Strum Your Heart Out (12 page)

"Very convincing."

"Thank you." She puts her hand on her hip and turns her head like she's posing. "More importantly, you're going to swear to me that you're okay. You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to, but if you're not okay, I'm going to drag you to the damn clubs and fill you with drinks until you feel okay."

I shift back into the couch. "It's eleven a.m."

She laughs. "Valid point."

I look Meg in the eyes. "I'm okay enough."

She accepts my answer and turns back to the action movie. It's some cheesy thing from the eighties. There's a built guy running around in a ripped shirt and tight pants. He has a mullet and a giant gun. Somehow, he always manages to hold it so it's jutting from his hip.

Meg finishes her can of tea, tosses it back in the bag, and pops another top. "Drew has been in a funk all week."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah. I've got all the gossip. I was at practice Friday."

Fantastic. Drew is gossip. Drew and I are gossip.

"It's no big deal. You know those guys. They're like brothers the way they talk."

I nod.

"What happened after the party?" she asks.

"You don't have that gossip?"

"Only what Miles said the next time I saw him."

"Before or after he made sweet, sweet love to you?"

She smiles. "Before. We do need to eat."

The girl is beaming. Still out-of-this-world, over-the-moon in love.

Meg turns to me. She rests her head on her hand and lowers her voice to a whisper. "It's kind of gross."

"Not as gross as hearing the two of you come."

Her cheeks go red. She drops her voice an octave as if imitating Miles. "If the guy is so good with his hands, why doesn't he use one and spare us from his blue balls?"

My drink slips from my hands, landing on the hardwood with a thud. My cheeks burn. "Was that in front of everyone?"

"Just me."

Thank God. I pick up my drink. The cap is on. Not a horrible spill. "Will you hate me if I slap your boyfriend?"

"Go ahead." She looks at me. "Did he end up taking the dare?"

"Kind of."

Her eyes light up. "Drew kissed you?"

"We kissed, yes."

"What the hell do you mean 'we kissed, yes?' You've been crushing on Drew for ages."

"Yes, okay. Drew kissed me and it was the best kiss of my entire life. I thought I was going to stop breathing. But we stopped before—" I clear my throat. "At second base."

Her voice softens. "What happened?"

What happened? There's no way to explain it without telling her the whole story. And that's off the table. I come up with an acceptable half-truth. "He stopped things."

"Did he say why?"

Yes. He was crystal clear. I rack my brain for another half-truth. Screw it. I'll lie. "Said it was a mistake."

"Are you okay with that?"

I don't have a choice. "I'll get over it eventually."

"You shouldn't live with him. You can stay with me while you're looking for a place. Stay at my place even. I can stay with Miles for a week or two."

"He's still my friend. We just have to get past the sexual tension."

She shakes her head. "You can lie to me if you want, but don't lie to yourself. It's more than sexual tension."

"
I will
get over it."

She studies my expression. I must look miserable because she pulls me off the couch and into the kitchen. We scan the pantry for proper discussing-how-shit-goes-wrong-with-guys snacks. There's nothing except chocolate.

Even the smell of it makes me dizzy.

Back at the couch, I keep my eyes on the movie. She doesn't pry. Thank goodness the girl respects my privacy. Unlike some people.

Upstairs, a door opens.

Speak of the fucking devil.

It's Drew. He moves down the stairs slowly. He's in jeans, Converse, and a tight, v-neck band shirt. My gaze goes right to that chest piece peeking out of his neckline. Such a perfect chest. Such a horrible thing to cover.

He nods to us. "Nice to see you again Meg." He makes eye contact for a split second. "I'll see you later."

I'm cold all over. He's got such an icy look in his eyes, like I've hurt him so much he can't stand it. It's like I've been punched in the gut. I can barely breathe. All the muscles in my stomach clench.

He turns his back to me, walks out the door, and slams it shut.

I'm trying so hard not to hurt him and I'm failing miserably.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Meg stays through the movie. She asks if I'm okay a dozen times, then goes home to study.

