HABIT, page 12
“Cute socks,” James says, pointing toward my feet.
I lay to my side and lift a leg in the air a little and wiggle my toes. I wore my long boot socks over my tight riding-style pants today, and this particular pair is covered in paw prints.
“Dog lover?” he asks.
“Dog dreamer is more like it,” I say. I snuggle on my side into the bed and pull his pillow under my head, propping myself up to meet his eye line. “I always wanted a dog, but one never really fit the Bentley family lifestyle.”
“That’s too bad,” he says, pulling his second pillow into his body so we’re nearly at the same level. Lying here like this feels somehow familiar. There’s an instant comfort, and I let my own vision of spending weekend mornings just like this sit happily in my chest.
“You ever have a dog?” I ask.
“Oh, we’ve got two right now. Rover! Mikey!” He whistles and I lift myself up and look toward his closed door, realizing too late that he’s teasing me. I scowl at him instantly and flop back into my pillow.
“That was mean.”
I pout for a few seconds, until he grazes my arm with his fingertips and utters an apology.
“So, tell me about this small business dream of yours,” I prompt.
James rolls to his back and sighs, stretching his arms over his head until his hands touch the headboard. His legs are so long that he has to bend his knees to keep them on the bed. He seems entirely too big for a full-sized mattress. He would probably fall out of one of the dorm beds.
“You sure you want to hear my story?” he asks.
“You heard mine,” I respond.
A soft smile rests on his lips as his head rolls to the side. He studies me for a few seconds.
“My grandfather—I call him Papa—he owned this cool little store where I grew up. It was a bodega, or as close to a bodega as you can get in south Boston. He had all of these strange foods in there, and he was always getting new things in for people to try. He had a whole spice section with stuff people flew in from all over the world. Some of the city’s bigtime chefs sometimes stopped in and picked stuff up for special dishes. My grandpa would talk with them, and I think he even shared a recipe or two.”
“Wow. I wonder if they got famous off of his recipe,” I say, a genuine question. That’s my father’s upbringing kicking in—always looking for reasons to get litigious.
“Maybe, but it wouldn’t have been his anyhow. My great aunts were the ones with the recipes. Papa just stored them in his head. He was a decent cook, but my mom . . . she’s an artist.”
Seeing him talk about his mom with so much reverence, holding her on a pedestal for something so personal and domestic, fills me with envy. It’s a sweet envy, one wrapped in appreciation. But envy, none the less.
“Anyway, you probably know how Boston real estate goes. Someone bought a building then changed the lease structure, so the smaller businesses had to leave, and the bigger ones expanded, and blah, blah, blah.” He rolls his head in a circle then shifts so he’s on his side again and staring at me.
“And that’s your dream?” My eyes pull in, my focus on the weight in his. His smile dims, but it’s as though it’s hanging on for hope, the curve of his lips clinging to the dimples in his cheeks.
“That’s my dream. I want to reopen Delgado’s and add on a small restaurant concept for my mom. That’s her dream.” Those last three words seem to breathe life into his smile. It grows.
“So, your dream is making her dream come true,” I say.
His gaze holds on to mine for several long seconds, and the farther I fall into the deep pools of blue and green, the dizzier I become. Long breaths grow soft and faint, until I’m holding mine just like him.
“Come here,” he finally utters.
Our eyes remain open, locked on one another, as I scoot into him. He sweeps an arm behind my head and the last vision I have is of the strong, stubbled line of his jaw and the soft invitation of his lips a breath before he kisses me. It’s soft and chaste, his lips lingering against mine, his tongue taking leisurely passes against my skin. The lust-filled neediness of our last intimate moments isn’t there, instead replaced with an adoration. I feel adored by his mouth—cherished and wanted, but in a way that feels less transient. There’s a steadiness in his kiss. His mouth is strong but his intimacy measured, as if he’s not just taking his time but enjoying the slow dance of it all. I’ve never been kissed like this. And I have no intention of stopping it anytime soon.
