He steps away from the couch and walks out the front door without looking back. I try to run after him, but my body won’t budge.
“No!” I yell after him.
I hear the Tahoe’s engine, then tires spinning against the gravel.
“No!” I yell again. Why won’t my body move?
The engine grows louder, and the room starts to shake, but I’m still stuck to the couch.
“Kay,” says a voice.
I clutch the sides of the couch as the shaking becomes violent.
“Kay,” the voice says again.
I fling open my eyes and squint at the early morning light trickling in through my bedroom window. My mom is leaning over me, her face struck with concern. I’m gripping the sides of my mattress, and it takes me a moment to realize it was only a dream.
“Kay, are you all right? I heard you screaming. Did you have a nightmare, sweetie?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I croak.
Her face relaxes. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No . . . I don’t remember it,” I lie.
“Well that’s good.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Do you want to go back to sleep, or get up?”
I peer at the clock and groan. It’s too early for a Sunday morning, but I don’t want to stay in my bed. Even my beloved sleep has betrayed me. I can’t even trust my own subconscious anymore.
“I’ll get up,” I tell her. I need to stay awake.
She brushes away a few strands of hair that are stuck to my moist face. My entire body is damp.
“Okay. I’ll start breakfast then.”
“And the coffee,” I say.
“You got it.” She exits my room and goes downstairs.
I relax into the mattress. The dream felt so real. . . . I can still feel him, even smell him. Impending emptiness begins to engulf me, and I try to push it away, but the hollowness slowly fills me with desolation . . . building, expanding, unrelenting until the pain in my chest floods open.
No!
I will not let it win. I climb out of bed, turn on the radio, and get ready for the day.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE DISTRACTION OF MUSIC IS wearing off. My iPod has been on shuffle for two weeks straight, and I can only take so much of the same compilations. Even the random songs on the radio no longer offer any solace. I kill the Chevelle’s engine, and the stillness almost destroys me.
Silence is cruelty in my world.
My efforts of studying, staying up late, and drowning myself in music are becoming futile. No matter how hard I try to divert my thoughts, I’m hanging on by a thread.
My door swings open, nearly causing me to fall out of my car. Tommy’s smiling face beams down at me.
“Hey, babe,” he says, taking in my appearance. “Damn, you look hot.”
“I do?” I ask, surprised.
I didn’t put much effort into my appearance this morning. I’m wearing my black cropped yoga pants with a black razorback tank top and neon-pink sneakers. My hair is pulled back into a high ponytail.
He smirks. “Everybody loves yoga pants, come on.”
I grab my bag and step out of the Chevelle. Tommy slips his hand over mine and leads me into the building.
“I’ll walk you to class,” he says, with a bounce in his step.
“Really? That’s sweet.” I wonder how long the chivalry will last after prom night. Is he just trying to seal the deal? Or does he truly love me? More importantly, do I love him? Of course I do, I demand before the nagging voice has a chance to retort.
We stop just outside Mr. Slate’s classroom, and I fix my eyes on Tommy. I watch his lips move as he chats away about something, but I don’t hear a word. I have to accept this. . . . I have to accept the fact that my moment with Mr. Slate was just that: a moment. A mistake. He simply lost control, nothing more. We both did.
Maybe I’ve been confusing my own feelings with lust. I’ve never really experienced lust before—maybe I just convinced myself that my sexual desires were actual feelings for him. Maybe I didn’t know how to separate the two. I just need to refocus. Tommy’s not only one of my best friends, but he and I make sense. Way more sense. We don’t have to hide; it isn’t complicated.
But what if Tommy is just feeling lust? What if he’s confusing his libido for love? His lips suddenly seize mine, cutting off my thoughts. His hands slide down past my waist, squeezing his favorite part of the yoga pants.
“Tommy!” I squeal, giggling. “People can see you.”
He laughs. “So? They’re all jealous.” He kisses me again, then heads to class.
And there it is.
That faint whisper, suggesting I’m just something to be conquered—that I still have yet to find real love. I shove it down and turn toward the door, running smack into Mr. Slate as he tries to enter the classroom. I bounce off his solid shoulder and step back, catching my balance.
“Sorry,” we say in unison.
Did he see Tommy grabbing me?
“You okay?” he asks.