I soak in my time in the living room—lounging with a cup of tea in the kitchen, lying on the couch with my Kindle, spreading my shit out on the table to write an essay. Every hour feels like a gift. Soon, Drew will come home and I'll have to rush back to my room or brave that awful look in his eyes.

Afternoon turns to night. My stomach rumbles and it won't tolerate any more dry cereal or black tea. There's another little Tupperware container in the fridge marked "Kara." Delicious, I'm sure, but it makes my stomach twist in an awful way. My silence is hurting Drew. He's making me dinner and I'm hurting him.

I make a sandwich. Grilled cheese and tomato. Nothing special—my cooking skills haven't evolved much since high school.

The smell is comforting but the sandwich holds no appeal.

This isn't me. I've never been one to lose my appetite. No matter how awful I feel, I still get hungry.

I push my plate aside and turn my attention to my computer. I dive in to lecture notes and study them like my life depends on it. An hour passes. I eat three bites of my sandwich, pour myself a glass of water, and drift back to work.

The front door swings open. Drew steps inside. There's something off about him. It's like someone sucked every bit of happiness from his body.

I did this to him.

I hurt him.

He glances at me but doesn't look me in the eyes. "There's stir fry in the fridge."

"I know."

He steps onto the staircase. "Living room is yours. I'm going for a run."

He turns his back to me and jogs up the stairs.

It's the same as this morning. The room goes cold. I pull my hoodie over my head, but I'm still freezing. I sip my tea, but it's lukewarm.

Drew jogs down the stairs, headphones around his ears, gaze averted. He throws his hand up as if to wave goodbye and then he's out the door.

Again.

***

I go straight to my room and put my music on max, so I won't hear Drew slamming every door in his path.

My back and shoulders are tense. There's this crick in my neck and stretching does nothing to chase it away. My bed is hard and cold. Even my finance homework is better than this awful feeling in my gut.

I need my best friend back.

My stomach grumbles. Most of that sandwich is sitting on the kitchen table, mocking me with its blandness. It's almost ten. I need to eat something if I want to make it to midnight, and there's no way I'm going to finish reading
Crime and Punishment
before midnight.

There's light streaming from the hallway bathroom. Water running too. It sounds like the shower. So Drew is back from his run. Either my music was loud enough to drown him out or he's worked out enough tension he doesn't need to go slamming doors.

The sandwich is still sitting on the table. I finish it in four bites and wash it down with the remnants of my now-cold tea.

My stomach settles. That's got to be good enough. I trudge up the stairs with my eyes on the stark, white ceiling.

The water stops running. The bathroom door opens and Drew steps into the hallway.

In a towel.

In only a towel.

His hair sticks to his head. His lashes and lips are wet. Water drips off his chest, down his cut abs, all the way to that perfect V above his hips.

"You want me to drop the towel so you can get a good look?"

More than anything
.

I clear my throat. "Excuse me."

My face and chest flush. It's not every day I get to see Drew like this. My body wants his. It's not like I control how the damn thing reacts to him. It's not like I want to be tied up in knots every second I'm home.

It's not like I want this kind of tension building between my legs, begging me to ignore my better senses completely, begging me to throw myself on his bed.

He's staring at me like he's daring me to say something.

I force myself to look him in the eyes, but that's worse. He has that same hurt, confused expression.

"I should read," I say.

"You should get a better line."

The crick in my neck spreads all the way to the back of my skull. Tension headache, here I come.

I press my eyes closed to will it away. I can't keep doing this. I miss Drew. I miss his laugh, his music, his arms around me.

"How about we pretend it never happened so things go back to normal?" I offer.

He stares through me. "No."

"Please." I play with the waistband of my jeans. "If we forget about the kiss."

His eyes narrow. "I'm never going to forget about that kiss."

I hold his gaze.

"I'm still going out of my head over the taste of your lips and the feeling of your groans in my mouth. I'm still going out of my head dreaming of running my tongue up your thigh and licking you until you come. I can't concentrate for shit. Anytime my hands aren't on my guitar, I'm dreaming about getting them on you."

