Hard Facts by Penny Clarke

15

Summer

White, it occurs to me, is the blandest fucking color. Of course, I only realize this after Grayson Rowe steps through the door and sees every inch of my apartment splashed in it.

He’s silent, glancing around at what is now very clear to me the dullest of homes. From the white walls of the living room, to the white couch and glass coffee table. The floor, a rustic weathered hardwood, is still very much white. Even the rug taking up half the main room is a shaggy expanse of alabaster. There’s a break in all that boring nothingness, at least, by the dark screen mounted on the wall and the stainless steel appliances in the kitchen.

Other than that, the best I can say is that it’s clean. Francie, my housekeeper, comes around three times a week for its upkeep, and she is nothing if not an immaculate queen. Not to mention a phenomenal cook, who leaves me microwaveable meals ready-to-serve, because after two years in this apartment, I have yet to touch the stove.

I set my purse on the kitchen island—Marble. Obviously, white—and twist the straps in my fingers. He still hasn’t said a word, and I want to explain the distinct lack of wall art or bright accent pieces. I’m never really here. I spend all my time at ABB, or on campus, or the bars, or all my favorite philanthropy locales. I’m still looking for a competent interior decorator. The rental agreement forbids shades brighter than eggshell.

This had all seemed so much easier in my head after the Fundie Run. Hang back, break down the event. Tell Grayson no, I don’t need his help. He should just go home, with his friends. Take a shower and put on new clothes. Later, I’ll meet them at the bar.

Which I then had. So we could all celebrate at Kellermann’s. At that usual back table. Spencer and Kennedy had been missing, no doubt so Armstrong could get a head start on collecting his winnings. Levi gave two toasts. One to Morris, for first place, and the other to me, for a successful race. He’d had to cut out early, to meet with Rylie and her mom for dinner.

So when conversation stalled, because it was just us with Morris and Natalie—who had finished her psych thing early—I took Grayson’s hand. Deliberately, we said our goodbyes. And I led him onto the street, where we walked the whole half-a-block down the bar strip. To a set of law offices, closed for the weekend, and my apartment right above them.

Now, I’m not so sure what I was thinking, bringing him here.

“It’s so…” White. It’s white and it’s boring and it does not reflect Summer Prescott. I wait for him to say all that.

But he follows with, “Quiet.”

Just great, I cross my arms. Not only is my apartment boring in appearance, but acoustics, as well.

“No shouting or slamming doors,” he says, running a hand over a vanilla throw pillow. “No stomping feet on the stairs. Roommates having sex all over the place. Natalie barging through the door.” A streetlight turns on outside, and he walks over to the bay window overlooking the sidewalk. “You can’t even hear the drunks.”

My shoulders relax, and I join him. “Yeah, but you can still see them.”

I tell him about Liz and I, all last year. The nights where we didn’t feel like going out, so we’d sit at the seat bench right under the window, drinking from the same bottle and watching the bar strip to see which of our sisters got totally plastered.

“This,” I trace a finger on the glass. “Is why I wanted this apartment.”

I see him look at me from the corner of my eye, and I wonder if he realizes how much I’d coveted a place like this. A tiny spot for myself, detached from the rest of the world, yet still offering a glimpse into its depths. Somewhere to watch, hidden, as everyone underneath openly spilled their secrets below, unaware they were being observed from above.

Grayson leans against the sill, nodding. Understanding. Because he’d done the same. With that notebook of tables and data. “It’s nice. I like it.”

We stay like that. Standing on opposite ends of the window, staring at one another. In complete concord. On the same page. The same wavelength.

Until the moment passes, and I think, Now what?

I don’t normally show guys my apartment. No, there’s a strict standard operating procedure. They arrive at the door. I let them in. We go straight to the bedroom. Get naked. Get off. Then, they get out.

What do I do, with Grayson here, in my apartment, for a whole night? While everyone else thinks we’re having sex?

Thankfully, Gray speaks up. “So… dinner?”

“Right. Food,” I say distractedly, shoving aside the thought of suggesting that we do the very thing we’re only pretending to do tonight. “You must be starving after the run.” After working up a sweat and moving his body and—Nope.

I point out the window. “There’s a Chinese restaurant just down the street that delivers in fifteen minutes.”

It takes twenty minutes, since we order a veritable mountain of entrees and appetizers. When the downstairs buzzer rings, Grayson insists on paying, even after I point out its technically with money I gave him. He comes back, arms laden with plastic bags, and we cover the entirety of the coffee table in takeout containers and fortune cookies. I press play on the movie I’d rented while he’d been talking to the delivery guy. When he sees the title card, a potsticker falls from his chopsticks right into a cup of duck sauce.

