Dearest Clementine (6 page)

“Did, uh, did Gavin stay here last night?” I ask, afraid of the answer.

“Yeah, honey. But he swears he was a gentleman. I think he saw more when you walked out of the bathroom a minute ago than he did all night.” She’s laughing, and my head pounds harder, which I’m guessing is because I’m blushing a deep shade of red. “He’s been really sweet. He carried you two blocks last night and tucked you in bed, and this morning he brought you some breakfast.”

My heart constricts. She must see the look on my face.

“Hey,” she says, reaching over and hugging me, “don’t make this something it isn’t. He’s a great guy, and he must like you, but I don’t think he’s going to stalk you or anything crazy.”

“That’s not it.” The sound of blood beats wildly in my ears.

“Can I give you some advice?” Her face is full of concern. “Don’t blow him off. I know you’re afraid to get close to anyone, but I think he’s a catch, and good golly, he’s pretty. He couldn’t take his eyes off you all evening even though you were giving him your famous cold shoulder.”

I press my face into my hand. “I was such a bitch to him last night. Why he’d want to have anything to do with me is—”

“How can you say that? You’re a gorgeous woman and a brilliant writer. Don’t be so down on yourself. Look, get dressed, and come out and have breakfast with us. I swear the guys won’t give you shit about seeing you naked.”

Jenna looks like she’s ready to go out there and threaten their lives if they turn her into a liar. I crack a smile.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to thank you for the party. You outdid yourself. Did Jax get home okay?”

She smirks. “Yeah, some model in a cherry-red Mustang picked him up from the club. I think a photo of it got posted on a gossip website.”

I roll my eyes. “Sounds like my brother.”

Ten minutes later, when I walk into the living room, everyone stops talking. I planned to be social and eat with my friends, but I can’t. My heart is pounding, and I’m breaking out into a cold sweat. My hands tremble at my side, from the alcohol or nerves, I’m not sure which.

“I have to go to work,” is all I can muster before Ryan jumps off the couch and grabs me in a giant bear hug.

“Sorry my stuff tripped you, and you flashed us your goodies, but damn, girl, you’re hot. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

I lean back and look him in the eye. “Are you always such a pig?”

“Why, yes, yes, I am.” He grins, placing a small peck on my cheek. “And why the fuck am I just now learning that you sing? Jesus Christ, you have some pipes.”

“Thanks. That’s nice of you to say. And thank you for the party. I had a really good time.”

“Watching those guys fall over themselves to eat food off your body was more than worth it. How many asked you out?”

I shrug. Who counts that kind of shit?

“Please tell me you have at least a dozen dates now.” He grabs my shoulders and starts to shake me, which makes me groan. Does he have any idea what he’s doing to my hangover?

“C’mon, Ryan, you know me better than that.” I glance over at Gavin.

“You didn’t give out your number?” Ryan asks incredulously. I shake my head. “To anyone?”

“Why would I do a thing like that?” I say, grabbing my jacket. My heart is pounding. I need to get out of here. Now.

As I reach the door, I hear footsteps behind me.

“Wait up, Clem,” Gavin says. “I’ll walk you out.”

* * *

Each step I take reflects the throbbing in my temple.

“Here, drink this,” Gavin says as he catches up to me in the stairwell. He hands me a green beverage.

I eye it skeptically. “I’m pretty sure I threw this up about an hour ago.”

He laughs, unleashing one of those megawatt smiles, and it ripples through me like a tidal wave. “Trust me, it’ll help the nausea.” God, he has beautiful eyes. They’re green, the color of a dark forest, and rimmed with thick lashes.

Snap out of it, Clem.

“Trust you, huh?” I nibble on my lip before I lean in and sniff. It smells fruity, so I take a small sip, and it tastes like apples with the slightest hint of ginger.

“Okay, this isn’t bad.”

Gavin’s lips tug up further.

His hair is still damp from a shower, and he smells like soap. The morning stubble on his face gives his boyish smile an edge. I find myself thinking about rubbing that face against me to feel that roughness against my skin.

Oh, fuck, I need to get away from him.

I turn and start down the stairs again, and I hear his steps behind me.

Did he go home, shower and come back?
I know he only lives a block away at the dorms, but still. He went through too much trouble.

“Did, uh, did you really carry me home from the club?” I ask, pausing to see his response.

He looks away a second before he shrugs. “Maybe.”

Shit. I don’t know what to do with him. He’s all kinds of sexy and sweet, and I desperately want to pull away and hide before we can ever get close.
He didn’t even try to grope me last night,
I think, and I was barely wearing anything in Jenna’s sluttacular dress.

I start to turn, and he touches my arm to stop me.

“I have a proposal, Clem.” He sounds all businesslike, which makes me wonder what his major is. I really don’t know that much about him except that he carries dumb drunk girls home and doesn’t have roaming hands.

I tilt my head, curious about this proposal.

Gavin tucks his hands in the pockets of his black hoodie. “How about we go climbing on Friday at the gym and maybe grab a bite after? But just as friends because I know you don’t date.”

I almost laugh at the tone of his voice. He might be saying
just friends
, but that’s not how he’s looking at me right now.

“How do you know I climb?” BU has one of the best fitness facilities in the country, complete with one badass climbing wall that I do a couple of times a week.

He smiles again as his eyes pass over my body, sending another shiver down my back.

“You’re in amazing shape, and I’d venture to say that’s where you got those killer abs.”

My face flushes at the memory of exactly how he saw my abs this morning, and my defenses flare up.

This is too much. He’s too much. I’m going to get hurt.

