She rolls a shoulder. “When I was a freshman, I was at the beach, and I was watching some older girls play. One of the girls had to leave unexpectedly, and they saw me watching and asked me to play with them. I was hooked instantly. It was so intense, so fast-paced, and the teamwork required to be effective with just one other person instead of five other girls is totally different. By then, I’d been playing indoor since sixth grade. So I knew volleyball and I was decent at it. But beach ball was just…different. I would ride my bike to the beach in the morning and meet my friends, and we’d play all day, every day, all summer. Then, summer of sophomore year, a coach for a club in Santa Monica saw me playing, invited me to try out, and that was that. Beach ball was it for me. I stuck with indoor varsity because I’d made varsity as a freshman and we had the chops to make states—which we did, all four years I played. We actually won states senior year. But I played with the beach volleyball club team every spare moment and the coach understood I couldn’t commit full-time until I graduated, so that was cool.”
“Did you think about college? Or was it professional beach volleyball and that was it?”
She sighs. “God, you ask hard questions. Of course I thought about college. I got offers from a shit-ton of universities. Full-rides, to boot. I got offers from Stanford, USC, FSU. Not all full-rides—if I’d gotten a full-ride offer from Stanford Imighthave thought about it. But my coach on the beach team made it clear she thought I had the potential for far more than just playing college ball. Even then, she had her eye on the Olympics. And I wanted to play volleyball, not do fucking homework.” She laughs. “I was a terrible student. I hated school, hated every single subject, hated teachers, hated authority. I hated everything to do with school, so the thought of going to school after I’d just finished twelve years of that bullshit? Hell no. College was a hard no.”
I smirk. “So, wait—the attitude isn’t new?”
“Shut up.”
“I see.” I test her mood again—trace the shell of her ear, then behind her ear, down the line of her jaw to her chin.
She lifts an eyebrow at me. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Nope.” I grin. “Other places I’d much rather touch, but I made a promise and I’m gonna keep it.”
“Well, don’t hold your breath. I won’t be begging you to touch me sexually any time soon.”
I watch her carefully as she says this—her nostrils flare, her eyes flit away from mine, and there’s something indefinable in the way she goes still as she says that which gives her away.
“Liar.” I touch her lips again, my thumb brushing across them…for a split second, they part, her eyes going soft, warm, and inviting.
And then, bam—the gates slam down. She tugs her face away from my touch. “I’m not lying.”
I wriggle closer. She goes still as a statue, watching me like a rabbit would watch a fox crouched in the grass a few feet away. “You’re lying through your teeth. The only question is if you’re lying to yourself, to me, or both of us.”
“There’s that psychology degree at work again,” she quips, “or so you think. You don’t know me well enough to know when I’m lying or not.”
“I do know. I know for a fact you’re lying. You want me. You want to know what I can do. How I can make you feel.”
“Do not.” She snaps this. Brows furrowed. Jaw hard. Eyes harder.
“Do too.” I wriggle closer yet, and she moves away, but there’s nowhere to go except off the bed. “You want to feel good. You’ve had nothing but shit. No one taking care of you. No one to give one single solitary flying fuck what happens to you or how you feel. You’re tough. You’re strong. You’re independent. You take care of yourself. You’ve been through hell and back, and you’re still on your feet.”
“Shut up, Chance. You don’t fucking know me.”
“‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’”
“So now you’re gonna quote Macbeth at me?”
“Hamlet, actually. Act three, scene two.” I grin. “I almost majored in literature, but I figured psychology might end up having more long-term value. Plus, I love reading and I didn’t want to risk having my love for it ruined by overstudying shit. So now, I just read for fun.” I touch the tip of her nose. “You probably were thrown for a loop when you saw my bookshelves. Made some more understandable assumptions.”
She looks away. “Maybe.”
“It’s okay. I forgive you. I know I don’t look like your stereotypical bookworm.”
“I guess also from what you’ve told me, I’m not sure when in your life you’d have gotten into reading.”
I nod. “A good question. Rev and me, when we were homeless, one of the few places we could go when it was cold or raining or whatever was the library. The librarian there sorta took a liking to me, I guess. Rev tended to stick to the magazines and the computers, but I was interested in the books. See, we had to act like we were there for a reason, or they’d kick us out. If we were just loitering—well, two big dirty brown kids scaring off the patrons? Nah. But if we kept quiet and kept busy, the librarian let us stay all day long. She knew what was up with us. She’d make a point of corralling us at a table in the back, and she’d bring little snacks for us. Can’t eat or drink in the library, but she knew we were hungry homeless kids, so she was sneaky about it. Didn’t make a big deal out of it, for the sake of our egos. She’d bring me books. It was obvious I wasn’t in school, and my reading ability was…not great. But between helping other people, she’d spend a few minutes with me here and there, helping me read.” I swallow hard. “Her name was Ms. Jones. Pretty, fairly young, quiet, kinda shy, super sweet. She got me a library card, and I stole a backpack, and I’d keep my books in it. I always had that backpack with me. Never let anyone but Rev see me reading, but no matter what was going on with the gang, I always had books. I always went back to see Ms. Jones. Talk to her, get book recommendations. She was the only adult I knew, liked, or trusted. And I mainly trusted her simply because she never tried to…butt in, I guess. She knew the score—knew she couldn’t get us homes or back in school or feed us or any of that shit. She did give me a big hoodie once, that was cool. But she just…she was kind and gave her time to a homeless kid. I didn’t always smell good, and as I got older, I was big, I was scary, and I was a thug. She never acted scared of me. Just talked to me. Recommended books. She only ever gave me the one thing she could give me, and that was her time and her sweetness, and it’s something I’ve never forgotten.”
“You ever go back to see her?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah. On leave. She didn’t work at that library anymore and no one knew where she was.”
“Sucks.” She says this with a deep frown.
I nod. “It does. I've looked around online but haven’t been able to find her.” I scootch closer yet, so mere inches separate us.
“Why do you keep doing that?” she demands.