“Night of the Killer Shark? The first one?”

“A fin-tastically bad movie,” I grin from my side of the couch. Grayson groans as though in pain, but asks me to pass the sesame chicken and settles back into the cushions all the same.

We gorge on the meal and laugh at cheesy one-liners, until we’re stuffed and the credits roll. He helps clear the table and stack leftovers in the fridge, next to Francie’s dishes. As I pass him what’s left of the fried rice, I mention, “I saw you talking with one of the shelter volunteers earlier. Were you torturing her with running facts?”

“Oh. No,” he takes the container. “I knew her.”

“How?”

The takeout lid doesn’t close right, so he focuses on bending it into place. “I was briefly homeless.”

“What?” I spill crab rangoon on the kitchen floor.

Grayson takes the carton out of my hand and picks them up, one by one. When he’s done, he throws it out and leans against the island. “I aged out of the system at eighteen. My foster family at the time agreed to let me stay on, since they didn’t want to turn me out in the middle of the school year. In winter. I didn’t even know if I’d made it into Lakewood, not for another couple of months. Then I got my acceptance, and I even got a spot in an early summer engineering program, with room and board.”

“But…” He taps a finger on the marble counter. “That didn’t begin until a month after senior graduation. And I needed to leave the home I was in. I didn’t… have anywhere else. So I went to the shelter.” And his hand slides down the counter, tapping that finger on my arm. I look into his face, and he smiles reassuringly. “It wasn’t all that bad, Summer. They had food, clean clothes. Showers. I was put with other teens. Some I even recognized from foster care. The worst was being in a tiny room with five other people. One guy had sleep apnea.” And he winces at the memory. “I didn’t sleep the best, but I hadn’t in the past, so that was nothing new.”

I’ve always slept well. On a plush mattress with soft, downy blankets and fluffy pillows. Blissfully unaware on a cloud of dreams.

My fingers clench into themselves. Because I want to smack that sleeping Summer awake at the thought of my Grayson James having gone his whole life without. Without sleep. Without money. Without books.

Without lo—

“It’s fine, Summer,” Gray gently tugs one of my curls. “I’m fine. Stop looking like that. It was only a month. A blip on the radar.” He keeps hold of the curl. Straightens it out. Lets it go and watches it bounce back with his full concentration. “The volunteer was surprised to see me, but she was happy, too. That I was doing so well. I even told her I have a girlfriend. She liked your shoes.”

We both look down at my feet, bare but for my sheer tights. I wiggle my toes, showing off the amethyst pedicure I’d gotten a week ago.

Grayson laughs softly, tucking the curl he’d been playing with behind my ear before turning to the rest of the leftovers on the island. “Besides, I only ever slept one night outside, and it wasn’t while I was there. Now, let’s finish putting this shit away and start Return of the Night of the Killer Shark. I want to get to the robot sharks.”

So we do. And it’s not until the food’s stored and the movie opens with a sailor luring the killer shark to him in a chummy death that I realize Grayson completely distracted me with his fingers in my hair.

“You slept outside?” I pause the movie.

He sighs, like he’d hoped I’d gloss over that statement. With one reluctant glance at the screen, he turns to face me on the couch. “Spring break, freshman year. I was supposed to stay in the dorm. But then I went out to eat, and…” He cringes. “I got locked out. Forgot my key and my phone. Luckily, I had my wallet, but I didn’t have enough for a hotel. Not even for a night, let alone the week.”

I try to remember where I was then. Back home at some schmoozing gala, where I hooked up with a cater-waiter in a kitchen pantry to shove it to Nolan for making me attend the stupid event. Fuck, like it was a chore to eat free hors d’oeuvres for a few hours. “So where did you go?”

“East quad dining hall, you know it?” I nod that I do. “There’s an entrance around back, and this niche next to the steps. Grassy, not too muddy. Next to a duct vent. Thankfully, the building’s heat was still on. But it was still March, and…”

Gray frowns at his hand, flexing fingers in a tight clench before releasing them again. Reliving a dark, lonely, cold night, I imagine. One that must have seemed to stretch on forever, without a wink of restful sleep.

I slip down the couch. Not too close, but nearer than I’d been before, on the totally opposite end. And I set my hand on his, feeling its warmth now.

“But that was only one night? Were you able to get back in your dorm?”

With a smile, Gray turns his hand over, so our palms touch and our fingers entwine. “Morris found me. He’d tried calling the day before, about some March Madness thing, and he worried when I never picked up. So he booked the first available flight back and ran all over campus until he found me, just walking around, trying to figure out what to do, where to go next.”

