Sway Read online

  I find myself missing it.

  8

  Kate

  “You Spin Me Right Round”

  —Dead or Alive

  The water runs in an icy stream, and I sit on the edge of the tub to test it with my fingers, letting it glide over my skin in a chilly cascade. Our water heater is ancient and nothing much happens. Nothing but cold, like the snow covering the ground on this late-November morning.

  Slowly, it warms. It warms, and I close my eyes.

  Five times. I threw up on him five times. And according to that long, horrifying account I just heard, he used up four towels to mop the grime off my hair and body, changed my sheets twice, and spent two uncomfortable hours curled up like a hibernating squirrel on my sofa built for two in the girliest robe I own. I didn’t mention the brown terry cloth one hanging in the back of my closet that I stole from my dad before leaving for college. Something told me this Caleb guy wouldn’t appreciate the humor.

  Though he does seem kind. And caring. And sweet. And full of about a thousand pounds of BS with that load of crap story he just told about me shoving my tongue down his throat. And roving hands? Please. My hands haven’t roved—is that a word?—over anyone, ever. Hence the birthday trip to the bar that my friends insisted we take. Their mission: To make sure I stayed sober. Their other mission: To cure me of my twenty-one-year-old virginity. As if purity is a disease. Their accomplishment: To assure with complete certainty that I will never speak to any of them again, as long as I live.

  From now on, I’m only speaking to Caleb. The tattooed, not-quite-as-scary-as-I-first-thought guy I don’t even know currently changing out of my pink robe in the living room. Not many guys that look like him would bring a girl home from a bar without taking advantage of her. Maybe an unfair assumption, but it’s my private one. But as for this particular hell-raiser-looking guy—he’s proven himself harmless. It’s for that reason alone that I’m not afraid of him. Maybe I should be, but my instincts are usually right.

  And right now, they’re screaming that I need a shower.

  I peel off my combination of sticky and crusty birthday dress and step out of it, vowing to burn the thing as soon as I exit the bathroom. It smells like a sewer. For that matter, so do I. Even Caleb in that ridiculous robe looked more dignified than I feel right now.

  I sigh and reach into the cabinet for a towel as my mind grows certain of something: I will never again be able to put that pink robe on my body. Not after seeing the way Caleb what’s-his-name filled it out like a Greek god in a quest to conquer my living room. And conquer it he did. Filled the entire space with his intimidating, beautiful presence, no matter how I tried to act unaffected by the vision.

  I can hear the slam of the dryer door coming from the other room. At this rate, he’ll be dressed long before me. That thought kicks me into motion—I don’t want him leaving before I have another chance to see him—and I spring into action. Shampoo. Razor. Shaving cream. Soap. After making sure it’s all lined up on the edge of the tub, I flip around for my toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. Squeezing a little out, I pop it in my mouth and begin to work some magic.

  And that’s when I finally look up at my reflection in the mirror.

  And scream.

  “What is in my hair?”

  Toothpaste sprays out of my mouth and onto the mirror, and the Greek god in the other room begins to cackle. I stare at myself in horror through the shower of white spots.

  Oh yeah—and begin to envision ways to personally toss that laughing Adonis into a black temple of doom.

  *

  “Princess, where did you get this incredible record collection?” Caleb says when I step into the living room. After washing my hair twice because one time didn’t successfully remove all traces of last night’s dinner—grilled cheese and tomato soup, once a favorite of mine but a meal that has now spiraled into something I will never touch again even if starving children in Africa personally serve it to me—I threw on a sweatshirt and black yoga pants, ran a brush through my wavy hair, then made a mad dash for the door despite the drum still thudding a muted beat in my head. Twenty minutes had passed. Twenty long minutes that I was certain would find Caleb tired of waiting around and long gone.

