Whistleblower, page 22
Bodie ducked his head, bashful. His eyelashes had no business being so thick.
“You called me a dumbass at the Baseball House. I google translated it.”
I opened my mouth to protest and was immediately thunked over the head with the memory of the word pendejo spilling out of my mouth when he’d taken my glass of wine and put it up on the fridge, out of my reach.
“Oh my god,” I said. “I’m sorry. I had so much wine—”
Bodie laughed, the sound bright and clear over the hum of LA traffic.
“You were mad. I learned some Spanish. It’s a win-win.”
He took another lick of his ice cream. I caught a glimpse of his tongue, all pink and bathed in melting white ice cream, and imagined his hair tickling the insides of my thighs. The thought came so abruptly I didn’t know where it’d come from or what to do with it. It had to be the sangria. Beneath the sweet, punchy aftertaste lay dangerous volumes of alcohol. A few sips and my head was lodged in the gutter.
Definitely the sangria.
Luckily, Bodie completely misinterpreted the way I was looking at him. “Nuh-uh,” he said, keeping his cone out of my reach. “Get your own ice cream.”
I rolled my eyes and leaned back against the white-washed adobe wall that encircled the outdoor patio. Then, because I was desperate to steer my thoughts away from his tongue and what it could theoretically do, I asked, “How do you know the words to that Beach Boys song Ryan played in the car?”
“First off,” Bodie said very seriously, appearing not at all ashamed that I’d caught him mouthing the lyrics, “it’s a classic. But also, I grew up with”—he paused and squinted a little—“outdated pop culture. My sister’s ten years older than me. And my parents are old.”
I snorted. “Well, they’re parents. Isn’t being old part of the job description?”
“I mean my dad’s seventy.”
“Oh shit,” I said, completely sidestepping tact.
Bodie laughed it off.
“Yeah, I know. I was his midlife crisis.”
He said it like it was a joke he’d told a hundred times before. Like it was something he always peppered in when he talked about his dad, to ease other people’s discomfort. To ward off the uncomfortable silence as you tried to think about something to say that wasn’t So does he have dentures yet or . . . ?
All at once, I wanted to tell Bodie everything. I wanted to tell him about my parents, and my hometown in the Central Valley that smelled of methane (because of the cows at the agricultural college—you got used to it) but had night skies so heavy with stars it felt like you could jump up and grab handfuls of them at a time. I wanted to tell him that I lived off of granola bars and Mexican food and had Ariana Grande’s third studio album in my car and that, when he smiled at me, I felt the opposite of invisible.
Instead, I popped off the wall, nudged Bodie with my elbow and said, “You know ice cream tastes better if you share it, right?”
He studied me carefully over the cone. “Sounds like an urban legend.”
I shook my head. “Scientific fact.”
“I’m going to need to see a peer-reviewed study.”
It took me a solid three seconds to realize that he’d cracked a joke. My laugh came out as a delighted snort. Bodie hid a proud smile behind another lick of ice cream.
“Thanks for driving, by the way,” I said, scuffing the toe of my sneaker against the sidewalk and trying not to think about the green-haired owner of the car we’d come in. “And for—I don’t know. Doing shit. For this project. I know you’ve got a lot going on right now.”
This last bit came out mumbled. Bodie heard me anyway.
“Don’t mention it,” he said tightly. “I’m sorry I was the world’s worst group member for a few weeks there.”
The guilt in his voice bothered me. “Bodie?”
He hummed. His mouth was full of ice cream. It was my chance to monologue.
“Whatever happens with our article, I think—” The words were coming out all mushed together. I was horrible at this.
“Whatever Vaughn did—just hear me out—whatever he did, it’s okay to be upset about it. It’s okay to step back from everything to figure out how you feel. You’re allowed to not be okay.”
Bodie stared down at his ice-cream cone and pulled a face like he’d lost his appetite.
“Can we talk about something else?” he asked. “I—I’m really sorry, Laurel. I just don’t want to bring this up tonight.”
