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Chapter Five
Dahlia bounces as she weaves through University Park, but I struggle to keep pace with her.
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
But she doesn’t let go of my arm.
She releases a melodic laugh and casts a smile in my direction. “You said you wanted to study, so we’re going to study. If you get nervous, I can help, but you’re not getting out of this, Billie.”
“I don’t get nervous.”
“You do, but that’s okay.” She nudges me in the side. “They’re not going to bite.”
There’s something haunting about the smile Dahlia flashes. Her face lights up like a child, innocent but bold, kind but assertive, and with that one look, she renders me acquiescent. I am unable to deny her.
Brent and Darius’s apartment looks drastically different without the blacklights and drunk people, and I pause at the threshold as a bout of nausea wells up. The living room is back to its natural state of Bradford cleanliness and order, and that only serves as a reminder that each apartment in University Park looks exactly like the next—and the previous.
Sprawled across the couch, Darius flips through the pages of the textbook on his lap, a Coors Light in his hand. On the loveseat next to him, one of the guys from lunch the other day is curled up in an awkward position, his brown hair falling in his face. A blond girl pours a couple drinks in the adjoining kitchen, her long creamy legs stretching for miles. She must be cold wearing little more than short-shorts and a long-sleeve sweatshirt.
They all greet Dahlia when we enter, but no one more zealously than Brent. He jumps up from one of the barstools and shouts her name with uninhibited enthusiasm. If he weren’t too busy poking holes in the aluminum foil wrapped around the top bowl of a hookah, he probably would have bounded across the room.
The front door pushes in one final gust of cold air before slamming behind me.
Dahlia drops her bag near the TV and joins him at the counter, but I don’t move. She pulls out a circular piece of charcoal from a foil wrapper and offers it to him. “What flavor is it?”
Darius folds up his legs to make space on the couch, and I cross the room to the open seat beside him.
“Rose and jasmine.” Brent reaches across a pile of papers and miscellaneous items to extract a lighter. “And I added a little whiskey to give it that rich heavy flavor.”
Dahlia nods in approval. “Nice.”
Held aloft by a small pair of metal tongs, the charcoal flickers to life, and Brent tosses the lighter back onto the counter while Dahlia wrangles the hose. She sets the three-foot-tall hookah on the coffee table in front of me, and Brent follows and lays the now white-hot charcoal on the foil-covered bowl.
Only then does he rest an arm on the couch and turn his crooked smile on me. “Hey, Billie. You having a good weekend?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Can I get you a drink?” He turns toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer. “Anna, can you make another one of those?”
The blonde flashes a devious smile. “I made six. Lia said she’d bring her.”
He returns the smile full force before twisting toward me. “Have you smoked hookah?”
Without waiting for a response, he presses the hose lightly to his lips and sucks with all his might. The charcoal, fading to a soft gray, brightens with the influx of oxygen, and he inhales until potpourri-scented smoke pours from his nostrils with each exhalation. He takes one last puff and exhales through his mouth when he pulls back. Then, he offers the hose to me.
For a moment, I hesitate.
Then, my hand snakes out to grab it, and I press it to my lips and inhale slowly. The mouthpiece is damp with his saliva.
The flavor is mild, smooth, and sweet, but when I breathe more deeply, the back of my throat burns. I yank the hose away and force down a cough.
Leaning against the couch, Brent grins. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
I hand him back the hose. My throat itches and aches. “Good” isn’t the word I’d use.
Anna exits the kitchen, carrying three tumblers with clear, fizzing liquid. She offers one to the quiet brunette on the loveseat first, and he gulps down half the drink. The next one is for Dahlia, who smiles in thanks, and then, one for me.
I hesitate, but her face contorts with irritation, and I take the glass so she’ll walk away.
She returns to the kitchen and slides one of the remaining three glasses across the counter. Brent lobs the hookah hose toward Dahlia and rushes to catch the drink before it hits the floor. He sends her a short glare after catching it, then nods to the two she has in her hands. “Who’s the extra one for?” Darius already has a drink.
Anna sends him a big grin, downs the first drink, and pulls the second closer for a sip. “What extra?”
Brent’s hearty laugh reverberates through the apartment, and Dahlia takes a long drag off the hookah before pushing the hose into his hands.
On the couch, I sip my drink and set it in the shadow of the hookah. Vodka tonic, by the taste of it. I slide off my backpack and rummage through the contents. This is supposed to be a study session.
Brent passes the hose over my head to Darius, who leans forward and sets his beer next to my drink. His textbook folds shut from the movement, and several pages crease.
Darius continues the circle. The brunette shifts his position to reach the hose.
Beside me, Darius studies each of us until his eyes land on Anna, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Where’s my drink?”
She grins. “You already have one.”
Belligerent, he grabs his beer and chugs the remnants. When he’s done, he slams the empty can on the table and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not true.”
I drop the papers as I pull them from my bag, and Brent leans over to help. They crinkle in his big hands.
On the other side of the coffee table, Dahlia settles on the floor, cross-legged, discomfort painted on her face. I offer her a small smile as I organize the papers, and Brent sets the ones he’s gathered atop my stack. It takes a minute for her to return the smile, but when she does, it spreads across her tight features like a virus.
I withdraw my phone from my pocket and set it next to my drink.
There’s one message when I light up the screen. I grab the phone again. From Xander.
You coming over tonight?
Normally, I’m there right now. It’s Saturday night, and unless there are extenuating circumstances, the three of us hang out, order pizza, watch some anime, have a couple beers, and I draw. Xander’s so tired from work that all he wants to do is peek over my shoulder and ask to see my latest sketches of him. Then, my standard response: I roll my eyes.
