Author: Quinn, Meghan
Category: Other
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“That makes me sad. No cake? No presents?”
He shrugs. “That stuff doesn’t matter to me.”
“Not even an ice cream cake?”
Chuckling, he shakes his head. His voice is so deep when he says, “Not even ice cream cake.”
Propped up, crossing my arms over my chest, I try to cut him with my glare, like he does to me. “That’s just wrong. Should be illegal. There should always be some kind of cake on your birthday.”
He doesn’t answer me, just stares, eyes intent on mine, facing off. I never thought I’d meet a man who’d make me feel so invigorated and curious simultaneously. He isn’t a challenge, because I sense I could possibly break through to him. He’s more of a mystery, a puzzle with missing pieces that I need to find and put back together. He’s complicated. And he’s out of luck because I really like puzzles. Is that why I’m so drawn to him?
“What’s your third question?” he asks, right before Stryder walks up to us and taps the table where we’re sitting.
“Our time is up. We have to get home before my dad has a coronary. You already turned your shoes in?”
Colby nods, keeping his eyes on me.
When Stryder takes off, I hold my hand up and say, “This isn’t my third question, but why does Stryder’s dad care if you two are home?”
“Stryder’s dad is super strict, especially after we were out all night at the party on Tuesday. He thinks cadets shouldn’t be partying, but practicing and preparing for their future.”
“Eh, gross. It’s called living a little.”
He chuckles and looks over his shoulder. “Yeah, it just about kills Stryder, given his penchant for having a good time. Me, not so much.”
I poke his shoulder. “Don’t be a bore, Colby.”
“Come on, man,” Stryder calls from the shoe desk.
Hopping off his bar stool, Colby adjusts his jeans, pulling them up only for them to slip down on his narrow hips. “You have about five seconds to ask your last question.”
Tongue-tied and feeling the pressure, I say the one thing that’s been on my mind since I met this guy. Locking my eyes with him, pulling all the courage I have inside me, I ask, “Will you take me out on a date?”
I don’t think Colby was expecting that because for a brief moment, he drops the impenetrable façade and looks sincerely shocked.
“Colby,” Stryder shouts.
Looking over his shoulder, he eyes Stryder and then turns back to me, slowly starting to retreat backward.
I hold my breath—my body humming with nerves, my palms sweating—awaiting his answer. Just say yes. Give this a chance. Give me a chance.
Please.
“You don’t want to go out on a date with me, Rory. I’m not dating material.” He retreats farther.
“Why won’t you let me decide that?”
As he shakes his head, his eyes seem regretful, almost like he wishes he could say yes, give in to a yearning within him. It’s there; I know it is. He has feelings for me, but he refuses to acknowledge them. I’m not an expert on Colby—by any stretch of the imagination—but I’m fairly certain it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a single question for him to give in. His behavior is consistent. Say little. Retreat.
“It’s not a good idea, Rory.” Pulling on the back of his neck, he gives me one more once-over, the tip of his tongue peeking out and wetting his lips. “Have a good night.”
With that, he turns his back on me once again and heads toward Stryder, leaving indecision and massive disappointment in his wake. I felt momentary hope when he came over and engaged me in conversation. But I can see it was a little foolish and premature. Colby Brooks gives only what he wants to give, so I fear the two steps forward may be all I get. Is this where I give up?
Chapter Ten
COLBY
“The wind is brutal today,” Stryder says, sitting next to me on the concrete, looking toward the sky. “There is no way we’ll jump today.”
“Not likely.” I curse under my breath. I could really have used this first jump coming back from Thanksgiving break. My mind has been a fucking mess since Rory stepped into my finely tuned life. I can’t stop thinking about the hurt in her beautiful green eyes when I turned her down, or the way her shoulders slouched when I walked away. Completely deflated. I hated being the one who did that to her, because she deserves so much more than a guy who can’t commit to taking her on one date.
One single fucking date.
I’m such an asshole.
But what was I supposed to say? Yes? She’s already got me tied up in knots, thinking about her all the time, during class, at night, in my dreams. I can’t get her out of my goddamn mind. What would happen if I took her out on a date?
She would destroy any ability to concentrate I have left.
I really could use a jump right now. To experience the pulse of fresh air hitting me; the sense of freedom as I fly on my own. I need the feeling of my breath being stolen from me, erasing my mind of this past week and reminding me why I’m here.
Stryder unlatches his helmet and tosses it next to him. “Fucking wind.” Leaning all the way back, his hands behind his head, he sighs. “What’s with you, man?”
“Huh?” Joining Stryder, I discard my helmet, lie down, but use my parachute pack as a headrest.
“You’ve been acting super weird lately. You’re usually short with me, but not this short.”
Sighing, I say, “What do you think?”
“I don’t know . . . birthday coming up? You get weird around your birthday.”
“That’s not for another three weeks.”
“Then what is it?” He pauses and then asks, “Does this have to do with Rory?”
I think back to the last week. The party, that soft sweater showing off her bare, toned shoulders. The soothing sound of her voice as she playfully attempted to pry into my life. The way her hand fit perfectly into mine when I led her into the house. That smile . . . those lips.
