“So then why can’t we still do that?” Jeremy asked.

“Because we can’t, okay? It wouldn’t work. You’ve got your thing going on—”

“Stop saying that!” he cried.

Silence. Hannah traced the steering wheel with her finger, clockwise all the way around. Then counterclockwise. Clockwise again. Jeremy slapped his hand over hers, forcing her to stop.

“No,” he said.

“No, what?”

“You were and still are my friend,” he said.

“It’s weird.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

“Well, too bad. We’re making this work.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. But we’ll think of something.” He pulled his hand away and turned his face. “You were always there,” he whispered. “You were my friend.” He swallowed. “Just . . . don’t go anywhere, okay? Is that so hard?”

Hannah swallowed, too.

He didn’t wait for a reply. He climbed out of the car and slammed the door. No goodbye. No second glance her way. He walked into the garage, chin tucked into his jacket, thinking hard about a way to make Hannah feel less like an outsider. He wouldn’t give up his girlfriend. That’s for damn sure. But there had to be a way to make it work among the three of them. They were his girls, after all, and he wouldn’t lose either.

***

“There’s no way your parents let you come over here,” Jeremy said, moving aside to let Regan through the front door.

“I’m practicing at the park,” she replied, kissing his cheek.

She carried four grocery bags to the kitchen and dumped them on the counter.

“But the season’s over,” Jeremy pointed out.

“And? I have an official visit at Berkshire in a month,” Regan said.

“An official visit? What the hell’s that?”

“Sort of like an interview but not really,” Regan replied. “Anyway, I’ve gotta keep my skills fresh. They may invite me to scrimmage with some of their girls—” She grinned, eyes sparkling. “—which would be completely insane and awesome, by the way.”

“Completely,” Jeremy agreed. “But it’s so damn cold.”

“Eh. These are the things you’ve gotta do when you need a scholarship.”

He nodded. “And what if your parents check on you?”

“They never check on me. They know it’s my time, and they respect that,” she said. “Now, if I don’t come home when I’m supposed to, that’s another story.”

He nodded. “How much time?”

“A lot,” she replied, grinning.

He pointed to the groceries. “What do you have going on in there?”

“A bunch of baking supplies. I figured you didn’t have Crisco or baking powder.”

He shook his head. “How can you bake but not cook? Isn’t it just following the directions?”

“That’s the weird thing about it. I can follow a cookie recipe all day long, but making a dinner dish? Forget about it. I served undercooked chicken one time. God, Caroline got soooo sick. And that was the end of that. So, now I’m in charge of desserts only.”

She plopped on the couch. He joined her.

“You didn’t cut into it to make sure?” he asked.

“It was all about presentation. I didn’t want the chicken to look butchered,” she explained.

“And how long was Caroline sick?”

“About four days. I still feel terrible about it,” Regan confessed. “She kept saying, ‘Why, Regan, why?’ in this really pathetic, dramatic voice, and it broke my heart every time.”

Jeremy chuckled. He could picture Caroline doing exactly that.

“Hey,” Regan whispered.

“Hmm?”

“I’ve never been here before,” she replied. “You wanna take me for a tour?”

Jeremy scanned the room. “Well, there’s this,” he said, waving his hands around. “And there’s that,” he said, pointing to the kitchen and hallway.

She giggled. “I’m being serious.”

“You just wanna see my bedroom,” he said, nudging her arm playfully.

“How dare you! I’m a lady.”

He raised an eyebrow and muttered, “You weren’t a lady the other day . . .”

“Jeremy!” She smacked his arm.

“Ouch! I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’.”

She laughed. “I
explained
it all to you. Hello? Remember the not-acting-appropriately-when-you-finally-get-what-you-want thing?”

“Oh, I remember,” he said.

“You’re just trying to embarrass me,” Regan huffed.

“Is it working?”

She pointed. “You see my face?”

Beet red. He laughed.

“I’ll take you for a tour, but it’s not much.”

“It’s your very own apartment,” Regan countered. “That’s a lot.”

He considered this. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

He grabbed her hand and hauled her to her feet.

“Living room,” he said, and led her to the kitchen.

He watched her poke about the tiny space, searching his food stash. She settled on a bag of Oreos and held it up to him, asking the unspoken question.

“Only three because they’re my favorite,” he said.

She shoved a cookie in her mouth and resumed her investigation.

“Don’t eat this,” she mumbled with a full mouth, holding out a box to him. “It’s shit.”

“But it’s easy. A ready-made dinner,” he argued.

“It’s a bunch of processed garbage,” she replied. “I don’t think any of the ingredients are real. Stick to clean foods as much as possible.”

He shook his head. “You’re shoving Oreos in your face, and you wanna talk to me about eating healthy?”

She turned and smiled, then bit into her fourth cookie.

“That’s exactly right.”

He laughed. “You have cookie all in your teeth.”

“Is it sexy?” she asked, smiling demurely.

“So hot,” Jeremy replied.

“You got any milk?”

“Hmm. Maybe.” He placed his hand on the fridge handle, then paused. “I don’t know. Milk’s expensive.”

