Dearest Series Boxed Set (5 page)

* * *

E
ach step
I take reflects the throbbing in my temple.

“Here, drink this,” Gavin says as he catches up to me in the stairwell. He hands me a green beverage.

I eye it skeptically. “I’m pretty sure I threw this up about an hour ago.”

He laughs, unleashing one of those megawatt smiles, and it ripples through me like a tidal wave. “Trust me, it’ll help the nausea.” God, he has beautiful eyes. They’re green, the color of a dark forest, and rimmed with thick lashes.

Snap out of it, Clem.

“Trust you, huh?” I nibble on my lip before I lean in and sniff. It smells fruity, so I take a small sip, and it tastes like apples with the slightest hint of ginger.

“Okay, this isn’t bad.”

Gavin’s lips tug up further.

His hair is still damp from a shower, and he smells like soap. The morning stubble on his face gives his boyish smile an edge. I find myself thinking about rubbing that face against me to feel the roughness against my skin.

Oh, fuck, I need to get away from him.

I turn and start down the stairs again, and I hear his steps behind me.

Did he go home, shower and come back?
I know he only lives a block away at the dorms, but still. He went through too much trouble.

“Did, uh, did you really carry me home from the club?” I ask, pausing to see his response.

He looks away a second before he shrugs. “Maybe.”

Shit. I don’t know what to do with him. He’s all kinds of sexy and sweet, and I desperately want to pull away and hide before we can ever get close.
He didn’t even try to grope me last night,
I think, and I was barely wearing anything in Jenna’s sluttacular dress.

I start to turn, and he touches my arm to stop me.

“I have a proposal, Clem.” He sounds all businesslike, which makes me wonder what his major is. I really don’t know that much about him except that he carries dumb drunk girls home and doesn’t have roaming hands.

I tilt my head, curious about this proposal.

Gavin tucks his hands in the pockets of his black hoodie. “How about we go climbing on Friday at the gym and maybe grab a bite after? But just as friends because I know you don’t date.”

I almost laugh at the tone of his voice. He might be saying
just friends
, but that’s not how he’s looking at me right now.

“How do you know I climb?” BU has one of the best fitness facilities in the country, complete with one badass climbing wall that I do a couple of times a week.

He smiles again as his eyes pass over my body, sending another shiver down my back.

“You’re in amazing shape, and I’d venture to say that’s where you got those killer abs.”

My face flushes at the memory of exactly how he saw my abs this morning, and my defenses flare up.

This is too much. He’s too much. I’m going to get hurt.

But I don’t want to be rude. I know I’m not myself when I’m thinking about letting a guy down easily.

“Can I think about it?”

He seems unfazed and nods.

“Sure, call me when you decide,” he says as he starts walking back up to my apartment.

“I don’t have your number,” I blurt out.

Wait. Why would I point that out?

“Yeah, you do. Check your phone,” he says with a grin as he disappears up the stairs.

* * *

G
avin Murphy programmed
his number into my phone.
I’m sitting at work, wondering if I should be totally flattered or freaked.

I reach for my cell and text him before I take a second to consider whether I should be communicating with him at all.

Me:
How did you know that I’d want your number? A little presumptuous, no?

He texts me back a minute later:
How could you not? I’m a great snuggler, remember? And I didn’t grope you in bed even though I really wanted to.

Me:
Doesn’t mean you’re not a perv.

Gavin:
I’m most definitely a perv, baby.

I laugh, shaking my head as the evening crew walks in. One of the guys says, “Hey, Clem, that’s quite a smile. Someone is in a good mood today.”

I shake off my stupid grin and stare down the little sophomore, whose face falls.

“You’re late.”

W
hen my professor
talks about sex, she sounds like she’s purring, but since she’s French, I attribute her quasi-animalistic tones to her European roots.

“You must dig deep,” Professor Marceaux says as she paces the front of the classroom. “You must get to the core of what makes relationships bloom, what makes them falter, what destroys them.”

Cheating.
Cheating destroys relationships. Blow jobs from other girls also fall under this category. I blink, and I see an image of Daren, the one that’s haunted me for years, where his face is contorted in a mixture of pleasure and pain from whatever Veronica is doing to him.

Marceaux taps the podium.

