Until school, where people like Amber and Dr. Brooks reminded me at every turn that he was my stepbrother.
“But still. You’re so lucky. He seems so cool. Caitlin hung out with the band last week and said he’s like the best kisser ever. I mean, those lips. I asked her if they went further, but she wouldn’t tell. I totally bet they did. I hear he’s slept with quite a few lucky ladies.”
God, if you’re listening, kill me now, and please stop this fire blazing inside my chest.
“Oh, my god, Nora, we should totally do a study group.”
“Nova,” I corrected.
“What?”
“My name. It’s Nova.”
She blinked, almost like she was seeing me for the first time. “Right. Nova. Silly me. So, how about it?”
“You know, I’m pretty busy.” Liar. “And Parker is gone a lot anyway. So, we rarely study together.” Unfortunately, true.
“Yeah, probably with the band,” she said slowly, like it was just hitting her. “I should probably ask Caitlin what she did to hang out with them.”
“Probably just talking to them would work,” I offered, my voice doing nothing to hide my desperation for it to be over. Not that she noticed.
“Yeah, right. I need him to, like, notice me.”
“Well, good luck with that.”
“K, thanks, Nora.”
“Nova.”
But she was already gone. A bummer for her because less than a minute later, Parker walked up.
“Ready to head home?” He replaced the spot she leaned against moments ago, and already my mood improved.
With a smile, I closed my locker and followed him to the subway.
Watching his broad shoulders part the crowd on the sidewalk, I thought over Amber’s comments and the others like it. All the daily reminders served to do was make this growing attraction feel more uncomfortable than it already did. As if the fear of my crush being outed wasn’t hard enough.
But sometimes, I wondered…was my crush one-sided? Sometimes I noticed him watching me like I watched him. Sometimes, I noticed he could move away from touching me but didn’t. Kind of like he did then when he sat next to me on the ride home, and his thigh pressed to mine. He could put a seat between us or scoot over, but he didn’t.
I knew we’d formed a friendship—but I wondered if maybe something more lingered under the surface. I wondered what the hell to do with it.
Nothing. Because I didn’t know the first thing about being with someone like Parker. Hell, the whole friendship thing was new to me. I’d been pretty inexperienced, unlike him, who’d apparently hooked up with everyone like Amber claimed. I had no idea what having someone as intense as him focusing his attention on me would feel like. But I sure as hell wanted to know. He made me want to explore.
When we got home, the apartment was empty, and without any words, we fell into our usual pattern. It’d been a couple of months, and this was our norm. Him working on his art while I used him as a muse for mine. Sometimes, he’d even prop up a canvas and join me as we listened to music, seeing who could guess the song before the other. Or we’d debate the merits and pitfalls of each song. Or we’d just sit in silence and enjoy the company of someone who got us.
It was easy.
So easy that hours passed before I knew it.
The scrape of my paintbrush against the canvas matched the strum of Parker’s guitar. And when he started humming, I closed my eyes and absorbed the music we made together in my quiet room.
The strumming turned to quick plucks, and pitch changes. Unable to help myself, I put lyrics to the tune. Not that he needed to know. I kept that portion of the song in my head. I just couldn’t help but let the upbeat staccato tune that bled into long mourning chords pull the words from my head. Like he’d plucked them himself the same as he plucked the strings.
When he stopped, I opened my eyes to take in the canvas and what our music created—the way the bold blue in the corner bled into the pale, neutral pink. Kind of just like how Parker bled into my life a little more each day. I turned to watch him jot notes down on the notebook beside him on my bed. He propped himself upright against the pillows, one leg bent, and the other stretched out, his bare feet their own work of art.
Dragging his hand through his wavy hair, I watched the music note tattoo on the inside of his bicep dance with each flex. He had a small handful of tattoos apparently his mom signed off on. They were small, hidden like a treasure hunt I loved to play.
“Let me see,” he said, interrupting my perusal.
I blinked and met his smirking face. Even when he didn’t smile, his face looked like he was smiling. The happiness shining from his blue eyes like he had the world at his fingertips, and he knew it.