Page 9 of Light Up The Night
"Very well. I accept your invitation, Riley. Thank you. You are much too kind.”
His smile is dazzling. "Baller. Let me get the bed changed for you."
Baller? What on earth doesthatmean?
I have no chance to ask, however, as he disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Which are chaotic, tumultuous, and confused.
Chapter 2
RILEY
Ihavegotto be the world's most astounding dumbfuck.
What could possibly have possessed me to bring this girl back to my house, I can't imagine. Like most dudes, crying chicks short circuit my brain. Turn me into a panicking fucknut.
Like,Oh god, she’s crying! What do I do? Bring her to my house, obviously.
Raina all but threw herself at me, and I turned her down because I am—say it with me, now—THE WORLD'S MOST ASTOUNDING DUMBFUCK. And then, mere hours later, I bring home a girl who is even more sweet and clean and innocent. I mean, no, I didn't bring her home inthatsense. For one thing, my home is my haven. My safe space. I don't bring chicks back here. Ever. That's a hard-and-fast rule, one I am even more obsessive about keeping than putting a hat on my bishop before hooking up.
For another, this girl, Cadence, is absolutely, unequivocally untouchable. By me, I mean. She doesn't curse. Has never, until she met my sinful ass, even touched alcohol. She doesn't watch TV. She goes on medical missionary trips to fuckingAfrica. She's devastated because no one will fund her intent to go to South motherfucking Sudan, where a vicious, dangerous civil war israging. She graduated high school at fifteen and got her MD from goddamned Harvard at twenty-two. Doogie Howser, who?
Yeah, she's…strange. Talks like a Victorian age robot or some shit, and seems to be a walking encyclopedia of literally everything.
Butfuck me,she's breathtaking.
Her hair is a wild explosion of strawberry blond ringlets that's always in her eyes, though she never seems to notice, never brushes it away, never tosses her head. She has literally picture-perfect posture—ramrod spine, shoulders back, chin up. Even sitting, you could balance a glass of water on her head. She's around five-six or seven. She's delicate, with silky, creamy skin, tiny, clever, restless hands, and the biggest, deepest, greenest eyes I've ever seen.
Her beauty transcends—and yes, I know what the fuck "transcend" means, shut up—her individual features. I can't explain it. There's just this…light, to her. An internal brilliance that takes the angles and curves of her face and transforms them into something wholly angelic.
This is what's going through my brain as I strip my bed of the sheets, wad them up in the fitted sheet, and toss the giant ball of sheets toward the door. After struggling with the fitted sheet for a moment, I finally get the fucking thing on the bed, after which the rest is easy. Fuck fitted sheets. You'd think by this point in our race's technological advancements, we'd have come up with a better alternative to fitted sheets. I settle the giant king-size-plus blanket over the bed, and then fold my grandmother's quilt in half and drape it over the bottom third. I do my best to arrange the pillows into some semblance of order, but I honestly don't make my bed too frequently. Cole, the type-A goody-goody fruitcake, swears by making your bed every morning; he says even if your whole day is one big fuckup, if you made your bed, you’ve accomplished one thing, and then you get to go home toa neat, made bed. Fuck that. When I crash at the end of a long, frustrating day, I like to wrap up in the blankets like a fluffy mouse's nest. When the bed is made, getting the blankets into the right nest shape takes longer.
I scan my room, making sure there's nothing embarrassing left out. Dirty clothes are in the hamper, and clean clothes are put away. Check the bathroom—fortunately, I just had Mrs. Henshaw over to do a deep clean of the kitchen and bathroom earlier in the week, so it's decently clean.
Satisfied that I've made things as female-palatable as possible, I head back out to the living room. And there's Cadence, perched on the couch like a mannequin in that picture-perfect posture, staring straight ahead with her hands folded demurely on her lap. If I couldn't see her chest rising and falling ever so gently, I'd wonder if she was some sort of super-advanced android from a hundred years in the future.
She doesn't notice me enter; I'm not sure she's even blinking.
"Cadence?" I keep my voice low and quiet, not wanting to stare at her. She doesn't register any reaction, so I approach closer. "Cadence?"
Nothing.
I have to be inside her field of peripheral vision, but still, not a sign that she knows I’m here. I touch her shoulder as softly as I can, keeping my voice quiet. "Cadence?"
She jumps six inches, gasping, clapping a hand to her chest. "Oh! Goodness gracious, Riley. You startled me."
"Goodness gracious, huh?" I echo, laughing and shaking my head. "My grandma used to say that all the time."
"I have a propensity for anachronistic speech patterns and syntax," she says.
“Yeah, no clue what that means," I say. "I did say your name like three times."
"My apologies. I tend to become too lost in my thoughts to the exclusion of all else."
"So, how do I not startle you when you're thinkin' deep thoughts?" I ask.
"With great caution. Approach from the front. Try to catch my gaze." She blushes furiously. "If you have ever attempted to approach a skittish horse, you might understand."
