27. Josie

27

Josie

I t's been just over a week since the fire at Van's house and every day of this week has tried my patience in some way or another. That's why when Mel and Will showed up at my dorm to drag me over to the Chapel, I went willingly. A night with my friends is just what I need.

Sometimes I get overwhelmed by social events, so I generally avoid parties and clubs, but this is different. Ian is back in Bainbridge for the weekend, so we're hanging out at with Booker and his roommates. These guys are a lot of fun, and of course it's good to catch up with Phoebe, Willa, and Lucy. I was welcomed into their fold last year when Phoebe and Mel roomed together and Willa worked at Drip with Ian. It was never my intention to collect a large group of friends, but I'm glad I lucked into this crew. Whit's playing deejay and Ian's the bartender. I haven't been here long, but I'm already on my second drink.

"This is bullshit," I declare.

"I know you're not talking about the cocktail I just poured you," Ian says, his brow raised. He's right. I'm not a big drinker, but Dirty Shirleys are my favorite.

I shake my head. "Of course not. This is delicious. I can't even taste the alcohol."

Willa laughs. "That's when you know you're in trouble!"

She's probably right, so I'll finish this one and slow down. I skipped dinner, which was probably a bad idea, so I should have some snacks. I hate the way I feel all floaty when I drink. Maybe I'm a control freak, but I don't like that detached feeling at all. I want to be in charge of my faculties at all times.

"To bullshit!" Knox yells, raising his drink in the air. It sloshes over the sides a little and drips on his shirt and on Willa. Their little girl is with Booker's mom tonight, and Knox is definitely making the most of his kid-free night. I can relate.

"Babe, we are not toasting to bullshit. Josie is railing against it."

Knox takes another sip of whatever amber-colored liquid he's drinking. "Who's getting railed?"

"Not me!" I cry, and now I'm the one sloshing my drink. Mel hands me a napkin and I'm grateful. The Chapel is the nicest house on campus, hands down. It was literally a chapel back when Booker's great-great-great grandfather founded the college over a hundred years ago. There might be a few more greats in grandfather. I don't know. And the room is maybe getting just a little bit fuzzy.

Booker holds in a laugh, making Ian frown. "You," he says, pointing at Booker, "need to get your teammate in line. You're the captain, for fuck's sake. Can't you make him skate laps if he's being a shit boyfriend?"

"There is so much wrong with that statement that I don't even know where to start. Besides, being the perfect boyfriend isn't as easy for everyone else as it is for you," Booker tells Ian then plants akiss on his lips. I roll my eyes at their cuteness.

"He's not my boyfriend," I correct. "Because a boyfriend would finish what he started. And Van most certainly did not. We were just getting to the good part and then…poof! Nothing."

"Um, I'm not taking sides or anything," Will says, his hands up in the air. "But Mickey nearly burned the house down that night. I'm all for having a good time, but I think a fire is a pretty solid reason to stop fooling around."

"I see your point," I concede. "But then he haunted me."

Mel takes the nearly-empty drink from my hand and sets it on a side table. "Do you mean ghosted?"

"Yes, exactly," I nod, reaching for my drink. It's gone, though, so Booker hands me a glass of water. "He ghosted me. No texts or anything. No calls, no follow-up. No, ‘Hey, remember how we almost got naked in my room last week? Let's try that again.' Nothing. He came into tutoring on Monday like it was any other day. It was not! It was day 371 of The Great Celibacy. It was the Feast of the Born-Again Virgin. The Most High Holy Day of Unrequited Lust."

"Wow. If you'd have told me it was a holiday, Jos, maybe I'd have helped you celebrate."

I turn to see Van standing in the doorway and the look on his face tells me he heard every word of my tirade.