I give a slight nod and attempt to keep my expression neutral. His, of course, is impenetrable. So maddening.
Let it go, Kaley . . . let him go.
He steps aside, letting me walk in ahead of him. When I pass by, I catch his glorious scent, and a pang of longing threatens to shake me. I take my seat just as the bell rings, and he begins class before I even have my book open. I continue to focus on him and ask questions throughout the period, but not with the same aggression as before. My hardened shell is cracking.
WHEN CLASS IS over, I sling my bag onto my shoulder in one slow movement. Even my actions are less antagonistic today. Avery leans on Mr. Slate’s desk, asking him a question about the assigned homework, and my gaze shifts to his face. He’s chewing the tip of his pen, staring off into the distance . . . but I soon realize that distance is my desk.
“Mr. Slate?” Avery repeats herself, speaking louder this time. Her perky voice jerks him out of his trance, and we share brief eye contact before he acknowledges her. I trudge down the aisle, and our eyes meet one more time before I step out of his classroom.
Why does he have to do that to me? I’m trying so hard to move on and let him go. I almost want to go back in and yell at him. Instead, I plod over to my locker to exchange my books. As I’m grabbing my English textbook, a pair of hands slip around my waist, and a hard body presses against me. Little wavelets of electricity flow down my spine as my mind is still fixated on Mr. Slate. I feel a soft nibble on my neck and imagine it’s him.
I close my eyes and lean into the kiss. “Mmm . . .”
Tommy then makes his way to my lips, snapping me out of it. “I’m dreaming about you like every freaking night,” he murmurs in a lustful tone.
“You are?” I don’t know what else to say. I can’t exactly tell him who invaded my dreams the other night. I wish I could dream about my actual boyfriend—it would make my life so much easier.
Tommy is like static cling throughout second period and even walks me to my next class, which is in the opposite direction of his. He continues to walk me to each class, meet me at my car every morning, and grip my hand all week like a monkey fearful of losing his banana. It’s obvious he’s excited about prom and where our relationship is finally going, and I do my best to match his enthusiasm.
My contact with Mr. Slate stays at a minimum the rest of the week, which makes things a little easier. Emily is eager for Saturday and her spirit is infectious. I feel myself go in and out of several emotions: anticipation, enthusiasm, nervousness, and exhilaration. It’s like I’m on a bipolar merry-go-round, unsure where to get off.
IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT. The Big Day is only hours away. Tommy is over at my house while we watch a movie—and when I say watch a movie, I mean make out on the couch, obviously. My parents are out on a date—no weirdness there or anything. But at least they’re making an effort. Tommy, of course, is taking full advantage of the lack of parental control. We take a few breaks to talk about prom, but for the most part, he’s like a piranha in heat.
The TV screen has been blank for a while now. I don’t even know when the movie ended.
“My parents will be home any minute,” I say, trying to break away. Hard to do with an extra seventy pounds on top of you.
He sighs. “All right. I should get going anyway.” He lifts himself off me and pulls me to my feet.
“I can’t wait for tomorrow night, babe,” he says, standing up and stretching. “A place all to ourselves. No interruptions.” He gathers me into a big bear hug, momentarily lifting me off the ground, squeezing a laugh out of me.
“Yeah, me too,” I say, muffled in his neck.
I follow him out to his truck, and he turns to me before climbing into the cab. “Are you really ready for tomorrow, Kay? I want to be sure.” His imploring eyes peer back at me.
“Yes,” I promise. “More than ready.” I reach up and kiss him with assurance.
He smiles, his bright eyes skimming my body. “You are so damn sexy, Kaley. You have no idea how happy you make me.” He squeezes my hip, then hops into his truck. “See you tomorrow for the best night of our lives,” he says before shutting his door.
After his truck disappears down the road, I bolt upstairs into the bathroom and rip off all my clothes. I turn on the shower, rotating the faucet to the colder side as I brush my teeth. My lips are raw. I shove my iPod into the sound dock and scroll down to an album I recently ordered and set it on repeat—apparently I’m in the mood to torture myself. I don’t know what I’m anticipating as Def Leppard flows through the speakers, but in some hopeful way, I’m determined to transfer my feelings for Mr. Slate over to Tommy. He is the right guy for me, and I’m desperate to have that same feeling toward him as I do for Mr. Slate.