Then at bowling. Her willingness to continue to talk to me, not seeming fazed by my gruff, short answers. The swell of her breasts lifting past the V-neck shirt, that goddamn red lipstick. Fuck, I’ve had so many dreams about that red lipstick, and what it would look like dragged over my body with her kisses, over my cock as she took me into her mouth. How it would stain my skin. God, I wanted her.
I haven’t been a saint during my four years at the academy. There have been women, but they’ve been quick fucks, meaningless—moments to ease tension. No one has meant enough for me to shift my focus. Until Rory.
She’s eating me alive. My body itches for her touch, pulls and drags me toward her. I want to know what it feels like to have her slight hands slowly make their way up my chest, to know what it’s like to have her plump lips pressing against mine, to have her body wrapped around mine.
I want to know everything about her. I want her mind at my disposal. I want to know why she didn’t go to New York for school, why her boyfriends didn’t stick around, and how they could possibly disengage from her. Even though I’ve said no to her twice, my heart and my body has screamed yes.
Giving in to his questions, I say, “She’s fucking with my head, man.”
Chuckling, Stryder turns toward me, his head propped up by his arm. “I knew it. I’m glad you’re able to come to terms with it.”
“She’s everywhere, Stryder.” I close my eyes. “She’s in class, and she’s in my head constantly. I swear I see her sometimes passing through the halls. She’s in my fucking dreams, that red lipstick killing every last bit of resolve I have.”
The dickhead laughs some more. “Oh fuck, you’re totally smitten.”
“I’m not fucking smitten.” I roll my eyes. “I’m just . . .” What am I?
“Smitten.” Stryder lets out a bellow of a laugh this time while he claps, rolling to his back. “For the first time, ladies and gentlemen, the bulletproof and impenetrable Colby Brooks is being weakened by a persistent and incredibly hot bru
nette. This is so fucking great.”
“Thanks for the help,” I mutter, closing my eyes. And, as per usual, Rory’s beautiful face comes into view, those soulful eyes cutting me in half once again.
* * *
I shut my textbook—my eyes are burning—and take off my earphones, setting them on my desk. I rub my eyes; thankful I worked through my studies with only thinking about Rory twice. Not bad. Better than this morning during PT, and when I was in class when her face was on constant replay in my mind.
“You done for the night?” Hardie asks. We’ve shared a room since the beginning of last year. Thankfully. Because if I had to share a room with Stryder, I’d never survive. He fucks around way too much, making it really hard to concentrate. Hardie respects my study method, keeps quiet until I’m done, and tries to fall in line with my schedule because he finds it just as productive.
“Yeah. I’m beat. I think Thanksgiving break did me more harm than good.”
“That’s how you are every time after a break. Your routine is broken, and it always takes you a few days to get back into the swing of things. You’ll get there.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Just out of sync.” I let out a heavy breath. “I’m going to get ready for bed.”
Just as I stand, our door bursts open and Stryder walks in, waving what looks like a letter in front of his face, a knowing smile playing at his lips.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Did you get all your work done?”
“What do you want?”
Flipping onto my bed, he holds up the envelope in his hands to the light. “Oh you know, just playing mailman tonight. Happened to get this little letter in my mailbox today and despite wanting to open it, I knew it wasn’t for me.”
“Is it for me?” Hardie asks, looking way too excited.
“Unfortunately, it is not.” Stryder catches my eye and smiles. “It’s for our good friend, Colby.”
Standing, I reach for it, but Stryder rolls off my bed and stands, sticking the letter into the pocket of his pants. “I’m collecting a delivery charge.” He holds out his hand, which I smack away and snag the letter from his pocket. Stealth and nimble, he never saw it coming.
Hardie laughs. “Dude, you know he’s fucking quick. Now you don’t get your delivery charge.” I swear to God . . . Hardie sometimes.
“Eh, I think my work here is done anyway.” With a shit-eating grin, he salutes us, leaves, and shuts the door.
“Who’s it from?” Hardie asks, leaning his head toward me from his seat, trying to catch a glimpse.
The return address says R. Oaks. I have no idea who that is or why the hell Stryder had it.
“No clue.”
Tearing the envelope open, I’m immediately hit with a familiar scent, flipping me back into the past week. When I unfold the letter, the first thing I notice is the bubbly handwriting followed by a pair of bright red lips smacked on the bottom.
That goddamn red lipstick.
It’s from Rory.
Fucking Stryder!
“Is that thing coated in perfume? Dude, that smells good.” Hardie scoots forward on his desk chair, trying to get another sniff. “And lipstick. Colby, do you have a lady caller? Oh wait, is that from Rory?”
“Don’t you have to go to the bathroom?” I ask, sitting on my bed, as far away from Hardie’s prying eyes as possible.
“That was you, not me.”
I glare at him. It takes him about three seconds to realize what I’m trying to convey. “Oh, yeah, I have to go to the bathroom.” Rolling his eyes, he grabs his bathroom caddy from his locker and marches to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, offering me some privacy.
I flip the letter between my fingers, back and forth, unsure if I want to read the words.
I have a feeling her words might change me.
I have a feeling this perfume-coated letter could break me.