Chapter 12
James
It’s strange to know I’m in the middle of a dream.
I’m fully aware that I am sleeping right now. I keep trying to convince my body to join my mind and will my eyes open, but the picture in my head is too sweet. The lapping of the ocean water and smell of salt in the air seems so real even though I know it’s not. In the real world, I’m in a bedroom at a school I still don’t quite feel at home at with a beautiful girl in my arms.
I tried to stay awake. Planned on it. I kissed Morgan until my lips were raw. And then I ran my fingers through her hair until her body stilled and her breathing evened out and I knew she was asleep. The silky feel of her hair slipping through my fingers was like some sort of physical hypnosis, and I don’t know if it was an hour or only minutes after she fell asleep that I did, but I did. And now, I’m clawing my way to awake because there is no way it is not early morning.
The thump against the wall does the trick. My eyes snap open and my body jolts, which brings Morgan out of her slumber.
“Oh, shit!” she whispers, pushing against my chest and sitting up.
We stare at one another’s wide eyes, somehow silently agreeing to make as little noise as possible. Neither of us breathes.
I mentally run through the sounds I recognize, matching up what I hear with what might be going on behind my door. Morgan taps the screen on her phone which is nestled between us on my bed. It’s four a.m. It’s not my mom we hear.
Thank God for old plumbing. The moment my dad turns on the shower, the pipes vibrate inside the wall between my room and the bathroom, and the high-pitched whine of the water coming out fades as the temperature heats.
“You’ve gotta go now,” I say through a really panicked laugh.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Morgan says, rushing to the foot of my bed and shoving her feet into her boots.
Her hair is a wild mess, and I help her comb through it with my fingers, which she quickly slaps away.
“Stop it. That’s annoying,” she whisper-shouts.
I hold in a laugh as she rolls her eyes. She’s fucking adorable. I would give anything to wrap my arms around her and pull her back into this bed and continue kissing other places on her body.
But my dad will make life hell for the both of us. He has few rules, but not having a coed sleepover is definitely one of them. It’s a non-negotiable, and maybe the only rule he said out loud when we were moving into this place. He was half-joking when he said it because the cheerleaders were practicing their pyramid out in the quad as we were hauling boxes in.
“Hey, no sleepovers,” he said, pointing at me.
“Yeah, right.” That was my response.
That was six weeks ago as fall cheer camp was underway and my dad was setting up one-on-ones with players to introduce himself as the new coach. Six weeks—that’s how long I lasted.
Once Morgan is put together, her hair pulled back in some magic tie she pulled out of her bag, I make my way to my bedroom door. I stop with her behind me, pressing my ear against the slim space between the door and the jamb. The hallway is quiet, and the water is still running. I’ve come to know our shower, and there is a small window of perfectly hot water, so this is our chance.
“Let’s go,” I mouth to her. We both crack giddy smiles that break through our nerves, and it somehow calms my pulse. I think we both feel breaking this rule was worth it.
I crack open my door and apply pressure to the hinge to keep it from squeaking until it’s wide enough for both of us to slip out. Our hands automatically find one another, our fingers weaving into a naturally comfortable position, and we squeeze tight as we tiptoe out of my room, down the hallway, and out our apartment door until we burst into a giggling fit in the middle the campus lawn.
“Shit! It’s cold!” I high step, realizing only now that I am barefoot and still in a T-shirt. It’s maybe forty-five degrees out and the sun isn’t set to rise for another three hours.
“You better get back inside before you freeze,” Morgan teases. She sways back and forth, her bag dangling from her arm. Bits of wet grass cling to her boots.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, my laughter quieting. My eyes settle on hers and I take her hand again, pulling it to my mouth and kissing the inside of her wrist.
“Thanks for picking me up at the train,” she mutters, her voice soft and shy.
“Mmm, kinda my pleasure,” I say, smiling against her wrist and dropping her hand to free my palms to cup her face.
“It was my pleasure too,” she hums. My thumbs sweep along her cheeks, the space under her eyes still puffy with sleep.