But we haven’t managed a face-to-face conversation since Halloween.
I push away my phone and grab my notebook and French textbook.
Across the table, Dahlia powers up her laptop and busies herself with making faces at me. When I don’t reciprocate, she asks, “Everything alright?”
I glance at the phone again. “It’s not a problem.”
Beside me, Brent offers me the hookah hose again. “What’s not a problem?” His voice booms as he speaks.
For a moment, I stare at the mouthpiece, then I shake my head.
Brent frowns before passing it onward. “What’s not a problem?” He’s quieter this time, but only just.
I gulp down half my drink, but it doesn’t do anything for my nerves. Everyone is watching me. “Nothing.” Dahlia catches my attention, but I look down. “It’s just—my friend and I got into a bit of a fight the other day.”
Dahlia leans forward curiously. “Was it serious?”
“Well, he texted me for the first time in a week.”
Brent grabs my almost empty cup and downs his own drink, then returns to the kitchen. “You haven’t been talking? That sounds serious.” Even though he’s only five feet farther away, he yells as he sets the cups in the sink. There’s no way they weren’t drinking before we arrived.
Dahlia shifts her weight. “Brent’s exaggerating because he gets along with everyone.” She chuckles, and I have to laugh. “You two fight often?”
Since the day we met. Even now that we’re friends, the fighting is normal. But the arguments revolve around him being an ass or inconsiderate or nosy. Not his love life of all things. Because really, who he sleeps with has nothing to do with me.
“Yeah.”
Brent comes back and sets an unopened Coors Light in front of me, then takes his seat on the stool. The pop when he opens his own beer is sharp and loud.
I focus on the silver can. “I guess I shouldn’t complain.”
I didn’t ask for a beer. I don’t need it. I’ve never cared for the taste either. But I take the can from the table, pop the tab, and take a drink. The bubbly liquid is sweet but dry, and my mouth puckers. It’s disgusting.
“Don’t be like that.” Dahlia waves my words away with a flick of her wrist. “Complain as much as you want. That’s what friends are for, Billie. One of the best ways to get to know someone is by listening to them bitch.”
But before I can answer, my phone lights up. I snatch the device off the table and stand. “I’ll be right back.”
Outside in the cold, I let the song play for a minute—blink-182’s “Feeling This”—only swiping my thumb across the screen right before the voicemail takes over. “Yeah?”
Static and background noise fill the earpiece. Is he not there?
Then, his voice comes through: “Dixon, this is stupid. Come over.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m busy.”
His exhalation is so loud that I can’t hear anything else, and his voice is a low grumble. “Are you still pissed off about Halloween? That was a week ago, and this has gone on long enough. Don’t say you’re busy just because you’re stubborn. Get your ass over here.”
My jaw clenches. “Or you could stop being a jerk for two seconds to consider that I might actually have plans. Which I do.” My grip on the phone tightens. “I’m not blowing you off, and until this moment, I’ve been more annoyed than pissed off.”
Xander groans. “Well, stop getting pissed off over nothing.”
“And you should stop assuming I’m lying when I say I’m busy. For once, take me at my word.”
“Then you should take me at mine when I say nothing was happening with Regan,” he snaps.
I frown.
The angel, I assume. I liked it better when she was a nameless, faceless entity. Makes it easier to hate her.
“What you do on your time is your business, Xander. I don’t care about who or where you’re screwing.”
“This is why I assume you’re lying when you say you’re busy.” He releases a long sigh, and his irritation dissipates. “Dixon, you know I don’t have a lot of free time with school and work. I’d prefer to spend that time with the people I care about. Come over.”
My chest constricts with pleasure at the admission. “Of course I want to spend time with you.”
“I know you do.”
I freeze.
There’s something about his tone, his voice, that says more than the actual words—something that says he knows far more than he’ll say aloud. My stomach twists at the strange discomfort his words send through my body, and I clear my throat.
Xander sighs again. “Seriously, come over, Dixon. Jimmy’s complaining that you’re not here.”
I almost smile, but my eyes wander toward Brent and Darius’s apartment. “I’m studying with Dahlia and her friends tonight.” I take a deep breath. “I had to force myself to come here in the first place, so please don’t offer me an excuse to leave. I’m trying to push myself.”
He lets out a quiet chuckle. “Rain check? I have tomorrow off.”
I pause a moment to consider, then frown. “I can’t. I have to take a bus to Burlington for that dress fitting, remember? My mom’s counting on me.”
“Dixon.” His voice is flat, and I picture him rolling his eyes. “I have a car. You don’t need to take the bus. Let me drive you. Just the two of us.”
A grin spreads across my face. “Really? That would save so much time.”
And I’d get to spend the whole day with him. Only him. As much as I love Jimmy, there’s a twinge in my stomach at the idea of being alone with Xander, an excitement I can’t place or explain.
“Yeah, of course. You know, I’m excited to see you wearing a dress. I doubt pictures could do it justice.”
Heat rises to my face at the thick anticipation in his voice. My mind flashes through a dozen scenarios. Most of them involve the two of us locked in a dressing room. The amount of clothing varies.
This second twinge is more familiar and decidedly lower than my stomach, but it only happens when he’s close to me—close enough to bring back the memories I’ve spent many nights trying to erase for my own sanity.
I tug at the drawstring dangling from my blue hoody. My voice is quiet and reserved when I respond: “Well, text me in the morning so we can figure out timing.”
Unfortunately, those memories—Xander pinning me to the bed and kissing me thoroughly, his naked body next to the dorm room light switch, his rough fingers massaging me till I come—refuse to disappear.
I’m slowly going insane.