  I was wrong. Right now, he’s crouched down in front of my bookcase, flipping through my albums one by one. A few lay at his feet—which are expertly covered in the coolest biker boots I’ve ever seen, all studded and unlaced and scuffed enough to add to his already unassuming ruggedness—and it doesn’t escape my notice that he’s pulled out my favorites. Led Zepplin. Journey. Deftones. An old bubble-gum-pop Tiffany album that I can’t bring myself to part with. Yet this isn’t what keeps my mind stuck on pause, momentarily unable to process watching him as he reaches for vintage Madonna and brings it to his face. I can’t think, because…

  Princess? Did he just call me princess?

  Something warm and tingly travels through me, but I sure as heck don’t dwell on it. A lot of girls might turn to a pool of melted flesh and bones when a guy endears them with a nickname, but I’m not one of them.

  “Princess, did you hear me?”

  Okay, so maybe I am. My heart gives a little flip, which is nuts since I only met the guy an hour ago. He could be a serial killer for all I know. A serial killer who doesn’t kill, wound, or touch a hair on his victim’s head—even though said victim is knocked out and drugged seven ways from Sunday afternoon.

  Clearly he’s not a serial killer.

  “You know, I had those records alphabetized for a reason, and now you’ve messed them all up.” I snatch my Like a Virgin LP away with an irritation I don’t really feel, but it gives me back some of that dignity I just felt puddle round my bare feet. At least I think it does. I shove my chin up a notch for extra emphasis. There.

  My attitude seems to amuse him, and he looks up at me with a barely legal grin that has surely made countless girls before me lose their good judgment. “I might not look like much,” he says, “but I did manage to learn my alphabet by my junior year in high school. Tell you what, if I have trouble with any of the letters, I’ll let you put them back for me. Deal?”

  I give him a look, then hand the record back and sink to the floor to join him, trying and failing to conceal a smile. “Deal. But that doesn’t mean you can pull them all out—hey, slow down!” I’m sitting there with my mouth hanging open while, in a matter of seconds, a dozen more records have joined the pile. Just because I’m so accommodating doesn’t mean he should disrespect the system I have going here. After all, I didn’t spend an entire week last summer grouping these by name, genre, style, album color, male artists, female artists, release year, and Billboard best-sellers for nothing. It takes a lot of work—not to mention charts, graphs, and extensive case studies—to perfect an arrangement this intricate.

  Kate, you are the classic description of OCD. People could do research on you.

  Lucy’s description of me on the first day we met comes back to sock me in my fragile ego, and I straighten my shoulders. She was so not right.

  I eye the albums, hoping his hands are clean.

  “What I meant to say is, be careful not to bend them. I’ve been collecting this particular set for years, and I would hate to see any of them damaged.” They look clean.

  “How long?”

  I drag my eyes to his face. “How long what?”

  Caleb’s amusement only grows, as does his smile. This boy is dangerous, and I’m pretty sure he knows it. “How long have you been collecting these?” He pulls an album out of the tight space it’s currently sitting in. It takes work to keep myself from gasping a little, but I’m the only person who’s ever touched that one. “Take Velvet Underground here…” He dangles the album in question from two fingers and the vinyl slips out of the sleeve a little. He doesn’t appear to notice. It’s all I can do not to scream and snatch it away. These are my babies. My life’s work. And he’s treating them like nothing but cheap lined plastic inside old must
y cardboard. What an uninformed, perfect idiot. “How long have you had it?”

  “Um…” The vinyl slips a little more, and my eyes go wide. “I bought it for my sixteenth birthday, so exactly five years.” My voice squeaks on that last word, and I feel my hand twitch by my side. If I could…just…grab it.

  “And you’re how old now?” Caleb touches the edge of the black sphere—touches it!—and pushes it back inside with one finger.

  “Twenty—” I clear my throat. “Twenty one yesterday.”

  “Twenty one.” He says it like a question, like he can’t believe my oldness. What, do I look like a kid? Because most people say that I’m mature for my age, that I’m—

  “Twenty one,” he continues. “With a collection like this. A collection you’ve alphabetized, categorized, and organized with the precision of a pediatric heart surgeon. Which I find interesting. Because for someone so old and with such an extensive compilation, you don’t seem to appreciate that this particular album is worth more than what some people pay for a car. So tell me, Princess, why in the world is it just sitting out unprotected on a cheap shelf that I know came from Wal-Mart?”