My eyes go wide. I can barely breathe. I can barely think. I open my mouth to reply, but I can't form a single word.

He takes a step toward his room, his eyes still on mine. "So, no, Kara, I can't forget kissing you. Not ever."

Want spreads to my thighs, stomach, chest. It works its way down my limbs until every inch of me is buzzing. My lips part. My fingertips press together. I will an explanation to form in my mouth. Anything to keep Drew here, to explain this to him. "I had a reason."

He pulls open his bedroom door. "And maybe, one day, you'll trust me enough to explain it."

He steps into his room and slams the door shut.

***

Two a.m. passes and my book is still unread. My body is still heavy. My breath is still strained.

About time I give up on finishing this tonight. I turn off my music, change into my pajamas, and brush my teeth.

Yellow streams through my bedroom door. Hallway light must be on. I go to turn it off.

There's Drew's door, across the hallway, utterly closed to me. There's familiar music in his room. A guitar. It's so soft I can barely hear it, but I recognize it immediately.

It's the song he was playing at practice before everyone showed up. The one that threatened to tear my heart into a million little pieces.

Heaviness builds in my chest. I need to hear that song, to be near him, even if we're not going to talk.

Even if he hates me.

His bedroom door is open. I knock lightly and step inside. Drew turns to me. He's sitting on his bed, back to me, acoustic guitar in his lap.

He's wearing nothing but boxers.

That flutter builds below my belly. His back is so strong. It's like he's cut out of marble. I want to touch him and have him touch me.

Maybe I can tell him.

Maybe he won't run away.

"Can I listen?" I ask.

He pats a spot on the bed next to him. "It's pretty rough."

"I like it rough." My face flushes. "I mean... I don't mind."

"I'm afraid I don't have it in me to tease you as mercilessly as you deserve." He turns back to his guitar.

I sit on the edge of the bed opposite him. The three feet between us might as well be a million miles.

An acoustic version of Drew's song fills the room. I lie back and hug a blanket to my chest. The music is beautiful and sad. It presses on the walls of my heart, threatening to collapse them completely.

I can tell him.

I have to.

Drew lets out a heavy sigh. I keep my back to him, my attention on the clean, white wall in front of me.

The song bleeds into an outro until our breath is the only sound in the room. There's something so intimate about it, but that only makes the horrible space between us hurt more.

I play with the blanket. "Is that a Sinful Serenade song?"

"No." He plays a chord. "It's mine."

"Are there lyrics?"

"Yeah, but you're not going to get me to sing. I don't sing."

"What about..." I shake my head, but it's too late. The memory is already there. The sound is already drilled into my brain.

"That was a special circumstance." He leaves it at that.

Music fills the room again. "Fire and Rain," the James Taylor song. The only song he's ever sung.

It was the night of my father's funeral. After everyone left. I was in my room, alone, finally out of sight of everyone who was concerned about how I was handling it. Finally about to give in to how much it hurt and cry myself to sleep.

He had cancer. It was a slow, agonizing death. I was half-glad he wasn't in pain anymore, half-miserable I'd never see him smile again. But there was no time for any of that. That last year, he was too weak to help. My mom was either at work or shuffling him to treatments. Everything else fell to me.

I cooked dinner, did the shopping, paid the bills. I didn't mind the work. It kept me busy.

Staying strong was the hard part. I was their happy little girl. I had to smile for them, to convince them it would be okay, to convince them it was fine.

It was the same thing at the funeral. Everyone was proud of me for being strong, for being there for my mother, for taking care of things. I wanted so badly to cry, but I couldn't, not until I was alone in my room.

Drew and I weren't close anymore. We had drifted apart my first year of high school. But he was there that night and he refused to leave, refused to believe me when I told him everything was okay.

He sat there in my bed and he played and he sang to me. And then I cried and he held me until I was too numb to cry anymore.

That was the last time anyone saw me as anything besides their rock.

A tear forms in my eye. He's playing loud enough he won't hear, so I do nothing to hold it back. It rolls down my cheek and off my chin.