I did. I wanted to press it. To press him. But I could tell I was prodding a bruise, and tonight had been too nice to ruin with another receptive, predictable argument. Besides, getting away from campus made it so much easier to forget about everything. Our classes, our responsibilities, the investigation that’d upturned both our lives. Maybe we both deserved a night off from being ourselves.
I folded my arms over my chest, relieved I’d gotten the words out but kind of hating that I’d made things awkward again, and said, “Okay. You’re right.”
Should’ve gone back inside. Dumbass.
The worst kind of silence stretched out before us. Bodie broke it when he sighed, turned to face me square on, and extended his ice-cream cone like a chocolate-dipped olive branch.
“One lick,” he said, a warning in his tone and a smile on his face.
I’m not sure what possessed me to wrap both of my hands around Bodie’s wrist, anchoring him and his cone in place and using his solidly muscled arms to leverage myself up onto my toes. The bite of ice cream I took was massive, and the rush of cold made my front teeth sting like a bitch, but it was worth it to see Bodie’s eyes light up with delighted outrage.
“You did not,” he said.
I held my hand over the bottom half of my face, on the off chance that my laughter would send ice cream out of my nose, until I’d swallowed.
“Sorry.” I was not at all sorry.
Bodie narrowed his eyes. And then he said, in a mediocre Spanish accent, “Pendejo.”
I knew then that I couldn’t blame the sangria. I wasn’t drunk. Not even a little bit. With a surge of wild and chaotic bravery I imagine skydivers feel before they launch themselves out of airplanes, I reached up and pressed my fingertips to the top of Bodie’s shoulder just firmly enough to keep my balance.
I rolled up onto my toes again like I was going in for seconds.
My lips made contact with his jaw—an accident, not a strategic step in my poorly thought out plan to kiss his cheek.
Bodie froze. The regret was instant. I’d fucked up more monumentally than previously thought possible. I pulled back, an apology forming at the back of my throat even as our faces were still so close that I could’ve held him there and counted his eyelashes.
But then I heard the wet splat of ice cream on the pavement, and Bodie’s hands were on either side of my face, his fingers brushing across my cheekbones and knotting into my hair.
His chin dipped. His mouth caught mine.
His lips were still cold from the ice cream but his mouth was hot, and he tasted like chocolate-dipped vanilla. He was so much taller than me that I had to stand on my tiptoes. A muscle in the arch of my left foot was cramping. I didn’t care.
I looped one arm around his neck for leverage and pressed my other hand flat to his chest, fingers splayed over his T-shirt.
His heartbeat hammered against my palm. I had the most inappropriate urge to bust out laughing.
Somewhere behind us—what felt like miles off—the front door of the restaurant opened again and a burst of music spilled out onto the sidewalk. Footsteps plodded down the steps.
And then, with all the subtlety of an airhorn: “Yo!”
Bodie and I broke apart with a wet smack. For one long moment, we stared at each other in bemused shock. And then it hit me.
I’d kissed my source.
Bodie cleared his throat. “Hey, Ryan,” he said, voice low and rough and deeply annoyed.
“I thought you guys got jumped or something!” Ryan said with a laugh. “Show’s over. You missed the big finale. It was so good, yo. They did a fuckin’ Beyoncé tribute. Olivia covered the bill, so we just got to Venmo her like twenty bucks each.
Cool?”
“Yep. Sure. Good. After you,” Bodie told me, with a rather formal sweep of his hand.
My sneaker caught the lip of the top step and I stumbled.
Ryan snorted.
“No more sangria for you,” he teased.
It had nothing to do with the sangria.
He kissed me. I kissed him. We kissed.
In the dark hallway between the dining rooms, just outside the door to the men’s bathroom, the three of us had to pause to let a pair of women and a waiter carrying a steaming plate of fajitas pass each other. I knew Bodie was right behind me. Half of me wanted to turn and apologize for mauling him so hard his ice cream had become a casualty. The other half of me wanted to do it again. I tried to think about the feel of his lips against mine so I’d remember it right. I should’ve been handsier while I’d had the chance. I should’ve combed my fingers through his hair—my nails on his scalp would’ve felt nice to him. Had whatever I’d done with my hands felt nice to him? I wished I’d been paying more attention. I hated that I hadn’t had the time to catalogue every little feeling, every little point of contact. I wanted to remember it.