  Now who’s the idiot?

  He’s been playing me the whole time.

  I finally reach out and take it. “That’s not funny! If you knew how much it cost, why did you handle it so carelessly? Do you know what would’ve happened if it had slipped and cracked? Ten thousand dollars, straight down the toilet.”

  “Trust me, I wouldn’t let it fall. I won’t do anything that might result in you throwing up again. But…ten thousand dollars? And you bought it yourself?”

  “Trust fund,” I say sheepishly. It occurs to me that I shouldn’t be talking about this to a perfect stranger, but something tells me he’s honest. And except for the guy in the bar last night, my judgment hasn’t failed me yet. Besides, starting now I’m no longer going to count that guy, because I’m ninety-nine percent sure that if drugs hadn’t been a factor, I wouldn’t have given him more than the cursory five minutes. Okay, ninety-eight percent. And maybe ten minutes, tops. Ninety-seven. Probably ninety-seven. And possibly one dance.

  “Are you finished working out whatever problem you’re trying to solve in your head?” Caleb says, breaking me free of my mental calculating. “Because I made three phone calls and took a short nap in the time you drifted off to sea.”

  “I did not drift off. I’m still sitting here, same as you.”

  “Well, grab a life raft anyway and answer my question.” He begins slipping albums back onto the shelf, painstakingly checking name, title, and color as he goes to get them in the right order. I like him a little more.

  “I already told you, I got the money from a trust fund. But don’t be getting any ideas.” I pick up my Tiffany album and slip it back where it belongs.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. But your raft’s a little leaky, because that wasn’t my question.”

  I blink twice. “Oh. Well, what was it?”

  “I said, Princess…” He draws out that silly nickname until I feel myself blushing. “Are you interested in breakfast? Think of it as my attempt to acknowledge your birthday a day late. Which I would apologize for, except that this time yesterday I didn’t even know you existed. So sorry about the no gift thing.” He tilts his head to look at me. “Think your stomach can handle it?”

  On cue, it growls. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, a vat of black coffee. It all sounds good right now, especially considering the night I had.

  Turns out Caleb is a mind reader.

  “And just so you know, I was going to ask you before the trust fund came up. I’m not interested in your money, so stuff that thought away where it belongs.”

  Maybe I should be insulted, but I find myself fighting back a grin. “In that case, take me to the biggest buffet you can find. Because I could eat enough for you and me combined.”

  9

  Caleb

  “I’m About to Come Alive”

  —Train

  I used to spend hours and hours making my Christmas list. From the moment the last remnants of my birthday wrapping paper were stuffed into the trash—which is the first of September, by the way—my five-year-old mind would plot ways to get the latest Transformer, the newest video game, the hottest trading cards. Then the Sears Catalog would arrive sometime around Thanksgiving, and the list expanded. Skateboards. Roller blades. The coolest Ninja Turtle sleeping bag I’d ever seen—so much better than freckle-faced, red-headed loser Jason Setzer’s who lived next door to me and dragged his Ninja Turtle bag out every time I came over just to rub it in my face. My Christmas list rocked. The only thing that topped it were the actual presents themselves. They were great. The stuff childhood dreams are made of.

  I got that sleeping bag the year I turned six. Slept in it every night for months.

  By the time I turned seven, Christmas lists were a thing of the past. By then, there was nothing left to wish for.

  “Next time you’ll think twice before challenging me to a contest you can’t win,” I say, dragging the last of my hash browns through ketchup and forking the bite into my mouth. I savor it like the four pancakes, three eggs, and two biscuits before it. Until my mouth stills, followed by my heart rate when both process the words I’ve just spoken out loud.

  Next time.

  I don’t do next time.