“First loves are at the core of many romance novels, so you can use your experiences, however wondrous and exciting and painful, as fodder for your manuscripts. The reader should experience the blooming of this relationship with all of its awkwardness and lust and possibly shame. You Americans seem determined to feel guilty about having sex, so explore this aspect if it’s been a part of your experience. I want this to be authentic, and as this is a senior writing course, I’m sure you all have adequate personal examples from which to draw.”

My experience?
Oh, fuck me now.

Jenna nudges me and smiles.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispers.

Marceaux pauses when she reaches the end of the room and stares out the window. “Your semester-long assignment is to write a thirty-thousand-word novella. I want to see a fifteen-page scene by next week, starting with the first time your lovers meet. Show me their attraction, why they can’t stay away from one another, and what is keeping them apart.” She adjusts her glasses before she turns back to the class. “We’ll separate into writing groups to critique. By the way, I can smell bullshit, so don’t attempt to pawn off some dime-store romance on me. I want authentic relationships, ladies and gentlemen!”

* * *

W
hen Harper joins
me for lunch in the student union, her brows quirk up and crinkle as her watchful eyes appraise me.

“You look upset.” She takes a bite of her sandwich and lets the silence settle.

We’ve always met here. I’d be having panic attacks over how I was going to pay for school or the fact that I thought my professor was a creeper, and Harper and I would curl up in this booth, hidden behind the decorative planter box, and she’d talk me off the ledge. Thank God she’s a psych major.

I’ve only had one other best friend, who betrayed me in the worst possible way, and it took a long time to trust Jenna and Harper, but they never stopped trying. I don’t know what they saw in me, but their friendship helped pull me out of the darkness to the point that I don’t need to take anxiety meds anymore.

Exhaling a deep breath, I say, “I’m overwhelmed. I’m supposed to tutor tonight, but I have a ton of work to do on my website if I ever want to sell a second book, and people keep emailing me about how
Say It Isn’t So
needs a new cover. I guess I need someone to redesign it. And I’m having trouble with my writing class.”

She frowns. “Talk to Dani about the cover design. She works in the art lab, and I bet she knows people who do that stuff if she can’t.”

“I had no idea she was an artist.” Peeling back the corner of my Peach Snapple, I realize how little I know about this girl despite having lived with her for almost two weeks. “I’m a sucky roommate.”

Harper laughs as she takes a sip of her water. “But you have potential.” I shake my head, feeling a little better now that I’ve unloaded a little. “Don’t worry about the writing assignment. You’ve got this. You’re a bestselling YA author, freak.”

I don’t always believe this, but every month I get statements from Amazon that prove this crazy fact. I think I’m able to sell books, not because I’m creative or original, but because I’ve been honest about the crazy shit that’s gone down in my life. Of course, I wrap it up in a thin veneer of fiction, but my best work always originates from my own experiences. I don’t need make-believe when real life is more fucked up. Especially my life.

Honestly, the whole publishing process scares the hell out of me, like with full-out nightmares or bouts of insomnia, but I want to pull up my big-girl panties and move on.

The little pep-talk voice in my head tells me I can do this without Jason Wheeler’s help, and I hope that’s not just wishful thinking. Because I’ve only finished that one book. And damn it if it wasn’t in part because Wheeler encouraged me every step of the way.

I think that’s why I’ve been struggling with writer’s block. Since shit went down with Wheeler my freshman year, I’ve sequestered myself in a lot of ways, but keeping people at arm’s length is what helped me survive. That’s the trouble, though. My last two years of college have been quiet. Safe but insulated. With no drama. No cheating boyfriends. No crazy professors. No emotional breakdowns.

But I’m starting to realize that closing myself off has taken its toll. I think that’s why Marceaux’s assignment has been so difficult. I can write about Young Adult heartbreak because I’ve experienced it, but I don’t know jack about adult relationships.

“Does your professor know who you are?” Harper asks, jarring me from my pensive thoughts.

“No. And I’m keeping it that way. In case I forgot to say it, you were a genius for suggesting I use a pen name. Plus, I was late for that first class, so I missed the whole ‘who’s been published?’ conversation.”

“Would it be so bad if she knew?”

My blood pressure rises thinking about that possibility.

“One, I don’t want brownie points for shit I wrote three years ago. Two, you know I can’t handle people reading
Say It Isn’t So
and suspecting all that crap really happened to me. Besides, the fewer people who know I wrote it, the better. If this ends up in the tabloids, I’ll die.” I shred the napkin in front of me. “And three, it’s liberating to be able to write without the scrutiny of people knowing who you are.” Or at least it’s supposed to be.