Her eyes went wide. “Jeremy, give me your milk.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Jeremy!”

“I thought you wanted to see my apartment.”

“You don’t want me to rinse this out first?” she asked, exposing her teeth and moving her finger back and forth in front of them.

“I already told you I thought it was hot.”

“Ha ha, now will you please give me something to drink? If I’d have known you were so stingy with your milk, I wouldn’t have bothered to bring over baking supplies. We can’t eat cake without milk.”

“Cake?” His eyes lit up.

“I know you like it.”

He poured her a glass of milk. “Red velvet?”

“Yep.” She gulped the milk then let out a satisfied sigh.

“Like, from scratch?”

“That’s how I bake.”

“Oh, wow. I thought I wanted to spend all my time with you back there—” He pointed to his bedroom. “—but not anymore. Made-from-scratch red velvet cake trumps that.”

Regan snickered. “Gee, thanks.”

“Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand once more.

He allowed her to linger in the bathroom doorway for a moment, but he wouldn’t let her search the room like she’d done his kitchen. Toiletries were private. Plus, he didn’t want her stumbling upon his box of condoms. Totally premature to think that far in advance, but after Regan’s “Make me come!” comment, he thought there could be some chance in the near future. Maybe.

He grinned.

“What’s funny?” she asked.

“The way I think sometimes.”

She eyed him curiously. “You won’t elaborate, will you?”

“No, because you’ll take it all the wrong way,” he said.

“Will I?”

He nodded.

Silence.

“You have condoms in this bathroom, don’t you?” she asked after a moment.

His eyes bugged.

Regan smirked. “You know, just in case.”

His mouth dropped open.

“Because of my ‘make me come’ comment the other day. You just wanted to be prepared, right?” she elaborated.

“Get out of my head!” Jeremy cried. “And my bathroom!”

He pulled her along to the bedroom, replaying his recent thoughts to the melody of her laughter, wondering if he didn’t actually say them aloud. How did she know? How on earth could she know? And then he remembered that she was Regan. Clever. Sharp. Too sharp, and he wondered how he could possibly keep up.

“I’m not having sex until I’m married,” Regan said.

“Really?” Jeremy asked, dreams shattered.

“No.” She grinned up at him.

“You know, they warned me about you,” he said, pulling her close.

Touching used to be hard. Impossible, really. Just a fantasy he’d frequently get off on when he was alone at night. Now, here she stood. Alone with him. His girlfriend. And he knew he had all the right in the world to touch her, kiss her, wrap his arms around her, pick her up, toss her in the air, cradle her like a baby, protect her from the cruel world . . . As long as she gave him permission.

“Is this all right?” he asked, lips pressed against the top of her head.

“Is what all right?”

“Me holding you like this.”

She nuzzled his neck. “It’s perfect.”

“Will you tease me forever?” he asked.

“About what?”

“Just anything.”

“I won’t lie. You make it easy,” she said.

“Am I too serious?”

“All the time.”

“Is that boring?”

“No.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Always, Jeremy.”

“Do you love me?”

She pulled away, shocked, staring up at him with wide black eyes. Cave pools.

He didn’t know what to say. Why the hell did he ask her that? Totally inappropriate! More inappropriate than the premature condoms! At least she could tease him about that. But there was no way she could tease her way out of this one. Just feeling love was serious business. Verbalizing it? Sacred.

She took his hands. “What does Hannah like to call you?”

He furrowed his brows.

“A dope?”

He nodded and grinned.

“You must be,” Regan said.

“And why’s that?”

“Because how could you not know?” she asked.

The anger that kept clawing its way to the top of his heart slipped all over again. This time it couldn’t catch the wall halfway down and attempt another ascent. Nope. This time it fell all the way into the abyss and was eaten up by happiness.

“I loved you in sixth grade,” Regan said softly. “I wanted a matching scar like yours. And in seventh grade, I hated you, because I thought you didn’t love me. In eighth grade, I loved you again because I’d given my heart enough time to heal. In ninth grade, I didn’t know you because I dated another boy. In tenth grade I was infatuated with you because I knew you were a better match for me. In eleventh grade, I loved you all over again when I was certain I knew who I wanted. And now?” She paused. “Now, I love you because I know you. I love you because I believe in all your goodness. I love you because of the way you make me feel. I love you because I want to.” She smiled. “And I love you because I’m helpless not to.”

He saw himself surrender. The longer he gazed into her eyes, the clearer the image—a boy, laying down his weapons. A boy, walking away from the fight. A boy, surrendering his mission to the fire. He didn’t need revenge. He needed Regan.

“I love you,” he croaked, then cursed softly.

“Come again?” she asked lightly.

“I love you,” he replied firmly. No crack. No wavering. No doubt.

He bent his head and kissed her cookie crumb lips, tasting the faint sourness of milk that sat too long on her tongue. He didn’t mind, and he trapped her in his arms when she tried to pull away.

“My breath,” she mumbled against his mouth.

“Is perfect,” he replied, kissing her more deeply.