You and Everything After

“I’m sorry, did I…order a wake up call?” he says, his tongue barely licking his bottom lip as his perfect smirk slides into place. My body suddenly feels a million degrees hotter, and my pulse is beating like a drum, firing away in my head, arms, and chest.

“No, I was just getting back from an early workout, and I remembered you would be up,” I say, hating that I’m lying to him, but knowing it’s not for a bad reason. He studies me, and for a few seconds, I think he might be seeing right through our little plan, but then his smile is back. He’s pulling my head in close to kiss me again. Oh god, his kiss.

“Baby,” he practically growls. “Wait, I can call you that now, right?” he asks, one eyebrow slightly cocked while he looks at me from only a few inches away. His face is shadowed with the perfect layer of unshaven stubble, and I allow my hands the pleasure of feeling it.

“I don’t know; I’m still on the fence about the whole baby thing. Let’s just say I’m trying it on,” I say, secretly loving that he calls me anything at all.

“Okay, well then…baby…while I would love to stay right here and kiss the honey flavor from your lips all morning, I have to get to class,” he says, losing me somewhere around the word honey. That word—which would sound like the hokiest line in the world coming from anyone other than Ty—slides from his tongue, his southern accent caressing it, and making it my new favorite flavor. I had no idea my lips tasted like anything.

“Cass? You with me?” He’s waving a hand in front of my face. Shit! I was off daydreaming about him.

“Oh, yeah…uh, yeah. Sorry, it’s just...I don’t have my key. Paige and Rowe are both out.” Lie, lie, lie—holy damn my hands are suddenly sweaty. Don’t look panicked—hold it together!

“That’s fine. Just hang out here. Nate won’t be back until late. Just lock it from the inside when you’re done,” he says, pulling his backpack over one shoulder and turning his chair swiftly with his other arm.

“Oh my gosh, that’d be great. Thanks, and yeah…I’ll lock it up,” I say, a little too quickly, bubbly, and about a million other ways that are no doubt shouting at him not to trust a damn thing I’m doing. Shit, I’m talking too much! Just smile, Cass. Smile and act natural.

I make myself comfortable on his bed, tucking my hands under my legs because I fear if I don’t, they’ll just start waving in protest against me, as if to tell him I’m a big fat liar who is tricking him so my girlfriends and I can exact our revenge.

“All right then. I’ll come by later?” he says, winking. Gah! Even that wink is so good it’s practically scripted.

“Sounds good,” I say, going for simple. Two words and done. Once the door shuts behind him, I flop onto my back and let the rush of blood take over. Holy fuck that was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do—and I had to confess some pretty ugly things to my parents my senior year of high school. Maybe it was just my state-of-mind at the time, but this little performance for Ty—just so I could get access to his room for a prank—has damn near exhausted me.

“Excellent work, Smithers,” Rowe says, quickly sliding into the room with Paige behind her.

“Nice, a Simpsons reference,” I say, giving her a high five while I still lie flat on my back. Paige has no idea what we’re talking about, so she interrupts and takes over the conversation.

“So what now?” Paige sits down on Nate’s bed, and I can tell she’s trying to stake a claim over it. My sister still thinks Nate’s up for grabs, but I’m starting to think Rowe just might have this match won.

“We paint,” Rowe says, handing each of us a roller and a pan.

Rowe cracks open one of the cans and fills both my pan and hers with a thin layer of a color called Pretty Princess Pink. Paige is slow to join in, but eventually she gets to her feet, fills her own pan, and begins rolling the color on the wall over Nate’s bed.

For three hours, we work tirelessly—covering every inch of wall in their dorm room, as well as the ceiling, with the most obnoxious sweet-sixteenish color known to man. There’s still a good hour’s worth of work to do, cutting in on the corners and near the floor, but I’m already late for open tutoring in physics. I bombed my first week’s quiz, and I know that if I don’t get help early, it’s only going to get worse. I’m not a natural learner—my grades take work.

“Rowe, I am so sorry, and I know this is totally sucky, but I have to go,” I say, setting my brush down on a paper plate on the floor.