Her eyes are understanding. “Tell me what’s been so difficult about this class.”

With the move and my birthday and classes starting up, we haven’t had much time to talk lately, so I unload it all. That I don’t know what to write as a follow-up to my first book
.
That I’d better figure it out soon if I plan to pay my spring tuition. That even if I could use my romance-writing assignment for my new book, it still has to be good. Never mind that I have no fucking idea how to write an honest-to-goodness romance. One-night stands I can do because the emotions don’t run deep. But love? Trust? Vulnerability? I’m not so sure I can pull that off.

“Your professor said that? You have to write about sex?” Harper asks, her eyes wide.

“No, but given the examples she’s read us in class, I know that’s what she’s expecting. She wants
intimacy
.” My heart sinks as I flick a piece of wilted lettuce from my salad. “Come on, Harper, I know shit about relationships and even less about sex.”

Just talking about intimacy has me practically hyperventilating. I take a sip of water and start counting backward from a hundred like my shrink taught me.

Harper puts down her sandwich and grabs my arm, pausing me mid-gulp.

“Relax. I will cut that bitch up if she fails you.”

She says it straight-faced, and I start laughing so hard that water comes shooting out my nose. My little prim and proper best friend going hood has me in hysterics, and I stop counting.

* * *

O
n Thursday night
, I get his text:
So. How about it? Meet me at the gym at 4:30 tomorrow?

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about going climbing with Gavin.
Just as friends
… His words make me smile.

I’m so tired of being in hibernation mode. My friends assume I’ve been denying myself all this time, like I’m into some kind of asceticism, but the truth is I’ve been numb—numb from my parents not giving a shit about me, numb from breaking up with Daren, numb from my asshole professor attacking me. I just haven’t felt anything, and when I have, it’s been rage, and the only face I could put on all of this was Clem, the bitch. I can’t count the number of people who have gotten in my path and felt my wrath. I’m the youngest assistant manager at my job, not just because I run the campus bookstore like a damn naval operation, but also because the kids who work for me don’t want to piss me off.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t like who I’ve become. I mean, at first this was about survival—getting to my next class, making it to work on time, living with strangers—but now that I have the basics figured out, I’m still walking around in my protective shell while life goes on around me. And while the idea of getting close to Gavin scares the living shit out of me, being near him reminds me of a time when I used to take chances and be carefree and be the girl everyone wanted to be around.

Fuck it.
I go climbing on Friday mornings anyway. I’ll do it in the afternoon instead.

I text him back before I have a chance to chicken out.

* * *

U
sually
, the smell of the locker room is strangely soothing, but right now it’s making me nauseous. Turning back to my gym bag, I pull out a hot pink tank top and black spandex shorts.

Really?

I pack my clothes ahead of time, so I don’t have to think about it when I’m rushing around in the morning, but now that I’m meeting Gavin in five minutes, I wish I’d given my outfit a little more thought. This is tight. And revealing.

I start to laugh.
He’s already seen me half naked.
Girls scamper around here in sports bras all the time, so I guess this isn’t a big deal. Besides, it’s hard to climb in baggy clothes.

When I walk out, Gavin is leaning against a pillar, talking on the phone. He sees me and smiles, motioning that he’ll join me in a minute. I point toward the climbing wall, and he nods.

As I strap myself into the gear, he walks up, unnerving me with one of those killer grins.
Oh, my God. Is that a chin dimple?

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound collected. “Do you want to spot me or should I ask a staff member?” My hands linger on a carabiner. I get the sense I should hug him, but that’s weird. I hardly know him. Except for the spooning.

Ugh. I wish I hadn’t thought about that.

Gavin raises his eyebrows and reaches over to grab my rope. He smells like citrus and sunshine, and it makes my mouth water.

“Must you ask, Clementine?”

I’ve never been turned on by how a guy says my name, but damn, I love how it sounds coming from him. I fight the embarrassed smile that’s threatening to spread on my face and duck my head to check my gear.

He nudges me with his elbow, and I look up at him.

“It’s nice to see you.” His voice is scratchy and deep, and it makes me wonder what he sounds like first thing in the morning.

I swallow. “It’s good to see you too.”

And, oh my, it is. He’s wearing thin black sweats that hang low on his hips and a dark fitted t-shirt that makes me wonder what he looks like underneath. My stomach does a few backflips when his eyes pass over me.
Clothes. I should be wearing more clothes.