I settle into the passenger seat of Van's car. He shuts the door, rounds the hood, then takes his seat behind the wheel. I should be buckled in by now, but it seems an impossible task to fit the silver buckle into such a tiny slot on the little plastic clicky part, especially when I can't take my eyes off of Van. His hair is down tonight, falling in loose waves around his shoulders. He's got a BU Hockey hoodie on and soft gray sweats. I doubt he was out at a bar or a party, based on the way he's dressed. But I guess it wouldn't matter. Van could show up to a kegger in a snowsuit and girls would still flock to him. He's classically handsome and it just isn't fair. He's sitting so close and he smells so good, and would it be weird if I crawled onto his lap and decided to stay for a while?

He looks over at me and takes the buckle from my hand. He pulls the seatbelt across my body and clicks it into place. Pressing a button on the dash, he starts the car and backs out of Booker's driveway. "Did you have fun?" he asks.

"No, Van," I answer honestly, since those Dirty Shirleys seem to have erased my reticence. "I haven't had fun in a week. The last time I had fun was in your room. You were kissing me and taking my shirt off and then somebody lit a couch on fire and that was the end of my fun."

Van stays silent as we make our way through campus. Booker's house is on the northwest edge and my dorm is on the opposite end, but since Bainbridge is a relatively small school, the drive doesn't take too long. And that's good because my head is starting to get a little fuzzy. I only had two drinks and they were light pours because Ian knows me well. I'm not a drinker, and I'm not drunk. But I just might be tipsy.

The word tipsy feels funny on my lips. Lipsies?

He pulls up to my dorm and parks. Why is parallel parking so hot? It shouldn't be sexy. It's just a skill. But it's seriously having an unintended effect on me. That one shoulder glance, the forearms, the flat of his hand on the steering wheel as he turns it. This should not be pornographic, and yet...

"If I knew driving turned you on this much, Jos, I'd have insisted we do all our tutoring sessions in my car," he says, turning the engine off.

I didn't realize I'd said that out loud. Oh, well. It's true. I glance around his vehicle and shake my head. Then I grab Van by the shoulders so he stops spinning. "We'd take my car. The backseat's way bigger and it folds down."

"Good to know," he says, smiling as he reaches across me and undoes my seatbelt.

It's the smile that does it. My defenses are down, my inhibitions are nowhere to be found, and my filter (famous for being airtight and consummately polite) is off-duty. I step out of the car as he does the same, then I turn to face him. "Is it, Van? Is it good to know? Do you file this info away for a rainy day? Does it comfort you to know I want to rip your clothes off? Because I do. I wouldn't even fold them. I'd let them hit the floor with wild abandon," I say, my finger poking into the broad wall of his chest just to make sure my point is clear. "Do you hear me? Wild. Abandon."

He nods, and that smile never fucking falters. Because of course he hears me. Everyone in the dorm hears me as we walk inside. I'm not being quiet. I can't regulate my volume at all right now, and not just because of the alcohol.

It's because this man is driving me to the brink of insanity. And I've potty-trained toddlers while soothing a teething baby. I've been to the brink of insanity. I know it well. But this is far beyond that. Van ignites a need in me that I can't quench myself. He's the only thing I want. The only thing that will satisfy me. And he's so far away.

"I'm right here, Josie," he tells me, bringing me back to the moment. And he is right here, in my doorway. I fumble with my keys for a minute before he gently takes them and swipes my ID. The lock hisses as it disengages and Van tucks my lanyard back into my bag.

We step inside and the room shrinks. It's a single studio, so it's never been described as spacious, but it's downright miniscule now. Van takes up every extra inch of space. And his scent will linger long after he leaves, of that I'm sure. But I don't want to think of Van leaving right now. I just want to think about him staying, like I wish he'd stayed three years ago. I wish I'd have let him in, told him my secrets, or begged him not to go. I wish I'd been braver then, more confident. I wish I'd been louder, that I'd have told him what I wanted. That I'd have told him he was being selfish and ridiculous, that of course I was his girlfriend, of course I wanted to be with him. That I'd have explained that half my heart was half an hour away, but I had room for him, too.