And he laughs, like this isn’t the most distressing admission I’d ever heard. “And since he was in such a rush, he forgot his dorm key. So he got us a hotel room, and we spent the rest of break watching basketball and ordering everything off the room service menu. Even the desserts. To this day, Natalie still doesn’t believe it. And by the end of that day, Morris called in a favor to his dad.”

The Drill Sergeant. A football legend,I recall from my file on Theodore Morris. “What for?”

“To find us a rental.”

To find a house.

Main Desire.

So that first night of spring break freshman year wouldn’t happen again.

So Gray would always have somewhere to go.

So Grayson Rowe would have a home.

“He can be so damn overbearing,” he rolls his eyes, fondly. “And it usually just pisses me off. But…”

Those eyes meet mine, full of all the secure devotion one might have for someone more than just a friend. “There’s no one else I’d rather have in my corner.”

No. Not just a friend at all.

A brother.

There’s something in my throat. A block. This giant wedge, as I process all of this new information about Grayson Rowe. Reeling with visions of him. Restless in a thin bed with scratchy sheets. Shivering on a dark night. Had he even worn a coat? Gloves, or a scarf? Hell, from what I know, he hadn’t owned a car yet, did he even have a hat—

One realization punches me right in the gut. I drop his hand.

“That’s why you bought the car.” And I’m sure my face blanches. Turns as white as every inch of the space around us. Of my apartment. My apartment, with a lease and a predetermined move-out date. After graduation. This spring.

“You’re going to live in it. In that shitty car.”

His entire body goes still. Telling me all I need to know.

I back away. Rise to my feet. My hands tremble, and I close them and open them and what the hell do I do with my hands?

“Summer—”

“Half the locks are busted,” and my voice raises, uneven. “And you’re lucky if the heat kicks in. It has theoretical seat belts. You—You can’t.”

Gray takes my hands and pulls me back down. “It’s just a backup plan, Summer. Believe me, I’d rather not, either. But it has a roof. And all that other stuff—I’m going to get it fixed.”

When I shake my head and try to pull away again, he holds on tight. “What about your friends? You know they’ll—”

“Let me stay with them? Sleep on their couches? Yeah, sure.” he finishes. “But I don’t want that. I don’t want their charity. Anyone’s. I can’t have Morris coming back for me, every time I have a setback.”

“The real plan is this one.” He squeezes our joined hands. “The Prescott internship. If I get into that—I may even be able to spin a job out of it. And if not, then it still opens doors elsewhere.”

Letting go of one of my hands, Grayson cups the side of my face, and I have to look into his honey-brown eyes. And that hand drifts back. Over my hair. Soothing. Comforting. I close my eyes at that small gesture of solace, and when I open them again, his stare is enticingly gentle. Smile soft.

I want him to kiss me. To prove his reassurances with action.

Except there’s no one else around. No one we need to convince of our togetherness through affectionate displays. Just me and Gray.

“Look, the car is a last resort. A safety net. I have the whole rest of the school year to figure things out. And I will. I’m pretty smart, don’t you know?” The corner of his mouth tilts, with no trace of its usual smugness. “For now, can we… just watch this terrible movie?”

I follow his nod to the television screen, and though all I want to do is press into him how much his plans fill me from top to bottom with tight apprehension—I know when to let a matter drop. So I pass him the remote.

This time, when he leans back into the white cushions, I go with him. Laying my head on his chest. His arm around my shoulders. His hand on my hair, one finger gently twirling a blond curl as he presses play.

* * *

We finish Return of the Night of the Killer Shark. Then immediately begin the third, reliving our first date at the drive-in. Not halfway through, Grayson tries to hold in a yawn. He fails, and my head rises and falls with his chest as he inhales. When he repeats the motion, five minutes later, I look up from my cozy spot nestled into his warm side.

“Guess we should go to bed, huh?” he smiles.

I’m instantly awake. Sitting up, pulse furious. I know that half-lidded look. That husky tone, whispering into darkness.

Yes. Yes, we should go to bed right away.It’s on the tip of my tongue, until I stand up—

And Grayson adjusts a throw pillow on the couch.

Oh.

Separatebeds.

Right.

With a jerky nod, I show him to the bathroom. While he does his business, I fetch a comforter and a softer pillow from the hall closet, the ones reserved for Liz’s sleepovers. Back in the living room, Grayson stretches out on the couch. When I hand him the blanket, he sleepily smiles at the pattern, “Dahlias.”

We say goodnight, and I knock my head back on my bedroom door after I’m inside it. Alone.

Why is it so hard to remember that it’s fake? That all those tight embraces and tantalizing kisses don’t actually mean a thing? Grayson Rowe’s my tutor. He’s pretending to be my boyfriend. I’m paying him.

He doesn’t want me.

I’m not his type.

Not for real.