I wanted to do it again.
But he was my source. This was a major conflict of interest.
Olivia watched me as I slid back onto the bench beside her. I cleared my throat and asked casually, “’Sup?”
The corner of her mouth twitched.
“Your lipstick is smudged, babe,” she said.
I lunged for a napkin. When Bodie sank into his seat across the table from me, our knees bumped. We apologized simultaneously.
Olivia beamed at us.
“Well, kiddos,” she said, tucking her notebook under her arm. “It’s almost eleven, and I’ve got a pure barre class at seven.
I think we should head out.”
I refused to meet Bodie’s eyes.
I’d just broken rule number one of protecting your whistleblower.
—
The cool night air roared through the open windows of Fogarty’s Tesla, tangling our hair in our faces and drowning out Olivia’s voice as she shouted along to Ryan’s ’90s playlist.
The closer we got to campus, the tighter the knot in the pit of my stomach became. I didn’t want to go back to reality. I wanted to sleep on the terra-cotta tiled floor of La Ventana and live off guacamole and sangria while drag queens sang for me.
More than anything, I wanted to stand outside the restaurant with Bodie and pretend none of this existed—not Vaughn, not Josefina, not our school. None of it.
We dropped off Olivia first. When Bodie turned to Ryan and asked where he lived, I realized he was going to save me until last to drop off. He wanted to talk too. I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or disappointed when Ryan insisted that his place was farther, and that it’d make more sense for Bodie to drop me off first.
“I’m hella tired,” Ryan exclaimed as we turned onto my street.
The second we stopped in front of my building, I climbed out through the stupid falcon-wing door and made a run for it.
Idiot, idiot, idiot.
This was my mantra as I darted up the front steps and onto the stoop, where I fumbled with my key. It was only after I’d shouldered open the front door of the building that I heard quick footsteps on the sidewalk behind me. I thought someone who lived in my building was jogging to catch the door, so I held it open behind me.
Bodie appeared on the stoop.
“Hey,” he said, a bit breathless.
It would only dawn on me later that he was an athlete and had much better stamina than that. I stepped back, as if to get out of his way, and he slipped into the building along with me.
The hall was dimly lit and smelled of Thai food. One of my neighbors was listening to John Mayer at a volume that John Mayer did not necessarily warrant, but other than that, it was just me and a heavy-breathing Bodie St. James. I don’t think I should’ve found it so romantic.
When I spoke, my voice was small. “Did you need something, or . . .”
“I am,” Bodie said, “so, so sorry.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I don’t know how to do this,” Bodie blurted, one arm braced out as he held the door open behind us, letting the cool night air drift in. “I’m so, so bad at this stuff, Laurel. I like you. I’m sorry I kissed you, but I—” He huffed. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked you first.”
I heard Mehri’s voice in my head. Because he thinks you’re pretty. He wants to get in your pants, Laurel.
“Did you agree to give me the interview because you wanted to kiss me?” My voice was quiet and croaky and miserable.
Bodie reared back like I’d smacked him dead on the nose.
“No,” he said. “It wasn’t like that at all.”
“Bodie, you’re my source. It’s my job to protect you, and your anonymity, and it’s my job to”—I tossed my hands up helplessly—“to not kiss you. I wanted to, okay? Obviously, I wanted to, but I can’t—”
Bodie’s face split with a grin. “You did?”
I sighed. “Of course, that’s what you got from that. Look, I do like you. But we can’t do . . . this.”
“Can we still be seen together?”
I took a deep breath and said, “I’ll save you a seat on Tuesday.”
He exhaled in a whoosh, the tension in his shoulders dissolving. He glanced down at my lips again, and I was sure I saw his fingers twitch against the front door he was still holding open, but he didn’t move.
