While You're Away (16 page)

W
ith Jane’s help, I set a custom ringtone for Will.

Now when he called, my phone purred, “Hey, Athena.”

I was almost embarrassed to admit to myself how much it turned me on when I heard it. I couldn’t help it. If I heard that whisper, it meant time with him. Long hours talking to him, or watching as he walked me through his life at St. P-Windsor.

One night, he took me to the sciences building. It was a sprawling, gothic hall, with sharp peaks and angled arches that didn’t welcome you to its doors. They warned you that you weren’t prepared for what waited inside. After dark, the doors still unlocked, it accepted visitors in its shadowy corridors.

“You can’t be scared,” Will laughed. He took the stairs two at a time. “You’re four hundred miles away from the monsters in Strickland Hall.”

“You lie,” I told him. “You’re wrong. They can come through the phone lines.”

Making his eyes wide, Will held his camera in front of his face. With a slow zoom in, he laughed maniacally in the background. It was completely ridiculous, and yet, a thrill of terror washed over me.

“Please don’t make me hang up on you.”

His lunatic expression melting to one of amusement, Will winked. “Your wish is my command.”

I lay back in my bed, my laptop cuddled in the crook of my arm. Its warmth and light bathed my face, mirroring the sensations that swirled through me. Catching up with him after my evening shower was turning into a nightly habit.

With the time difference and our respective schedules, our long calls almost never started before eleven at night. Though I was running short of sleep, it was worth it to have the time alone with him. I tried less and less hard to hide myself during each call.

Will had a great view of my bare skin. My hair pulled up, I bared my throat and my shoulders. The towel slipped slow, showing off way more than a sweetheart neckline; the curve of my breasts cast deep shadows of cleavage. I was almost tempted to take a screenshot for myself. I felt lush and gorgeous and ripe. From the way Will’s eyes tracked my every move, he must have thought so, too.

“By the way,” I said, as his footsteps echoed down an eerie hall, “Mom and Dad are okay with me driving out for your homecoming weekend. I thought it might be a problem, but Mom convinced Dad it was okay.”

With a grin, Will said, “Have I mentioned I love your mom?”

He turned down a narrower hall. It really was terrifying. Carrying the phone into an unlocked room, a strange glow illuminated the edges of the screen. Tension mounted; I heard something liquid and bubbling. The hum of an unfamiliar machine. And then suddenly, something white and floating and obviously dead filled the screen.

I shrieked.

Will laughed. Instantly, he sounded sorry as he turned the camera to face himself. “It’s okay, Sare. It’s okay. I’m sorry.”

My heart pounding, I demanded, “What the hell is that thing?”

The picture shifted. Lights went on, chasing shadows away in an abrupt, blinding flash. A chair screeched on the floor, and my perspective changed. With Will narrating, he panned his phone slowly along a bank of aquariums. “It’s the physio lab. The professor keeps anatomical specimens in here. There’s fetal pigs—that’s what I showed you—along with cats, rats, cow hearts . . .”

A little nauseated, I pulled a hand down my face. “Ew. Seriously, Will?”

“Sorry,” he said. I softened, as I could tell he meant it. His sincerity came through, even as he left the lab. Voice low, he murmured as he headed out of the building. “Hailey did the same thing to me when she was here studying last night. I thought it would be funny.”

I was getting used to all the Hailey mentions. Sort of. Sometimes she popped up in his videos. It wasn’t for long. She just photobombed, waved and said hi, then disappeared. Her face decorated the background of half his Instagram shots. I told myself there was no reason to worry about Will making a friend, even if it made me feel uneasy.

Didn’t he text me as soon as he got up every day? He sent long e-mails from his English lecture. All day long, texts came in.
Check out this gargoyle in the chapel.
And
I found a tiny wishing well, see?
And
Have to read
Scarlet Letter
again. This is proof there’s no God.
There were videos, and our nightly calls. His Instagram account was packed with different shots of campus, tagged specifically for me. He even threatened to start a Tumblr.

Seriously, Will couldn’t have done more to make sure I was included in his day. I was probably just tired from lack of sleep. And lonely, because even a hundred videos couldn’t replace one good hug.

Rolling onto my stomach, I curled my arms and rested my chin on my hands. “I’m glad you took me there. I’ll just have nightmares for a week, is all.”

