Page 31 of Honey Pot

“Absolutely not,” I whispered.

“Why did your voice get quiet… what are you doing?” She instantly became more invested. “Are we snooping? Turn on the camera you stingy bitch,” she whined.

“Nothing,” I cut her off and pushed open the door with the toe of my shoe, peering inside to find it empty. “I might have found his room?”

“You’re in his room!” She yelled, and I hissed into the receiver to get her to shut up. “Sorry, what the hell are you doing?”

The walls were covered in horror movie posters from all different countries, and stacks of horror manga were piled by his unmade bed. The lamp on his cluttered dresser was covered in a shirt that made the light in the room hazyand dark. There were piles of shoes on the floor and his rings were neatly placed in three different bowls balanced on the windowsill. I inhaled a sharp breath to quell the suffocating anxiety that rushed through me. Just like his Dad, everything was a mess but had a place, and it made my heart ache to see how his room exposed the seventeen-year-old boy he was trying to stuff down and hide.

“It’s all the same,” I whispered. I rubbed my fingers over his comforter, pulling the blanket to my face and laughing when the lavender laundry soap hit my nose.

“What’s the same?” Bobbi asked in a hushed, hurried voice.

“His room,him…” I sighed, letting the blanket fall back to his bed. “It looks exactly like his old room.”

I looked around my feet at the dirty laundry and scooped up one of his shirts, bringing it to my nose. It smelled like sweat, sweet, sticky gummy bears, and that dried-out scent of a shirt that spent too much time in the sun. I rolled it in my palm and tried not to cry.

“You need to get out of his room, M.,” Bobbi urged, and it clicked that I was standing frozen, staring at the walls.

I nodded and backed out, closing the door like it had been before. The shirt was still tangled in my fingers and I was not ready to let go of it yet. I hurried back to the guest room and shoved it under my pillow for safekeeping.

“So, we’re fucking him in a closet, right?” Bobbi snapped. “Because that was some weird shit you just did for a boy you supposedly hate with your whole body, Baby. I cannot stress this enough:you are screwed.”

“Fuck,” I swore under my breath, barely able to get my head straight. I had interviews, but all I wanted was to search him out. “I gotta go,” I said, hanging up before Bobbi even got a chance to respond.

I shoved my phone in my pocket and stepped back out into the hallway, looking around, trying to remember which way would lead me to the sitting room. Then a loud chorus of rough banging echoed from my left. The sound led me to the kitchen, where a tall, blonde girl was slamming around a drawer beside the fridge, her grunts of frustration loud as they echoed against the cabinets.

“Do you need help?” I asked over the racket.

She turned to look at me and I realized it was the same girl from dinner the night before. She was pretty, with wide, brown eyes that glowed warm under the lighting, in contrast to the white scar that split her delicate features in half.

“Ella?” I said, hoping I didn’t fuck it up. “You were at dinner last night.”

“And the stadium. I saw Silas giving you the tour. Ella Miele.” She wiped her hands on her pants and extended one to me.

“Mary Matthews.” I pointed at the batter on her fingertips.

“Sorry.” She pulled back when she realized there was still a mess. “I’m attempting to bake cupcakes for my best friend’s boyfriend, but—” she sighed, “the liners are in that drawer, and I can’t get it open.”

“Can I try?” I scooted around her, set my phone on the counter, and shrugged off my dress jacket. She raised both hands in the air and backed away from the fingerprint-covered drawer.

“So you’re here to interview the guys?” She said, hitting the faucet with her elbow and washing the batter away.

I opened the bottom cupboard, slinking my hand beneath and feeling around for the back. “Yeah, I have two today.”

Gripping the drawer's base, I rattled it around until I could hear the utensil unhook. “Try again,” I told her, backing away.

She smiled over at me, tucking a piece of blonde hair behind her ear and pulling on the drawer. “That’s impressive,” she praised, when the drawer slid open without resistance.

“We had a drawer like that, and the utensils got caught on the wood inside. Just needed a little wiggle.”

Ella watched me for a moment longer before speaking. “Keep that in mind when talking to the guys today. Sometimes, they need a little wiggle to pop loose. Especially the grouchy one. His bark is worse than his bite.” Ella laughed, grabbed the muffin liners from the drawer, and waved them in the air. “Thank you.”

“You’re talking about Arlo King.” I leaned against the counter and she nodded. “And the cupcakes are for?”

“Van Mitchell.” She looked up from where she was popping in liners. There had to be at least six tins on the counter.

“Second base,” I said, trying to remember what positions they all played.

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