And yet, I can’t convince myself to put it away, to stuff it back in the envelope and return to sender, because the paper feels like it’s on fire, burning to be opened. I know it’s because of who it’s from, and not just that it’s my first letter since I’ve been here.
I want to read it.
For the sake of my sanity, I need to read it.
Taking a deep breath, I lean against the headboard of my bed and read Rory’s letter.
Dear Colby,
Surprised? Wasn’t expecting a letter from me? Well guess what, I like to keep you on your toes. I hope you’re enjoying the spritz of perfume and the very bold kiss on the bottom. I read up on how to write a “soldier” a letter, and almost every old-time letter used to have perfume and kisses, so I figured, why not?
I like to treat this letter as if you’re deployed in a foreign country and I’m back home, wishing and hoping you return safely. That’s the vibe I’m going for, even though you are fifteen miles north of me and could easily meet me in the middle somewhere to have a cup of coffee.
But this thing between us, it feels so distant but relevant at the time same, like I’m supposed to talk to you, like I’m supposed to stay in touch, even if it’s through the simple form of a letter, delivered with a stamp.
So here I am, wanting to talk, wanting to stay in touch, throwing up my Hail Mary, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the curves in my handwriting and the wisps in my dotted I’s will entice you enough to write back.
Because I like you, Colby, and I know I’m not alone in this feeling. I hope you can gain enough courage to not see me as a distraction, but more of an addition to your exciting and booming life.
If you want to call me, my number is at the bottom. I will also accept texts, shirtless pictures, drawings of stick figures, or an outline of your hand on a piece of paper if that’s all you’re capable of.
Be safe jumping from those planes. I hope you give me a chance, give this a chance, because I think it could be something great.
Wildly in lust,
Rory
Setting the letter on my lap, I squeeze my eyes shut, tipping my head back against the wall, her words swirling around in my mind.
I can see her writing this letter—hunkered down, thinking carefully of what to write—draped in a soft sweater, knees tucked in close to her, looking so goddamn irresistible. I hope you can gain enough courage to not see me as a distraction, but more of an addition to your exciting and booming life.
I don’t want to have feelings for her. I want to be able to turn off the part of my brain that keeps thinking about her, that keeps envisioning her everywhere I go, but I can’t. For the life of me, I can’t turn off the burning need inside me to be near her, to think about her, to wonder what it would be like if I gave in, if I allowed her into my world.
And what’s pulling me to my desk is not the incessant need I have to connect with her again, but the terrified feeling blooming inside of me, making me think that if I don’t let this girl in, I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.
I pull out the chair to my desk, take a seat, and grab my notepad and pen. Staring at the blank page, I start writing.
Chapter Eleven
RORY
“Where is he?” I ask after giving my mom and dad a kiss hello.
“In his room. He hasn’t had a very good day, honey.” My mom lovingly strokes my hair, playing with the ends. “But a visit from his favorite person might very well make his day.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” I set my gym bag on the floor and head down the hallway. From over my shoulder, I ask, “What’s for dinner?”
“Dad is ordering pizza. Shall I get onions and peppers?”
“A salad is good for me. I’ve had way too much junk food in the past couple of days. Thanks.”
Shuffling down the hallway of the quaint ranch house I grew up in, I make my way to my brother’s bedroom. The door is cracked open, never fully shut. It can never ever be fully shut.
Knocking, I call out, “Hey Bryan, it’s Rory. Can I come in?”
“Rory. Rory is here. R
ory is here. Rory is here.” Repetition helps him ease his anxiety, and feeling like it’s okay, I step into his room. Sitting in the corner, rocking back and forth, Bryan—my older brother—is scrunched down, sitting in the blue egg chair he got from IKEA, listening to Credence Clearwater Revival, his favorite band. The music playing from his docking station is barely above a whisper, just the way he likes it. He doesn’t like loud noises, doesn’t like to be startled, and enjoys his peace.
I don’t blame him. I like peace just as much as he does.
“Bryan, how are you, bro?” I approach him from his front, never to the side, making sure he can see me. “Mom said you weren’t having a good day. I’m so sorry to hear that.” At thirty, Bryan struggles with autism. To say it’s been hard is an understatement. It’s put a strain on my parents’ marriage at times, it’s caused rifts between my parents and their families, and it was a major deciding factor that kept me from pursuing my dreams.
Despite the downfalls that come with the disorder, there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I would do anything differently, because when I see that spark of recognition in my brother’s eyes, I know I’ve made a difference in his day.
I try to visit a few times a week, wanting to make sure he knows even though Mom and Dad made me move out, I’m still here for him. I will always be here for him, no matter what.
I can still remember the conversation like it was yesterday, when I told them I wasn’t going to New York, that I would stay and help them out. It was a rough patch in their marriage, a time where they were constantly fighting, and I knew if I left they wouldn’t still be together.
They weren’t happy with my decision but agreed with my choice. A week later, they made me find an apartment, somewhere I could call my own. They called it my chance to learn to be responsible and how to take care of myself, but I knew they were pushing me away intentionally. I knew their intent was to give me my own life, one that didn’t live and breathe my brother’s happiness.