I stayed quiet then, and I've regretted it ever since.

But I can't stay quiet now.

"Come with me," I say, dragging him a few feet across the room and to my bed. I turn to face him, ready to tell him I want him to stay with me tonight, that I'm done waiting. I'm done being patient. I'm done with guessing games. But I'm also done forming remotely coherent thoughts because Van's taken off his hoodie. He's wearing a shirt, but it's tight across his chest and arms and it rides up a little high, exposing a glorious sliver of skin just above his low-slung sweats. I let my gaze run over his body. This must be why so many people like drinking. Sure, my head is fuzzy and I can't feel my nose, but all the walls I've built so carefully have crumbled. The worries that hold me back and make me hesitate are invisible. I've been sneaking glances at Beckett Vandaele for far too long. Tonight, I'm going to look as long as I like. I want to touch, too. Visions of us in his bedroom have played in my mind all week. They're echoes, really, of all the times I've let my mind wander to what it was like back then, and what it could be like now.

Van takes a step toward me and peels my coat from my shoulders. He hangs it on the hook by the door and puts his hoodie right next to it before stepping into my little kitchenette and drawing water from the tap. After filling two glasses, he hands one to me. "This is for tonight and the other is for when you wake up. You should take some painkillers, too, if you have any."

Taking a sip of water, I point to my nightstand, and watch as Van opens one of the drawers then goes completely still. It takes a second for my addled brain to tune in, but as soon as it does, I mentally add this moment to the list of things I'll be mortified about tomorrow. I do keep medicine in the second drawer of my nightstand, but Van must have opened the first drawer. While I could argue that the vibrating silicone wands inside that drawer will cure almost any ill, they are not the painkillers Van was hunting for.

"Second drawer," I manage to squeak.

He finds the right one and passes it over to me. I twist the cap and try hard to line up the arrows, but that's tough enough to do when I haven't been drinking. Right now, it's an insurmountable challenge. Van takes the bottle from me, turns the cap halfway, and pops it open easily before shaking a few into my palm.

He's taking care of me, and I like that way too much. I'm used to being the caretaker and it's nice to be on the receiving end. But as much as I appreciate all he's doing, this is not what I had in mind when I pictured us in my room.

Heat pools deep in my center as I remember where we left off last week. I can't stop thinking about the feel of his hands on my body. About all the times I've lain in my bed and pictured him there with me.

He's here now, but he's not stripping me naked. He's not lavishing attention on my breasts, even though just eight days ago he called them perfect. His head is not between my thighs and neither is his hand. He's not kissing me or telling me to suck his cock and take him deep.

Why isn't he doing those things?

I would very much like him to do those things.

Instead, he's giving me water and headache meds to stave off a hangover. And I have no doubt that in two minutes he's going to tell me to sleep it off as he walks right out the door.

In fact, the way he's raking his hand through his hair and closing his eyes and pacing the too-small space makes me think he's ready to leave now. The movement makes his shirt ride higher, revealing even more skin.

I let Van walk away once, and I'm not making that mistake again.

"Your shirt's too small," I tell him bluntly.

"It is," he agrees, his mouth twisting into a wry smile as he fingers the hem of his too-short, too tight tee. "Because he damn-near burned our house down, Mikalski is on laundry duty and asked if anybody had anything to add. I tossed in this shirt and a brand-new hoodie. I even thanked the guy, never thinking he'd basically boil our clothes on the hot cycle and then toss them all in the dryer to finish the job. You should see Santos. He now has a full wardrobe of crop tops."

It's a funny story and any other time, I'd laugh. But I'm not thinking about my friend Pete in a crop top or the outrage on any of the other guys' faces when they saw their shrunken clothes. I'm just thinking about one thing, one person. My mind has a singular track these days and it leads straight to Van. "You should give it to me," I say, reaching out and tugging on his shirt.

