Page 219 of Rock Me All Night
I stab a piece of penne with my fork and take a bite. The pasta is amazing—fresh vegetables and shrimp in some white wine sauce way beyond my cooking skills—and I'm positively starving. I try to take my time to savor every bite, but I finish quickly.
Music turns on in Drew's room. He's occupied. Good.
I creep downstairs and wash my plate in the sink. The cake is sitting on the counter, already cool. I cut a tiny sliver to check if it's done. It's perfect; not too soft or too hard or too dry. And it tastes like chocolate and sugar.
Like Drew's lips tasted.
All those muscles in my neck tense again. It was barely an hour ago. We were on the counter. If I hadn't stopped him, if I didn't have these stupid scars...
I fix a cup of tea, English breakfast to keep me awake while I tackle my reading. Caffeine is supposed to help with concentration. It should help me focus on work and not on how good Drew's lips tasted.
They were so soft.
And he was so hard.
The kettle's whistle snaps me out of my daydream. I fill my cup with hot water, cut a slice of cake, and trudge upstairs.
Drew's door is open a tiny sliver. There are no sounds coming out of it except angry heavy metal.
My stomach twists. He's hurting all alone and I'm hurting all alone. I need to explain it's not his fault, that I still want him badly enough to scream, that he's still my best friend, whatever happens.
But I can't bring myself to knock.
I step into my room, slam the door shut, and drown myself in Rage Against the Machine and cake.
* * *
My morning drags. Instead of going home between school and work, I change in my car, arrive half an hour early, and eat lunch at my desk.
I have an email from my mom. A question about spring break. She'd missed me over the holidays, when I stayed in LA for winter quarter. It was the only way to make my double major work, and it meant I wasn't there to make Christmas dinner or put up the tree or call Grandma. It meant there was nothing in the house but crushing silence.
I shake my head. It's not that I doubt my mother loves me. She does, in her way, but she doesn't see me. Not really. She doesn't have a clue how much I hate finance, how little I want to work at her company, how hard it was being the one who kept everything together after Dad died.
I do my best to concentrate on today's work. It's very basic finance stuff, 201 at most. A slightly more advanced version of this will be my life if I take a job at my mom's company.
By six, the office is empty and the sun is setting. And no doubt Drew is at home, eating dinner on the couch with that same disappointed look in his eyes.
I check the Sinful Serenade Twitter for a clue. There's a new picture of Drew posing with a fan. They're outside in the sun. She's wearing a sports bra and tiny little shorts. Her thighs are scar free, and they're tan and toned to boot.
He has his arm around her shoulder. No flirting. Just a friendly guy fulfilling his duties as a celebrity.
There are no other hints on Twitter. In all likelihood, Drew is at home.
After another hour of work, I change in the bathroom, drive to the gym, and run until my legs are aching.
* * *
It'sthe same thing for two weeks. I leave for school early, kill time at my internship, and take the latest cardio dance class the gym offers. If that isn't late enough, I run until I'm too tired to think. I arrive home no earlier than ten.
There is no contact between us except for the Post-it notes Drew leaves on the counter. It's always something about what he made for dinner and then there is a Post-it note marked "Kara" on some neat piece of Tupperware.
I eat the food he cooked for me in my room and I try to avoid wondering what it means that he's still making me dinner.
* * *
On screen, guns blaze. Except for the loud movie, it's been a mercifully quiet morning. Nothing but screen and cereal.
Meg finishes her can of green tea and gets up to toss it in the trash. Her gaze darts to the curling staircase. "We missed two brunches in a row."