When Will returned to his dorm, his room was quiet; it turned out Antwon had better things to do most nights than to come home. When Will sprawled on his now-familiar couch, I shifted my position, too.

Will’s eyes went wide. “Sare?”

All I had done was sit up. Putting the laptop on the edge of my desk, I sat up and let my towel fall. My skin tightened, both from exposure and from the rush I got from his expression. It wasn’t a full-body nude by any stretch, and the only light on in my room was the pale flicker coming from the computer screen. But there was enough flesh and illumination that a sharp hunger filled Will’s eyes.

“Promise me no screenshots,” I said, defensively crossing my arms over my chest.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the local video window. It felt heady and powerful to realize that I thought I looked nice. I’d never considered the possibility that I might be objectively sexy. It was always Will’s reaction that let me make that leap. When he looked at me, I
was
sexy.

Raising an eyebrow, I prompted him, “Promise?”

Hilariously, Will crossed himself. “I swear on my life.”

“Okay, you flash me so we’re even.”

His video feed blurred. For a second, I saw his desk lamp and his ceiling. Then the picture righted itself and there he was, stripped to the waist. He turned his phone vertical and propped it on a shelf nearby. His smooth, sculpted chest fed down to the narrow streak of his waist.

His pants hung low, revealing the slightest curve of his hip. A shadow of dark hair, just hidden from sight. Tight denim outlined a hard curve behind his zipper, and a flush washed over me. I made myself look at the rest of him.

He wore jeans, but his feet were bare. I don’t know why that stirred me up, but it did. He looked so comfortable in his skin. Lanky and long, his shoulders like fine Italian-cut marble, I realized just a second too late that instead of taking the edge off missing him, this sharpened it. What I wanted was for him to reach for his button and peel everything away. But I wanted him to miraculously be at my bedside while he did it.

“Much better,” I said, my voice thin.

His gaze traveled over me. Even from a distance, I felt its heat on my skin. A blush tingled as it rose on my chest. Could he make out the color-shift from so far away? He had to see the way it lifted everything. I felt the ghost of his hands on me, the phantom trace of his mouth in places it had once explored. Between my breasts—between my thighs.

A slow, hungry smile touched the corners of Will’s lips. He was no more naked than he would be at a game of touch football. Comfortable, he scrubbed his fingers through his hair and teased. “So where are we going with this?”

“You’ve arrived at your destination for the night,” I replied. Then I dropped my pillow in front of the camera on my computer.

Across the miles, I heard Will cursing under his breath. He made me brave, but I wasn’t that brave. Or crazy. I wanted a lot of things. A Fender Stratocaster with a hard case. Blueberry pie for breakfast every day. A million dollars so I could make it rain—but that didn’t mean I was going to get them. Or that I should.

Rolling off the bed, I grabbed my robe. I tied the belt, and then double, triple checked it before I pushed the pillow out of the way again. I was once more completely decent, and a little thrill still lingered.

“So what you’re saying is that you’re a tease,” Will laughed as he sprawled back. He was decadent with his body. Shameless. Then again, I could walk out of my house on Saturday morning and see shirtless guys all up and down the street—mowing lawns, going for a jog.

“You got plenty,” I told him, amused.

Lazily rubbing his own collarbone, he nodded. “I figured. It’s for the best. I don’t know if Antwon is coming back tonight, and I’d hate to start something I couldn’t finish.”

The flush in my cheeks turned to a sear. Though I’d started by flashing him, I hadn’t thought about it all that much. Just a few short weeks ago, I never could have imagined getting naked on camera at all.

Hell, two seconds ago, I was sure that was as much as I was willing to show. But it niggled in my head that Hailey was two doors down. If Will didn’t want to wait, he didn’t have to.

Suddenly, I was seriously contemplating more. My base animal self certainly wanted more. I ached all over, missing those moments when we were closest together, remembering how it felt to kiss him, become tangled up in him, move together as one.

“We could try it,” I said finally. The words felt like honey on my lips.

Even with the occasional glitch in the video, I could tell Will was interested. He all but vibrated from it.

His skin was taut, too. Muscles rippling as he moved, his edges were sharper, more defined. His face, too. The narrowness of his eyes told me he was thinking about it. The flick of his tongue between his lips told me he wanted it. The feeling was mutual.

