Havoc:Mayhem Series #4(29)

When I was thirteen, I kept having this recurring dream that a  six-foot-tall blue mouse broke into my room to play hopscotch on my bed,  and that made more sense than everything that's happened with Mike  tonight. I pace toward the bathtub, remembering the way his thumb  massaged my shoulder, the way he refused to go to bed without me. Then I  pace back toward the door, remembering the way we scarfed down pizza  and played war games together like twenty-year-old frat brothers. Toward  the tub-how tightly he held my legs last night. Toward the door-the  fact that it took him weeks to break up with Danica, even though I've  been here the whole time.

His voice at the pond echoes in my mind: You're one of my best friends now.

I sit on the lid of the toilet and press the heels of my palms into my  eyes. I'm exhausted, I'm drained, and I'm making something out of  nothing. Mike rubbed my shoulder to tease me, like friends do. He wanted  me to come to bed so we could keep talking and laughing, like friends  do. He carried me through the woods, he picked me up from the animal  shelter, he confided in me about his feelings for Danica, because those  are all things that friends-really, really good friends-would do.

He'll miss me when I'm gone. But not like I'll miss him.

And anyway, even if he did like me like I like him, it's not like it  would matter. He's a rock star. He's going to be ridiculously famous.  He's going to have girls throwing themselves at his feet in every  country in the world, starting next week when he goes on tour. Most of  his life is going to be spent far away from Virginia. Far away from  Indiana. Far away from me.

Maybe he was always just meant to be my one exciting story. Fifty years  from now, when I'm still living on the farm my parents lived in and my  grandparents lived in, when my own granddaughters have tired of a  thousand boring stories about livestock and weather and crops, I'll tell  them about the hot drummer I pined after during my one semester in  Virginia. Maybe I'll even tell them about the night I slept in his bed.  They'll probably think he's the one that got away, and maybe I'll think  that too . . . but I'll smile anyway, because there are worse things  than being Mike Madden's friend-I could have never even known him at  all.

Ignoring the sting in my chest, I push open the bathroom door and pad  down the hall to Mike's bedroom. In the dim light of a corner lamp, he's  straightening the sheets of his oversized bed. His brown eyes lift to  mine, dark under thick lashes in the soft lamplight. He straightens to  his full six-foot-something, in a white T-shirt, red workout shorts, and  black ankle socks, and it strikes me how big he is-how if he wrapped  his arms around me, I could get lost in them completely.                       
       
           



       

"Which side do you want?" he asks.

"Whichever side you don't normally sleep on."

"I normally sleep in the middle." Mike drums his fingers on his leg, and I curl and uncurl my toes against the floor.

"It's your bed. You pick."

"I guess I'll take that one," he decides after a while, pointing to the  side closer to the door. I nod and chew on my lip as we walk past each  other at the foot of the bed. The faint scent of his cologne makes my  heart ache. It smells like running through the rain, like being carried  through red leaves.

Mike and I climb under his covers at the same time-me, teetering on the  edge of the mattress; him, getting comfortable on his side. When his  eyes find mine in that soft yellow light, I nearly roll right off the  bed.

I expect him to crack a joke about how awkward this is, or ask me if I'm  comfortable, or say something, anything, but instead, he just lies  there, and so do I. In the gentle light, I let him study me, because it  means I get to study him. I take in the curve of his black lashes, the  golden undertones in his eyes, the strong slope of his cheek, the  adorable shape of his ear. It feels forbidden, staring at him like this,  being this close. But not because of Danica. It's because he's too  perfect. How soft his hair looks against his navy pillow. The way it  fades perfectly into the scruff on his jaw. The tempting shape of his  lips.

I close my eyes and try to commit it all to memory, because I want to  take this moment home with me. I want to keep it close forever.

"I missed wishing you sweet dreams," Mike says, and his quiet voice  persuades my eyes to open. I find him still lying inches away, studying  me with that gaze that pulls the strings inside me.

I want to ask why he stopped, but I already know the answer. It's  because I stopped responding. I didn't want him to realize I had a crush  on him, and I still don't. I can't spend the rest of my life wondering  if that's the reason he never talks to me again once I leave this town  behind.

"Me too," I say, and when my gaze twines with his, I let it. I let myself fall into those eyes, and fall, and fall, and fall.

"Sweet dreams, Hailey."

My fragile heart bangs in my chest, threatening to break with every  beat. I force myself to swallow, force myself to breathe. "Sweet dreams,  Mike."

When he turns off the light, I close my eyes again. And in the dark, I  listen to my heart splinter beneath the weight of saying goodbye.





Chapter 22




In Mike Madden's room, in Mike Madden's bed, it's no wonder I can't  sleep. Not even the light of the moon penetrates his thick blackout  curtains, so there's nothing to claim my attention except the thoughts  racing through my head.

Tomorrow, a call from my uncle Rick will show up on my phone. He'll  recount Danica's accusations, and I'll deny them. I'll be careful not to  use words like jealous, or delusional, or psychotic when describing his  daughter, but I'll defend myself. I'll tell him I would never, ever do  something like steal her boyfriend, and maybe he'll even believe me.

But it won't matter. Danica's tears have always meant more than my  honesty. Like the Christmas she wouldn't let me play with her toy  jeweler because she said there weren't enough rhinestones to go around.  Or the Easter I couldn't use any of the pink egg paint because she said  she needed it all for herself. So I won't beg, and I won't cry, and I  won't even tell my uncle about her breaking my computer, because there's  no point-computers are as replaceable to him as number two pencils.  Meaningless: my feelings will be meaningless. And in the end, he'll  decide that if Danica doesn't want to share this town, she doesn't need  to. He'll never understand how much playing with that jeweler meant to  me.

The bed shifts with Mike's weight for what must be the hundredth time,  carrying my thoughts to someplace closer. I don't think he's slept yet  either, judging by how much he's been moving around. Lying next to him  in the pitch black, I've been acutely aware of every shift, every turn,  every deep breath.                       
       
           



       

"I can't sleep," his quiet voice confirms, though I'm sure it's for  entirely different reasons. I can't sleep because it hurts to be this  close to him. It's a tightness in my chest. It's a cramp in my fingers.  It's the torture of being so near, but so, so far. It's been easier to  let my mind drift to the future than to be here, now, in his bed, with  him close enough to touch. I don't know if I've spent mere minutes  struggling to breathe evenly next to him, or if it's been hours, but it  feels like hours. It feels like days. Weeks.

"Why not?" I ask.

"Can't get comfortable."

I roll onto my side to face him under light blankets, and even though I  wouldn't be able to see my own hand in front of my face right now, I can  sense the distance between us. "Do you want to switch sides?"

"No," Mike says, and the bed shifts again, dipping close to me. I know  for certain that if I reached out even a little right now, he'd be right  there. I could touch him.

"Are you sure?" I whisper, and my pillow moves. Mike's warm breath grazes my cheek when he answers me.

"Yeah." His voice is quiet, softer than the pillow we're sharing. "This feels better."

"Okay," I say, my skin thrumming with the nearness of him. It waits to  be touched-for him to wrap his arm around me, or pull me close, or slide  forward until his body is pressed tight against mine. But instead, he  lies agonizing inches away, bringing my nerve endings to life with every  single breath he takes.

If I didn't have to leave soon, maybe I would reach out. Maybe I'd find  the shirt hanging loose over his hard stomach, and I'd fist it in my  hands. Maybe I'd draw him to me and risk rejection to find his lips in  the dark. Maybe in the dark, he'd kiss me back.

If I didn't have to leave.

If I didn't have to leave.