Page 19 of Sweet Punk
“Okay. That’d be great.” It’s difficult to ignore that she’s perfectly still, her eyes fixated on the bed we shared last weekend.
My chest clenches as I attempt to steady my breath. I was such an ass. “Let’s start in the suite since you were out there first.”
We spend the better part of the next twenty minutes digging between couch cushions, scanning the floor, looking under furniture, and checking the kitchen area.
Star stops in the middle of the suite with her hands on her hips, looking around. “Do you mind if I take a look in your bedroom?”
“No, go ahead.” And what’s odd is I don’t mind. I don’t generally let people into my space. My high school girlfriend, Tammy, had hated that. But for me, my bedroom has always been the place where I hide, my sanctuary. And even though I’ve moved out of my father’s house and away from the emotional and physical abuse, I still view this room like that even though I’m not in danger here and am slowly healing from the ordeal that was my childhood.
But Star… it feels natural for her to be here. It doesn’t bother me at all. And for now, I’m choosing not to think too closely about the possibilities of what that could mean.
I stand at the doorway and watch as she scans the room, her lip tightly caught between her teeth. After a few minutes, she shakes her head in dismay as she gets up off the floor from where she was looking under the bed. “I don’t see it anywhere.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for it now that I know what I’m looking for.”
She nods. “I appreciate it.” Her eyes flick to mine. “Kellan?”
Her quiet tone catches me by surprise. “Yeah?”
She stands in the middle of my room, looking a little like she’s going to be sick. “I wanted… I wanted to apologize.”
My brows dart up on my forehead. I’m completely baffled and positive my expression shows it. “For what?”
Star gives me a pained smile. “The other day. When I yelled at you. I was upset, but that doesn’t excuse me shrieking at you like a crazy person. And then you said you were sorry, and I felt shitty. I wanted to come over right after and say something, but I wasn’t sure it’d be a good idea. But I’m sorry. I really am.”
An odd sensation washes over me, muddling my thinking. She’s apologizing. I’ve apologized plenty to my father for not being the son he wanted. But through all the abuse, he never once showed an ounce of regret. Never once came to me and said he was wrong or sorry for what he’d done. And here’s this girl—someone I’ve hurt—and she’s full-on apologizing for her behavior when she was upset by something that was totally my fault. She had a right to say or feel however she wanted.
I don’t know that I deserve the apology. But I cling to it like a lifeline and rub my hand over my chest, trying to keep the young boy inside of me in check. Staring at the floor, because I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes, I nod. Everything I want to say is caught in my throat. My gut twists and burns. How is this girl able to so effortlessly yet meaningfully say those words to me? After the awful way I treated her?
In my peripheral vision, she pivots on her heel and slowly walks away. And still, I can’t open my mouth to stop her. To ask her to stay so I can figure out how to express the tumultuous thoughts that reside inside my head.
My eyes slam shut as my jaw twitches. My inability to communicate what I’m feeling makes me ache. I spend the next several minutes pacing, my fingers interlaced over the top of my head. Gritting my teeth, I finally stop. And then I march straight from my room and out of the suite.
I take several deep breaths before I finally lift my hand, rapping my knuckles against the girls’ closed door. “Star?” Somewhere within me, I find the strength to say her name loudly enough that she’ll hear me. Then I stand there, waiting for interminable seconds, and wonder if I’m crazy to think she’ll come to the door. Give me the time of day.
What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?My bare chest heaves as the door opens a crack. She peeks out at me, all nervous and wild-eyed, then glances down the hallway. I don’t know what she’s looking for. There’s no one else here. Only me.
My brow furrows. “Were you expecting someone else?”
“I don’t know. I guess not.” She has a very solemn look on her face, but pulls the door open a tiny bit wider. “Did you need something?”
“Um, I have a weird question for you.” I eye her carefully, tilting my head to the side. This might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. She’s never going to go for it.
Her gaze sharpens, her focus intense. “Go ahead.” She bites down on her lip and drags her teeth over it.
I don’t necessarily need a model for what I’m working on, but— “I, uh, would you be willing to come sit in my room for a bit?”
Her face pales, and she blinks rapidly behind her glasses. “Yeah, I don’t know about tha—”
I blow out a hard breath, interrupting. “I appreciated your apology, even though I hadn’t expected it, and I know you didn’t have to do that. Maybe I can explain—” I hesitate. Can I share why her apology had thrown me for a loop? I don’t know. I give her a pained look. “It’s for my art class, what I need you for. It’s this entire unit on human emotion that we’re working on. One of the weekly assignments is drawing a range of facial expressions.” I breathe out. Breathe in. Wait.Dumb. Dumbest idea ever.
Her head cocks to the side as she studies me. “And what? You want me to sit for you? Like a model?” Her eyes dip down, and I swear she’s looking at my chest. Or maybe my tattoos. My skin tingles with awareness.
“Yeah. We don’t technically have to have one, but I’m having a little trouble without an actual face to look at. The assignment is one of the components for my final project for the semester.”
“So. You’re saying it’s important.” A ghost of a smile passes over her lips as her gaze lifts back to mine.
I nod, liking the way she’s looking at me from under hooded eyes. “To me, yes.”