Dragging his lower lip through his teeth, Will leaned forward. “I know somewhere I can take you. Not tonight. Saturday?”

A tightness filled my chest. It stole my breath as I leaned forward, too. We had promised to find a way to be together even when we were far apart. And though it had been easy to ignore our physical needs at first, it had been just that: ignoring them. They may not be at the forefront, but they vibrated through me just beneath the surface. They certainly hadn’t gone away.

I kissed the pad of my index finger, then pressed it to the camera. “It’s a date.”

A
t the Eden, things were very much not the same with Dave.

A form-fitting Henley replaced his usual crisp, preppy plaid. Instead of soft, clinging jeans, he wore a skinny pair, and gone were his generic boat shoes. Instead, he sported a pair of black Chucks. The ragged hems of his jeans dusted the crisp white laces, teasing in contrast. His blond hair was freshly cut, with a bit of spike to it now.

He moved comfortably, throwing his head back to laugh as he talked. He slipped his hands into the back pockets of the jeans, loose-limbed and relaxed in his own skin. Apparently, now that he was allowed to flirt with anyone he wanted to, he did it before the show, too.

The smallest part of me was surprised that he didn’t acknowledge me. But the reasonable parts beat that into a paste. We weren’t together anymore. He didn’t have to help me set up. I was completely capable of sound-check on my own.

It was even all right that mingling before the set, he stayed on one side of the stage while I lurked on the other.

At a table on my side of the stage, Grace, Jane, and Ellie sipped at their drinks as they waited for the show to start. Having them there made me nervous. Though I usually had a bolt of adrenaline right before performing, this was different.

Tonight was a wild card, our first performance since the breakup. I had no idea what to expect. And I hated that. That was the one constant with Dave—I always knew what to expect. I always knew that performing would be amazing; I always knew that we would laugh afterward. Now all of that was gone.

When the lights switched down, I steeled myself and stepped onto the stage. Too many bodies and burned coffee perfumed the air. Though it was a bar, most of the hardcore drinking happened upstairs where the dance floor pounded away with bright lights and electronica.

Pulling my guitar strap over my head, I watched Dave bounce in place a couple of times before taking the stairs up.

All at once, he stood beside me. And it
was
beside. He could have had blinders on, the way he stared out at the audience as he pulled on his guitar. The piney scent of an unfamiliar cologne clung to him. It was like standing up there next to a stranger.

Producing a set list from his case, he taped it to the inside of his mic stand. “It’s the usual set,” he informed me.

The house lights shifted, casting red behind us and bringing the audience glare down to shadow. It wasn’t a particularly packed night. Most of the tables had someone at them, everyone still talking over their drinks. The buzz wouldn’t stop, and we didn’t expect it to. But tonight, it made it harder to concentrate.

“Thanks for coming out tonight,” Dave said, strumming a few chords to get his guitar in tune. “I’m Dave Echols. This is Sarah Westlake, and we’re Dasa.”

Polite applause smattered through the crowd. The bartender chipped away inside the ice bin, some unexpected percussion.

Skimming the set list, I was glad we hadn’t put together a new one. No matter how off we were, these were songs we’d sung a thousand times together. A lot of those performances had been right here. The playlist was familiar as a favorite pair of tennis shoes. Worn, comfortable, reliable.

As Dave introduced our first song, I struggled with the sudden weight of emotion. This might be our last gig at the Eden. I remembered how punch drunk we were the first time we talked our way in to play. That whole experience glittered in my memory, a field of perfect stars on a moonless night.

As we started playing our first song, an upbeat piece, I suddenly realized how sad I was to leave this all behind.

The stage was hot. It always was. There was a restaurant kitchen on the other side of the wall. The lights weren’t gentle, either. We segued into another fast number, and I had started to let go of all my thinking when it was time for the third.

It was a ballad Dave and I had written together after we’d gone to see some bad art movie because we thought it was something we were supposed to do. It was miserable, three hours of French people posing to death in black and white. Except for a single red glove, the only flash of color in the whole picture.

Afterward, we’d tried to discuss it. We wanted to be those people who strolled through the night, richer and deeper, conversing like true artists. But I broke down first and admitted I had no idea what the red glove was supposed to mean. Dave dissolved into laughter, his blue-gray eyes dancing. He didn’t get it either.

