I was busy typing out a response to Brett while Hannah read for Pam’s class. I was honest in saying that I had no journalistic experience, but said I was eager to learn. I sent it off, and my email pinged only five minutes later with a response.
Brett was thrilled and wanted me to come in for an official interview at some point in the next few days. He told me to pick up a copy of the AP Stylebook at the library, as well. I had no idea what that was, but I’d figure it out. I typed back a quick response telling him when I was free and he wrote back a few seconds later saying he’d see me at four on Friday at the office in the Union. I’d walked by it enough times, so I knew where it was. Now all I had to do was panic about it until then.
My only other mission that night was to get Dusty alone so I could ask him about the night before, but doing that was going to be tricky with a houseful of people watching. If I asked to talk to him, that would look crazy suspicious, so I’d just have to wait for a good opportunity.
I seized one when he got up to grab a soda from the fridge. Pretending I needed more tea—which I actually did—I followed him into the kitchen.
“So, you proposed to the coffeepot yet?” I said, filling my mug up and putting it in the microwave. He came and stood right behind me. Clearly, he had never learned anything about personal space.
“Shh, I’m planning to do it in an elaborate viral video. I’m still trying to find some backup singers and dancers, and I’m waiting on a hot air balloon, so don’t say anything.” He put his fingers to his lips and pointed at the coffeepot. “I want it to be a surprise.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I said as I took my cup out of the microwave and put the tea bag in. “So, sorry about last night and you getting wrapped up in the drama.”
“It’s no big deal. I just wanted to make sure nobody broke out a chair or called the cops or anything.”
“Is that how it was in your house?” He’d never really talked about growing up, except for vague statements that, reading between the lines, led me to believe it hadn’t been great.
“Sometimes.” I nearly collapsed in shock at the honesty in his answer. “But that’s ancient history.” He cracked his soda open and looked at me as if he was waiting for something. I was completely distracted from my original plan to ask what he’d been about to say last night. This was much more interesting.
“My mom’s been married four times. My dad three. I have so many half and stepsiblings I can’t name them all when people ask,” I said, stirring my tea. I didn’t know how much Renee or anyone else had told him about our situation, but he didn’t look surprised.
“I’ve lost count how many houses I’ve lived in, and I’ve had to switch schools a bunch of times,” I continued. He just stayed silent, so I kept talking, like he was somehow pulling the words out of me. Stupid mesmerizing eyes.
I expected him to share something about his own childhood, but he didn’t.
“That must have been rough.” He came and leaned his back on the counter next to me. There it was again, that smell of clean laundry with just a hint of cologne.
“It was. Remember when you said I had this ‘don’t f**k with me’ vibe?”
He smiled. “How I could I forget? I remember everything you say.” Hold up. He, what?
I looked at him, questioning.
He raised his hand and dragged a piece of my hair through his fingers and sighed.
“You don’t make things easy, Red.”
“I don’t make what easy?” Sometimes I felt like he was talking in code and I needed a translator. It would be a hell of a lot easier if he would just talk in a way that I could understand.
“Why do you do that? I feel like you’re always talking about something I don’t know about.” He dropped his hand and looked down and let out a breath.
“Nothing. I didn’t mean anything.”
I shook my head.
“No, I want you to tell me what you meant, and I want to know how you would have responded last night when Renee asked you how you would protect me before I crashed into the door and interrupted.” Screw it, they probably all knew I was listening.
He stepped away from me, but I grabbed his shirt to make him stop. Jesus, he was cut under there.
Not the point, Jos.
“Jos, come on. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Why are you lying to me?” It was hard to keep my voice down so everyone in the living room didn’t hear. I didn’t want to make a scene.
“I’m not lying to you, Jos.” He tried to pull away, but I grabbed his shirt with my other hand. Either I overestimated my strength, or he added some force and ended up slamming up against the counter and he crashed into me, trapping my arms between us. It didn’t hurt; I was shocked more than anything else.
“What the hell!” I said, finding his face only inches from mine. He exhaled and all I could think was that he was going to kiss me and how much my lips were begging him to. No, no way. I pushed against his chest and it was like something in him snapped and he leaped away from me like I was a leper.
He wiped his mouth as if he had kissed me and his face was horrified.
“What just happened?” I said, using the counter to hold myself up. Dusty let out a sound that was a bit like an explosion and, somehow, very apropos.
“I’m going to take my soda and go back to homework. Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do.” Without looking back at me, he grabbed his Coke and practically ran back to the living room, where I heard him talking with Hunter.
I picked up my tea with a shaking hand and sipped it, because I didn’t think I could go back to the living room right now. I stayed in the kitchen and savored my tea. And by savored I mean I drank about three drops with every sip so it would last. It was only a matter of time before someone disturbed me trying to get myself together and it turned out to be Hunter.
“What are you doing?”
“Just...thinking.” If anyone asked, I was going to say I was lost in thought about...something. I’d been too busy replaying the moment with Dusty to think of a more valid excuse.
“It looks painful. Whatever you’re thinking about.” He grabbed a bottle of Gatorade and a can of cranberry-lime seltzer water for Taylor. Oh, it had been anything but painful, unless you counted a cannon of butterflies being fired repeatedly inside my stomach and feeling like every nerve ending in my body was on fire as painful.