But I don’t want to be rude. I know I’m not myself when I’m thinking about letting a guy down easily.

“Can I think about it?”

He seems unfazed and nods.

“Sure, call me when you decide,” he says as he starts walking back up to my apartment.

“I don’t have your number,” I blurt out.

Wait. Why would I point that out?

“Yeah, you do. Check your phone,” he says with a grin as he disappears up the stairs.

* * *

Gavin Murphy programmed his number into my phone.
I’m sitting at work, wondering if I should be totally flattered or freaked.

I reach for my cell and text him before I take a second to consider whether I should be communicating with him at all.

Me:
How did you know that I’d want your number? A little presumptuous, no?

He texts me back a minute later:
How could you not? I’m a great snuggler, remember? And I didn’t grope you in bed even though I really wanted to.

Me:
Doesn’t mean you’re not a perv.

Gavin:
I’m most definitely a perv, baby.

I laugh, shaking my head as the evening crew walks in. One of the guys says, “Hey, Clem, that’s quite a smile. Someone is in a good mood today.”

I shake off my stupid grin and stare down the little sophomore, whose face falls.

“You’re late.”

-
5 -

When my professor talks about sex, she sounds like she’s purring, but since she’s French, I attribute her quasi-animalistic tones to her European roots.

“You must dig deep,” Professor Marceaux says as she paces the front of the classroom. “You must get to the core of what makes relationships bloom, what makes them falter, what destroys them.”

Cheating.
Cheating destroys relationships. Blow jobs from other girls also fall under this category. I blink, and I see an image of Daren, the one that’s haunted me for years, where his face is contorted in a mixture of pleasure and pain from whatever Veronica is doing to him.

Marceaux taps the podium.

“First loves are at the core of many romance novels, so you can use your experiences, however wondrous and exciting and painful, as fodder for your manuscripts. The reader should experience the blooming of this relationship with all of its awkwardness and lust and possibly shame. You Americans seem determined to feel guilty about having sex, so explore this aspect if it’s been a part of your experience. I want this to be authentic, and as this is a senior writing course, I’m sure you all have adequate personal examples from which to draw.”

My experience?
Oh, fuck me now.

Jenna nudges me and smiles.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispers.

Marceaux pauses when she reaches the end of the room and stares out the window. “Your semester-long assignment is to write a thirty-thousand-word novella. I want to see a fifteen-page scene by next week, starting with the first time your lovers meet. Show me their attraction, why they can’t stay away from one another, and what is keeping them apart.” She adjusts her glasses before she turns back to the class. “We’ll separate into writing groups to critique. By the way, I can smell bullshit, so don’t attempt to pawn off some dime-store romance on me. I want authentic relationships, ladies and gentlemen!”

* * *

When Harper joins me for lunch in the student union, her brows quirk up and crinkle as her watchful eyes appraise me.

“You look upset.” She takes a bite of her sandwich and lets the silence settle.

We’ve always met here. I’d be having panic attacks over how I was going to pay for school or the fact that I thought my professor was a creeper, and Harper and I would curl up here, hidden behind the decorative planter box, and she’d talk me off the ledge. Thank God she’s a psych major.

I’ve only had one other best friend, who betrayed me in the worst possible way, and it took a long time to trust Jenna and Harper, but they never stopped trying. I don’t know what they saw in me, but their friendship helped pull me out of the darkness to the point that I don’t need to take anxiety meds anymore.

Exhaling a deep breath, I say, “I’m overwhelmed. I’m supposed to tutor tonight, but I have a ton of work to do on my website if I ever want to sell a second book, and people keep emailing me about how
Say It Isn’t So
needs a new cover. I guess I need someone to redesign it. And I’m having trouble with my writing class.”

She frowns. “Talk to Dani about the cover design. She works in the art lab, and I bet she knows people who do that stuff if she can’t.”

“I had no idea she was an artist.” Peeling back the corner of my Peach Snapple, I realize how little I know about this girl despite having lived with her for almost two weeks. “I’m a sucky roommate.”

Harper laughs as she takes a sip of her water. “But you have potential.” I shake my head, feeling a little better now that I’ve unloaded a little. “Don’t worry about the writing assignment. You’ve got this. You’re a bestselling YA author, freak.”

I don’t always believe this, but every month I get statements from Amazon that prove this crazy fact. I think I’m able to sell books, not because I’m creative or original, but because I’ve been honest about the crazy shit that’s gone down in my life. Of course, I wrap it up in a thin veneer of fiction, but my best work always originates from my own experiences. I don’t need make-believe when real life is more fucked up. Especially my life.

Honestly, the whole publishing process scares the hell out of me, like with full-out nightmares or bouts of insomnia, but I want to pull up my big-girl panties and move on.

The little pep-talk voice in my head tells me I can do this without Jason Wheeler’s help, and I hope that’s not just wishful thinking. Because I’ve only finished that one book. And damn it if it wasn’t in part because Wheeler encouraged me every step of the way.

I think that’s why I’ve been struggling with writer’s block. Since shit went down with Wheeler my freshman year, I’ve sequestered myself in a lot of ways, but keeping people at arm’s length is what helped me survive. That’s the trouble, though. My last two years of college have been quiet. Safe but insulated. With no drama. No cheating boyfriends. No crazy professors. No emotional breakdowns.

But I’m starting to realize that closing myself off has taken its toll. I think that’s why Marceaux’s assignment has been so difficult. I can write about Young Adult heartbreak because I’ve experienced it, but I don’t know jack about adult relationships.