“Good night, Laurel,” he whispered.
Bodie slipped back out into the night. The door swung shut behind him. I turned and jogged up the stairs. I wasn’t even halfway up the flight before laughter bubbled up in my throat—wild, reckless laughter.
I could still taste his soft serve on my lips.
Chapter 22
Hanna was slouched in bed, her face bathed in the multicolored glow of her laptop screen, when I slipped into our darkened room. She sat upright and flicked on her bedside lamp. I braced myself against my desk to toe off my shoes.
“How’d your group project go?” she asked.
I paused, one shoe on and one shoe off. Where did I even begin? There was almost too much to cover. Ryan’s horrible taste in music. Carla’s set list and outfit changes. The food, the sangria, the way Bodie’s hand cupped the back of my neck when he kissed me?
I kicked off my other shoe and perched on the end of Hanna’s bed.
“Do you promise not to judge me?” I asked.
“You washed vomit out of my hair last weekend, Laurel.
My high horse is a miniature pony. Was drag karaoke fun?
You guys got back later than I thought you would. Shit. Did St. James give you any trouble?”
“No.” I let out a burst of laughter. “Well, yeah. He kissed me.”
“He what?”
“Or I kissed him. Actually, I think it was mutual.”
Hanna looked stunned. I laughed again and covered my face with my hands, half in disbelief. But when I dropped my hands, Hanna’s expression didn’t mirror my excitement.
Instead, her face was pinched with something suspiciously like concern.
“What?” I asked.
“I really want to be your number one hype woman right now,” Hanna said gently, “but . . . is this entirely ethical?”
“God no,” I said with a scoff. “But—”
But I like him. It sounded insignificant when I put it that way. Immature. Like I was a middle schooler with a crush on a boy from science class or something, instead of a college-aged woman who’d mauled one of her most important sources.
It wasn’t ethical. It was shortsighted and selfish. If anyone found out that Bodie and I were running around Southern California kissing outside Mexican restaurants, it could leave cracks in the credibility of everything Ellison, Mehri, and I were trying to do.
“But?” Hanna repeated.
“But it won’t happen again.”
I couldn’t tell whether she believed me or not.
Neither of us spoke again as I pulled on pajamas, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. Hanna decided she was done with her movie and tucked her laptop away. Once I’d crawled into bed, she flicked off her lamp, engulfing the room in darkness.
The silence felt solemn and stretched out. I squirmed under my blankets and chewed on my bottom lip to keep myself from saying something stupid. Something about Bodie’s smile, or his hands, or the ice-cream cone that’d been the first casualty of whatever had ignited between us.
I wished Hanna could ask me about it. I wished we could stay up late into the night breaking down every single detail.
But I had a responsibility not to fuck this up.
For Josefina. For Ellison and Mehri. For Bodie. For myself.
So I rolled over and tried to sleep.
—
On Tuesday, in a turn of events that surprised absolutely no one who knew me, I was late to Human Sexuality. With the lightning-quick agony of ripping off a DIY waxing strip, I shoved open the first set of double doors.
It was something out of a stress-induced nightmare. Up on the stage, Nick went silent. An entire lecture hall of my peers twisted around in their seats to see what the interruption was. It was me. Wide-eyed, stone-faced, wearing light-wash jeans that may or may not have had five tiny smudges of Cheeto dust on the right thigh where I’d accidentally wiped my hand after Hanna and I had shared a nutritionally disastrous breakfast.
“Hey there,” Nick called from the stage.
Oh god. He was doing this.
“Hi,” I said, my voice suddenly very high-pitched.
“We’re ten minutes into the lecture,” Nick said, not looking remotely remorseful for the public humiliation he was subjecting me to. His hair wasn’t in its usual ponytail today but the rest of his hipster aesthetic remained intact: grandpa glasses, Star Wars T-shirt, tweed blazer.
“Sorry,” I said. At least, I tried to say it. Terror had frozen my vocal cords. I’m pretty sure I just mouthed the word.