The next Sunday, we started writing a song called “Red Glove.” It was all about two people who pretended to be above it all, when all they wanted to do was fall. It was the first song we wrote where Dave led, and I embroidered with sweet, pure harmonies. For a piece written by sixteen year olds, it still felt meaningful.

As we hit the chorus, I looked to Dave. Our eyes met—he’d forgotten to stop looking at me, too. The scarlet light glowed through his golden hair. It traced the fine lines in his face, gathering in a dimple that only appeared on certain notes.

The cool distance he’d been keeping melted away. Rough and raw, his voice tumbled over the notes. The vibrato hung between us, buzzing on my skin.

Our very pretty, practiced song transformed. There was new heat on the stage, coursing between us. An edge of desperation flowed through the lyrics. It had always been there, but Dave was consumed by it tonight.

The talkative audience hushed a little. Did they feel a change in the air? It suddenly seemed like sacred space. Out of nowhere, I felt split in half. I missed this. I missed Dave.

~

We had the stage for two and a half hours. After the final song, Dave invited the audience to buy copies of our CD at the bar. Instead of wading into the crowd the way he usually did, he disappeared down the hall to the bathrooms.

Left alone to gather my equipment, I moved in a daze. Fingers numb and head stuffed full of cotton, I fumbled the simple latches on my guitar case several times before getting them lined up and locked.

My skin itched. I longed to scrub myself raw, everything clean and new. A scalding shower where I washed my life back to normal sounded so good. Since both sisters and the bestie were in attendance, though, that shower seemed impossibly out of reach.

“Grace went to buy a CD,” Jane told me.

Winding up the battery packs, I tossed them in the club’s equipment crate. “She doesn’t have to do that. I can make a digital copy for her.”

“I know. But I went to grab some footage of people buying CDs, and she decided she needed one, so . . .”

“That’s sweet,” I said finally.

“It is,” Jane agreed.

She watched me, unable to hide her curiosity. Though she was doing her best not to ask anything out loud, her expression shouted. Had I noticed the heat with Dave? Was I feeling okay? The answers were yes and no, in that order. Since she hadn’t voiced her questions, I avoided replying.

“I don’t think I’m up for House of Tokyo after this,” I said to fill the quiet.

It was a teppanyaki place not too far from my house. The showmanship wasn’t great; I think I could have made a better onion volcano than most of the guys on the grill there. But it was fun, and silly, and out of the ordinary for all of us. We’d planned to stop for dinner after the show, but now the last thing I wanted was a long, drawn-out meal.

“If you want to talk . . .” Jane said, letting her voice trail off.

“I’m really tired,” I told her. It was true. Then, to offer an explanation, I said, “It’s been a while since I played a full set. It took a lot out of me.”

Shuffling along the edge of the stage, Jane nodded. “Okay, sweetie.”

That annoyed me. It felt like she was coddling me, and I wasn’t sure why. Yes, the performance had been unexpectedly emotional. Yes, I felt kind of stripped in front of half my family and my best friend. Still, I wasn’t made of glass. I wasn’t so easily breakable.

Before I could call her on it, Dave came out of nowhere. He hopped up the stage steps and tapped me on the shoulder. With a jerk of his head, he said, “Can I talk to you in setup real quick?”

Setup is what we called the dingy office where the club’s manager let us lock our stuff when we weren’t playing. It was plastered with yellowed posters from bands gone by. The place smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and old, sour coffee. It was my least favorite part of the Eden, but that’s usually where we got our cut of the receipts.

“I’ll be back,” I told Jane and followed Dave down the hall. To him, I said, “Are they trying to get us to wait until next time to get paid again? We told them before that it wasn’t gonna happen.”

Reaching back, Dave caught my hand and tugged me inside the cramped office. There was no one in there. Just the two of us, pressed into a tight space. Crowding me against the wall, Dave let go of my hand.

He wasn’t touching me at all anymore, but I could feel the heat from his body, transferring to mine because he stood so close. There was something darker in his eyes, too. Not dangerous, just wanton. His gaze never slipped from mine. I felt undressed by it, that same sting and connection we had on stage spilling out into our lives.

“What’s going on?” I asked. I hated that my voice went fluttery and soft.