  Not where girls are concerned. Especially not where hot, gorgeous, keeping-my-pulse-at-an-unsteady-rhythm girls are concerned. Girls leave. Everyone leaves. At least that’s the case for me.

  But too late, I realize the implication of my words. It’s a pretty big assumption, though I realize with a start, not one I’m all that averse to. This time yesterday, the mere suggestion of a “next time” where a girl was concerned would’ve had me howling with laughter. Look at me now. In just a matter of hours—not even enough time for the sun to make a full rotation on its dang axis—I’ve let this girl in the tacky pink coat turn into someone I don’t want to say goodbye to. I want a next time. I find myself hoping for more than one.

  Which is why I force myself to get a grip.

  But unless she’s a really good actress or just immune to suggestive comments, she doesn’t flinch. Even the skin on her pretty face doesn’t change color. Thank goodness.

  “You are a pig,” she says. “No girl alive could win a contest with a pig.” She picks up her coffee and drains it, then snatches her spoon and cuts into her cinnamon apples, only half of which she’s eaten. “And let me tell you something else—”

  “Please do. I’m dying to hear it,” I deadpan.

  She spears me with a look. “Sitting across from you while you shovel food in your mouth is about as attractive as watching said pig roll around in manure after he’s finished his dinner. It’s disgusting. Vile. Too much for another human to have to endure.”

  “It can’t be worse than watching you talk with your mouth full…” I can see bits of apple rolling around in there.

  “A million times worse.”

  “…Or having you puke all over me. Five times.” Thankfully, no apples involved last night.

  That does it. The blush that eluded me a minute ago has returned full-force, along with a sudden inability to look my direction. She swallows and becomes preoccupied with making sure her dirty utensils are perfectly aligned with her equally dirty plate. Then she reaches for the salt and pepper shaker, beginning what looks like an imaginary game of chess. Just when I start to feel bad for my stupid joke, she looks up.

  “I’m really sorry about that. As long as I live, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get over the humiliation.” The salt goes right, the pepper goes left. Checkmate.

  “Nothing to be embarrassed about.” I shrug. “Despite all the complaining I did earlier in your apartment, it wasn’t all bad. Considering what could have happened to you, I was happy to be there. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  It must have been the right thing to say—not that I’m overly concerned with saying the right t
hing. Sometimes the right thing hurts, sometimes it’s harsh, sometimes it isn’t what another person wants to hear. In this case, it’s the truth. She smiles and looks me in the eye for the first time in minutes. I reach across the table for a triangle peg board game and start playing, red jumping over white in an attempt to be the last one standing.

  She still has that smile on her lips when she asks, “Why Princess?” and turns to grab a game off the table behind her. After a quick inspection that I’m pretty sure involved checking for visible amoebas—I remember the stash of handy wipes in her apartment—we both start jumping our own separate pieces and a contest ensues. I’m determined to win.

  “You’re kidding, right? Isn’t it obvious?” I lay a white peg on the table and steal a glance at her, aware of how hot irresistible she looks competing with me.

  She flips a yellow over red and discards the peg beside her. “Not to me. I’ve never been into super-girly things before, and no one’s ever called me that.”

  I’m down to six pegs. I sit up a little straighter and study the board, knowing there has to be a way to make this work. “First of all, as the guy who saw you in a pink coat with fur trim and then slept in your equally tacky ruffled pink robe that your dying aunt did not give you, I’m having a little trouble believing the ‘I’m not girly’ part. Second of all, the name fits. Princess? As in, Kate?” When I glance up to see her frown at me, it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. This girl looks cultured. She doesn’t strike me as the airhead type you often see on Jimmy Fallon who can’t even name our current President. “Kate,” I say, “as in the future queen of England? Geez, girl. What are they not teaching you at school? You are in college, right?”

  She smiles to herself. I’m pretty sure she likes the nickname. I’m definitely sure I like that smile. “What gave me away?” She’s down to four, but she is so not winning this.

  “The OU sweatshirt I saw hanging in your closet. It still had the tags on it, and looked brand new. So what’s your major?”