“You’re really pretty this way,” I say.
She tucks her face into my right hand and brings her own hand up to hide half of her face.
“Stop. I look terrible. I’m sure of it.”
I move her hand away and return to cupping her face, holding her focus on me so she hears me loud and clear.
“You could never look terrible. But like this? You are beautiful.”
This is the version of her nobody gets to see, and it’s the version that is the most honest and real. She has no idea how little help she needs to be perfect.
“Well . . .” A tiny breath leaves her nose as her lashes blink away the attention. For a girl who has spent half her life collecting viewers, my singular attention seems too much for her, which only makes me want to stare on longer.
“I’m gonna take you out tonight. After practice. Give me your phone,” I say, glancing at her bag where I know she’s buried her device.
She licks her lips, studying me, maybe dissecting my actions a little, and definitely flirting. God, I love flirting with her.
I let my fingers run down the sides of her jaw to the black turtleneck sweater hugging her neck. I tug at the folds and she lets out an airy laugh.
“Fine.” She gives in, twisting to reach into her bag and hand me her phone. I type in my number and send a text to myself so I have hers as well.
“There, now I don’t have to troll you on social media simply to talk to you,” I say, dropping her phone back in her purse. “I’ll message you as soon as practice is done, and I’ll just need fifteen to shower and stuff.”
“What if it takes me longer than that?” She juts out a hip and I take the opportunity to palm it and run my gaze along the curve of her profile.
“You don’t need to change a thing. In fact, you better dress casual for what I’ve got planned. I’m talking sneakers and a sweatshirt.” I’m going to get her away from this place, to somewhere from my world. She doesn’t need to pretend to be anything other than who she naturally is.
“And . . . nothing else?” She leans her head to the side with a coy expression, and of course now that she suggests it . . .
“I would not complain if that’s how you showed up.” My lip ticks up on one side, almost daring her to go for it. Kissing her for hours was amazing. So was running my palms up her thighs and around her ass in the locker room. And fuck! Now I want to do all sorts of dirty things to her.
“You better get inside before you give yourself away, James,” she says, glancing down at my rock-hard cock protruding from my joggers.
I laugh at myself because what can I do, and Morgan leans in, pressing her lips against mine as I’m mid chuckle. Adding to my torture, she runs her palm down my stomach until she is fully cupping my hard-on, and my dick flexes in her hand.
“Oh . . . okay,” I stammer out. She nips at my lips then backs away, leaving me hard, freezing cold, and so fucking turned on.
“I’ll wait for your text,” she says.
She flips her ponytail over her shoulder before looking away from me and literally swaying her hips as she walks away like some sex kitten from the movies. I stare with my lips parted, still thrumming with the sensation of her kiss. I reach into my pants and adjust myself as best as I can before bending down and brushing grass from the bottoms of my pants. I’m still half hard when I get back to our apartment, and I slip in through the door, careful to not make any more noise than I have to. When I click the door shut, I pause and listen for a moment. The shower is no longer running, which means I need to get my ass in my room. I make it halfway across the living room when the scent of freshly brewed coffee hits my senses.
“How was the sleepover?” My dad’s tone is flat, lacking the sarcasm I know lies underneath his words. That’s because right now he’s too pissed to allow anything remotely funny to transpire.
I rock back on my feet and turn to face him. He’s blowing across the top of his coffee cup, steam glowing under the light from his phone. I’m sure he was checking his email or reading the news. He has a routine in the morning, and it starts early.
“I can explain,” I sigh, moving closer to the counter to keep some space between us. Not that I’m thinking about Morgan’s naked flesh anymore. Now I’m thinking about the dead meat I am.
“Choices, James. That’s what I told you, and that’s all I have to say now. Mind your choices. Now, get some clothes on and get your ass in the weight room.”
My dad clicks the screen dark on his phone and takes his mug in his other hand before heading to his room where my mom is sleeping through all of this. I’m not sure which would be better, having her awake and on my side, or having her agree with him and hitting me with a double dose of disappointment. I’m not entirely sure where she would fall on this one. She doesn’t necessarily get behind my dad’s all-football-all-the-time approach, but she also knows how much I need to get everything just right in order to get into the kind of college I want.
