Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
I grab my bag and head for the stairs, but before I get far, BJ pulls me into a wiry hug. “But seriously, Lav, you two belong together and always have.”
I climb the stairs, my stomach flipping with a mixture of anxiety, irritation, and anticipation. I pause on the first landing and pull the black package out, tearing into it. There’s a gift note inside.
Lavender,
Your mom told me you’ve been having a rough time lately, and I figured this might cheer you up!
~xo Gigi
I pull out the item meant to make me feel better and stare at it. I have always loved Marvel and DC Comics movies. They’re my favorite. It’s probably because my mom always had a weird thing about superheroes and passed it down to me. So I should not be shocked that I’m holding an Aquaman dildo. And yet I am. Being the thoughtful, inappropriate gigi that she is, it also includes cleansing wipes and lube. Not like she hasn’t sent me that stuff a dozen times before.
I climb the rest of the stairs and pause in front of Kodiak’s room. I’m annoyed that he hasn’t said anything to Maverick yet, especially since they had practice this afternoon and he should have had plenty of opportunity to pull him aside.
I consider the pick-me-up gift Gigi gave me, the conversation Kodiak and I had in the car on the way to campus this morning, and BJ’s incentive idea. Before I lose my nerve, I turn the knob—surprised his door isn’t locked—and push it open a couple of inches.
Kodiak is sitting at his computer desk, his back to me, wearing headphones and bent over a textbook, pen poised in his left hand as he awkwardly tries to write without smearing the text. Being a lefty is a pain in the ass.
I slip into the room and close the door behind me, flipping the lock. I take a moment to check out his room, having never been inside since he moved in here. Everything is tidy and organized, bed neatly made, pillows arranged perfectly, the top of the comforter folded down, the flat sheet tucked tightly under the mattress. I bet it has hospital corners. It’s almost like he’s military trained, even though he’s not.
But what steals my breath are the pieces of old art that hang on the walls. My art from when I was a kid—most of it splatter-painted silliness. On the desk beside him is the ratty, old pencil case I made when I was ten. I was so proud of that thing. I stitched the infinity symbol right into the black fabric in thread the same color as his eyes.
The music is so loud, I can hear it from across the room. He needs that sometimes to drown out all the other stuff that happens in his head. His heel bounces on the floor, and I can feel his anxiety from across the room. He always dealt with it so much differently than I did. Hockey is both a cure and a cause for him.
He tosses his pencil on the desk, and his fists clench and release three times. He clasps his hands behind his head and both knees start bouncing as he breathes. I count his inhale and exhale. In for four, out for eight, eight times in a row. His shoulders curl in, and he unlocks his hands on a low groan. He grabs for the mouse and double clicks. The screen flickers, and he quickly types in a password. A few seconds later, he opens a folder and hovers the cursor over an image. He remains that way for several long seconds before he finally clicks on it.
I appear on the screen.
It’s a still shot of me sitting outside by the pool, wearing a huge hat and a cover up, while reading a book under an umbrella. Me and the sun have a love-hate relationship. Based on what I’m wearing and reading, it must have been taken at the beginning of the semester. One of his hands drops to his lap.
There’s a distinct possibility he’s going to whack off to a very PG and fully clothed picture of me reading a book, if I don’t make my presence known.
That changes drastically the way I approach this situation and him. He has a second study table in his room that’s home to some kind of project. It’s the only part of his room that isn’t perfectly neat. Among pieces of PVC piping and a bunch of tools is a roll of duct tape.
I nab it before I cross over to his desk and drop my bag next to his textbook, scaring the shit out of him. He scrambles to remove his earbuds—they’re wireless, so he drops one on the floor.
“Lavender? Holy shit. How long have you been in here? It’s not what it looks like.”