I just… need to shove those thoughts away. Can’t do anything about them. So with a firm nod, I push away from the door. Change out of my clothes. Turn off the lights. Get into bed.

Only to twist and squirm. Twitch and flail from one position to the next. Right side. Left side. On my stomach. Flat on my back. Kick off the covers. And when I pull them back…

My fingers drift over my inner thighs. I let go of the blanket. Lay back down. Let my hand trail up, up…

I bite my lip, pressing the heel of my hand over the front of my shorts. Thin boxers fraying at the seams, compliments of a past hookup. I only wear them when Liz stays over. And now, I guess, for Gray. Under the waistband, though—

A short gasp escapes as my fingers slide. Meeting soft heat. Providing relief to the throbbing arousal between my legs.

Shit. He can’thear, can he?

I sit up, eyes on the door. Only quiet comes from the other side. Slowly, I run two fingers lower. Over an aching clit and slick folds.

A month is an eternity in the college hookup scene. When was the last time I had sex? I miss it. I miss the playful giggles and throaty moans and wild appeals for more and please and yes, right there, like that. Getting carried away with pleasure, from how good it feels. I don’t normally go so long without someone in my bed. Without hands on my tits and fingers pinching my nipples. A head between my thighs and a tongue on my pussy. A hard cock inside me.

Deep go those two fingers. Eager and punishing and nowhere as deep as I want. Another sigh bursts from my lips. Louder than before, but not loud enough. Does he hear that? Is he wondering where it came from? What it was?

If not, I can do better. A whole box of secrets, right under my bed. All sleek silicone and smooth glass, ranging from pocket-sized bullets to girthy shafts, with bumps and beads and textured ridges that hit all the right spots. Helpful aids, with powers of multi-speed and dual-stimulation. Some, most definitely, the farthest thing from discreet. He’d for sure hear those. What would he do, then? If he pinpointed all that buzzing, right from under Summer’s bedroom door…

Fuck, I need fucked.

I need Gray to fuck me. To walk into this room, this moment. Find me with my fingers in my pussy and his name a whisper on my lips. Because more and more, it’s him I imagine doing all those things I miss. His head. His hands. His tongue. His cock. And—Oh, fuck, I gasp again, fingers working harder, Gray’s cock—the urge is worse tonight. Now that I’ve seen him. His body. Those muscles and those arms and those ridiculous superhero shorts and those intense honey-brown eyes behind dark glasses.

All at once, I draw my fingers out. Wipe them on my pajamas and scramble out of bed.

Because he’s here.

He’s here tonight.

And we’re supposed to be having pretend sex.

And why not just have sex.

I rush to the door, already planning what to say. How to beg him for it. Come to bed. With me. Let me lick you all over. Worship you with my mouth. Please let me worship your cock. Fling it open. Let me reward you. For coming to my race. For crossing the finish line. Charge down the hall to the living room. Lay back. Give your hard body a break. Let me ride you until we’re both flushed and panting and crying out—

A soft snore brings me to a staggering stop.

Desire rapidly fades when I see him, visible only by the streetlight through the bay window. A much tender emotion replaces it as I take in his relaxed pose. Turned in towards the couch. One arm under his head, the other on his chest. That wrinkled brow ironed out, relieved of all its thinking, if only for a night.

Grayson fell asleep. Before he could even take off his glasses.

How exhausted he must have been. All night. And instead of letting him unwind, I poked into his past and criticized his future plans and made him watch stupid shark movies because I selfishly coveted all his time. His attention. Now, here I am, doing it all over again. But for his body. Which he’d already worn out today, by running in a race he probably wouldn’t have, if it weren’t for us pretend dating.

I’ve got to get over this foolish attraction to Grayson Rowe. This absurd craving to have him, any way I can get him. Because it can only end one way. Like bees. I keep my distance from them, don’t I? One sting, and that’s it. I’m a goner.

It’s not real.

This growing infatuation is just another secret in a long line of ones before it. And I’m good at keeping secrets. So I’ll just do that. Tuck it away and put him at arm’s length. Like I do everything, and everyone, else.

It’s not real.

And after this is over, Grayson James Rowe won’t be my tutor. He won’t be my fake boyfriend. He won’t even be my friend, because our worlds don’t overlap. He’ll just be a name and a collection of defining details, so I don’t have to get too near… close enough to get stung.

So that’s it. What I’ll do. Just stay away.

Not real at all.

My feet take me towards him. Step over the jeans he’d discarded on the floor. I remove those glasses. Slowly, carefully. So he doesn’t wake. Set them on the coffee table, where he’ll find them in the morning.

And I leave him to sleep, to make up for all those nights when he couldn’t do so peacefully.

Even if it feels like proven fact.