Planting a hand against the wall, right next to my head, Dave said nothing for a moment. It was like he was reading me from the inside out. In a strange way, it felt like he had just noticed me for the first time. An old, dormant flicker of infatuation rose in my chest. It was physical, I told myself. Just physical, a screwed-up body-response to a really emotional performance.

“I know I wasn’t alone out there,” Dave finally said.

A flash of tongue touched the bow of his lips as he paused. Why was I staring at his lips? I shouldn’t be staring at anything but the screen of my cell phone, waiting for Will’s call.

Swallowing hard, I put a hand on Dave’s chest and pushed him back gently. I couldn’t help the way the music sometimes made me feel. But I was 100 percent in control of the way I acted. “It was a good show. That’s all.”

Brushing his thumb against my chin, he studied my lips. Then he said, “I’m not giving up on you.”

Rather than let me respond, he leaned in close again. For a second, I was sure he was going to kiss me. The air was electric, and he felt wild and alive so close to me. But instead of touching my flesh with his, all I felt was his breath. It skimmed over my mouth, and he lingered there for a split second.

Then, he was gone. Out the door before I could say a word. Flustered, I slumped against the postered wall. My heart pounded against my ribs. I felt horrible, but I couldn’t pinpoint why. I hadn’t mixed my signals. I hadn’t done anything to give him the impression that things had changed between us. We connected when we sang. We always had.

If Dave had decided there was some hope in a lost cause, that was his problem, not mine. With a few deep breaths to center my thoughts, I headed back to find Jane and my sisters. Odd impulses shot through me. I felt like a marionette, taking big, exaggerated steps.

Coming back into the club, I found my mini-entourage huddled together, whispering to one another. Grabbing my guitar case, I hefted it off the stage. The exhaustion had lifted. Now I had too much energy and nowhere to burn it. So, lightly as I could, I bounced up to them.

“Think I’m up for dinner after all,” I told them. “I’m starving.”

~

I slipped away from the table between the “making fried rice” and “throwing shrimp at the ladies” portion of the show. My hands trembled as I secreted myself in the hallway by the bathrooms.

The only thing that would make me feel better was a chance to talk with Will. It had been two days since our last real conversation, and I needed to hear his voice. I dialed his number and waited, thumping my head faintly against the wall.

When the line connected, a girl’s voice answered. “Will Spencer’s phone, how may I direct your call?”

A wicked, vicious hook twisted in my belly. I thought I recognized the voice. I’d heard it often enough, popping up in the background when Will sent videos or talked to me on Skype. Forcing myself to sound neutral, I said, “Hey, Hailey, is that you?”

“Oh my God, are you psychic?”

I noticed the slightest slur in her voice. It made me want to reach through the phone to throttle her. I admit, the reaction was completely overblown, but I needed
Will
. And I needed
Will
to be the one who answered his phone when I called. Not some girl who may or may not be drunk. Gritting my teeth, I said, “No, it’s Sarah. I just recognized your voice.”

Suddenly gushing, Hailey sounded like she was moving through a crowd. “That’s so sweet, you recognized me. Will’s right about you. So seriously smart.”

Good. I was glad that Will talked about me. It would have been nice to know he talked about how incredibly sexy I was, and how he couldn’t live without me. But for the moment, hiding in House of Tokyo while my sisters applauded the knife skills of our chef, all I wanted was to talk to him. Immediately.

“Thanks. Crazy question, is Will around?”

“I’m looking for him,” Hailey replied. Her voice went muffled for a moment, that weird place between too loud and too soft that happened when you tried to talk under the music but over a crowd. Then she came back, “I know he’s around here somewhere.”

Chest growing tighter by the moment, I ducked into the bathroom. Some cold water on my face would help. It would chase away the unbearable heat that swept over me. I hated the way my voice echoed off the tile, making me sound empty and distant.

“You know what,” I said, cranking the tap open. “Just do me a favor and have him call me when he can. Anytime, I’ll be up.”

Laughter erupted on the other end of the line. I heard a roar of voices in the background. It sounded like a party chant, but I couldn’t make out the words. Dipping one hand into the water, I patted it against my throat. I wanted to be angry that he was at a party, but it was Friday night. There was no reason for him to be home. He knew that I had a gig tonight. I didn’t want him sitting around in his dorm room, lonely and bored.