"You want my shirt, Jos?" he asks, his voice a little rough.

"Yes," I say, taking a step closer and tracing the wolf outline with my finger. "I want it because it's soft and it smells like you, and the one that I have from before is threadbare."

Silence fills the room as I realize I've just admitted to swiping one of Van's shirts. And keeping it for three years.

Oops.

Tomorrow, if I remember this part, I will be embarrassed. No, I'll be mortified. Van mustn't mind too much, though, because he reaches back and takes hold of the shirt at the neck and tugs it off. He shakes it out and folds it neatly before handing it over.

"It's all yours, Jos."

I scoop it from his hands before bringing it to my face and taking a deep breath in. "I've missed this," I say, adding to the list of things that Tomorrow Me will cringe over.

"Me, too," he says, his voice quiet and gravelly as he takes a step toward me, effectively closing the gap between us.

This is it , I think. This is my moment . Van is half-naked in my room and those sweats will drop with one swift flick of my wrist. Never mind the fact that I'm not that smooth in everyday life. Tipsy Josie is an aspiring seductress.

But Tipsy Josie is also tired.

And she likes it right here, in her ex-boyfriend's arms.

I tilt my head up and look at him. "You know what else I want?"

"I don't have a clue," he replies, tucking an errant strand of hair behind my ear.

"I want to cuddle," I tell him honestly.

My mission announced, I take a step back and begin to undress. My cardigan falls to the floor, followed quickly by my striped t-shirt. I shimmy out of my jeans, but leave my boy shorts on. Plucking his shirt from the bed where I dropped it, I slip it on and revel in its softness.

"Doesn't it fit me better?" I ask, striking a silly pose like I'm in some fashion show.

Van's been staring at the floor, but now he looks up and frowns. "It fits you perfectly," he says and he sounds a little grumpy about it, even though I know he can get another shirt pretty easily.

While I was getting ready for bed, Van picked up my discarded clothes. He hands me a neatly folded stack and I place it on my desk. Tipsy Josie doesn't have to put her clothes away, apparently.

I turn toward the bed and pull back the covers before crawling in. That's the great thing about singles: almost everything is within arm's reach. The other great thing about singles is that I don't have to share my space with a roommate. Right now, I just want to share my space—my body, my heart—with Van. "I want you to hold me," I say. "I want to feel your body next to mine again."

He tenses, and for a moment I'm half afraid he'll turn and leave. Maybe cuddling isn't what he had in mind? But that makes no sense. He makes no sense. Last week he said he wanted to be with me, to see where this could lead and now he looks torn at the thought of lying down next to me.

He runs his hands through his hair before sighing and looking down at me. His palm cradles my face and he gently removes my glasses. After setting them on my nightstand, he offers me a smile. "Scoot over," he tells me, and I oblige, turning and leaning close to the wall. I feel his weight settle next to me on the bed. Seconds later, he reaches over and pulls me in so my head is on his chest. He smoothes the covers over us and presses a kiss to the top of my head.

"You want the light off?" he asks, and I nod, but really it's just me smushing my face up and down on his bare chest. His skin is warm and soft, but the muscles underneath are hard. I trace my finger over the lines on his abs.

"There really are eight, aren't there?" I say aloud and I swear I hear him chuckle. Or maybe he's laughing because he's ticklish.

"Not ticklish, Jos," he says, answering yet another question I didn't know I posed aloud. I sink deeper into the sheets and tug the blanket a little higher.

My eyes drift shut, and though I'm fighting sleep, I know I'm losing. "Van?" I say into the darkness.

"Yeah, Jos?"

"Tomorrow, I want to do all the dirty, sexy, naked things with you. Nobody is as good at dirty, sexy, and naked as you are. And it's fun by myself, but it's way more fun with you."

Van clears his throat in the quiet room. "Get some sleep, Jos."

It's not the answer I was hoping for, but I do it anyway.