“Yes, sir,” I finally utter as he shuts his bedroom door.
Fuck.
My dad got Theo’s punishment reduced to a single game. That means Theo’s able to join us today for practice, which makes the extra hits everyone gives Raskin on his behalf a little sweeter.
Things seem to be sorted out between Lily and him too. We’re going to watch her compete next week as a team. My dad likes fostering community and supporting other athletes. He’s always seen that as a natural way to build camaraderie. It was my idea, and yeah, I suggested it partly to show Theo that I truly only see Lily as a friend. I sense he still harbors some weird jealousy over her tutoring me.
I also knew if I set something like this up, I could sit with Morgan, and finding ways to be with Morgan without having to sneak around behind my father’s back is proving to be a challenge.
I’ve been out of practice for thirty minutes now, and there’s no way she doesn’t realize this. I haven’t texted. I’m showered and ready to go, yet here I am, sitting in my room like a grounded ten-year-old who broke a lamp. Only I didn’t break a lamp. I broke a rule. And really, it’s not an entirely fair rule. My dad doesn’t know Morgan. I’m only getting to know her, and every new thing I learn changes the public perception I once admired online for completely shallow reasons.
The knock on my door sends a paranoid jolt up my spine and I flip my phone over on my thigh as if I have something to hide. Like seeing my phone screen will somehow pull the thread on my inner turmoil of whether to text Morgan or not, and if I do, whether that text should cancel our plans or confirm them.
“Hey, I need to talk to you about something.” My dad closes the door behind him, which makes my chest tighten. He’s either going to pick up where the lecture left off this morning, or he’s going to start an entirely new one.
I scoot over on the foot of my bed to make room for him, and as he sits down he rubs his chin in that same thoughtful way he used to deliver news about one of our fish dying or the hamster getting out.
“Did the headmaster change his mind?” I’m taking a wild guess that this is about Theo’s suspension.
“Huh?” My dad is still rubbing his chin but breaks from his trance after a few seconds to look up at me as if my question is finally catching up to him. “Oh, no. Theo and Raskin are on track. That’s fine. All is fine. No, this is . . . well, it’s unfair news. And I have to tell you, and this is when it is exceptionally hard being both your coach and your father.”
My mouth hangs open for a breath and I lean back on my palms, dropping my chin to my chest.
“Okay. Go ahead.”
I stare down at frayed hole in the knee of my jeans and prepare myself for whatever’s coming.
“The coach from Brown is coming to practice tomorrow.”
My heart pushes out a single, massive beat, then stops. This isn’t good news, despite how I’ve always imagined my father uttering this exact sentence would be.
“He’s coming to take a look at Toby.”
All I can do is breathe out a pathetic laugh and close my eyes.
“Of course he is,” I say.
“Don’t do that, give up like that. This has nothing to do with football and your skill versus his—”
“Of course it doesn’t,” I say. I roll my head until my gaze meets my father’s, and I can see in his expression that he is failing to find soothing words. “That’s the problem, Dad. Being great at football”—I sneer and shake my head—“None of that matters because Toby’s family is so fucking rich! Dad, they probably bought a building already, or purchased this season’s uniforms. And Toby might never suit up and take a snap at Brown, but he’ll make their roster. They’ll admit him over me. Because his family can make that happen and mine can’t.”
I stand and march out of my room, my chest heavy with guilt because that wasn’t a fair thing to say. But what am I even doing here, trying to trick the system when it’s so rigged? I hear my mom shout, “Hey!” when I slam the door behind me. She’s not big on temper tantrums. I still can’t sit in the armchair in their bedroom without thinking of the times she put me in time out in that seat at our old apartment. I haven’t thrown a proper temper tantrum since I was five or six, though, so maybe I get a free pass with this one. And is it really a tantrum if it’s a natural reaction to life mocking me?
