“Do you think I got enough?”
I don’t acknowledge my friend’s skeptical question with anything more than a scoff; his truck is completely packed full of every alcohol under the sun, yet Nick regards it all dubiously. Like drinking the contents of an entire liquor store in a single night is not outside the realm of possibility. I did tell him to go nuts when I gave him my card but Jesus Christ, I didn’t realize he was the boozy equivalent of a magpie.
Nick kisses his teeth, both hands braced on his hips. “It doesn’t look like enough.”
“Are you serious?” I can’t even see the bed of his truck nor the leather of the backseat.
“A lot of people are coming,” Nick defends himself. Which is true. And entirely his fault. That’s the thing about Nick; he likes to pretend he doesn’t like people. To be unapproachable and unfriendly and rude. To bitch and moan about his space being invaded by strangers. But at least half of the people celebrating Halloween in our home tonight scored a casual invite from the giant grump with the mushy middle. Not that he would ever admit that; I’d bet my pitching arm he’ll blame the whole thing on Ben.
“The entire campus could come,” I drawl, hoisting a couple slabs of beer into my arms, “and we would still have enough.”
I amend that statement about half an hour later when our loot is spread across the kitchen, covering every inch of counter space. The entire town could turn up, and we’d have drinks to spare. Ben’s eyes practically bug out of his head when he catches sight of everything, and I can’t tell if it’s in horror at the quantity or sheer delight at the many, many options for internal pollution.
“Where’s Cass?” Nick asks as we start sifting through the mountain of grocery bags, pulling out booze and cups and mixers while I imagine how wonderfully scandalized my grandparents would be if they knew a substantial portion of the money they deposited in my account this month went towards intoxicating the local students.
Ben and I exchange an amused glance, my friend rolling his eyes as he loads the fridge with soda. “He ditched us for one of the frats.”
Nick’s lack of surprise is telling, and equal to mine earlier when Cass told me he was bailing; we all know if there’s anything Cass loves more than a house party, it’s a frat party. Especially on Halloween when near nudity is practically required; my friend will use any excuse not to wear a shirt. Or pants, if last year is anything to go by.
That’s not a sentiment I share. I’m not keen on dressing up at all, and I wouldn’t if Ben wasn’t so damn insistent. I’m only embellishing my jeans and t-shirt with a cowboy hat and boots under his insistent command. And I suspect Nick’s costume is a direct result of the same thing; I can’t imagine any other circumstance under which Nick would be frowning at a recently bought kid’s face paint kit.
It causes me actual, physical pain when my friend rips the thing open and dips a thick finger in the white shade, using his phone as a mirror as he smears it on his cheek. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Tryna be a skeleton.”
Huh. I would’ve guessed panda.
Bundling up the last of the emptied bags and chucking them in the cabinet beneath the sink, I wet a clean dishtowel and chuck it at Nick, sighing. “I’ll do it.”
For once, Nick puts up minimal resistance, wiping off his godawful attempt and letting me create something better. It’s a soothing process, even if it takes more time than we have. Even if all that work is going to be smudged by some random girl within the hour. Nick lasts almost the entire time with only minimal fidgeting and no gruff, snarky comments.
Almost.
“Your girlfriend coming tonight?”
If I didn’t take such pride in my work, I’d smudge the shit out of Nick’s perfectly executed skeletal face. “Is yours?”
Nick’s scoff is hilariously exaggerated. “She has a boyfriend and it sure as shit isn’t me.”
Ah, yes. The boyfriend. Neither Nick nor I can tell if the guy was actually familiar or if he just had that recognizably insufferable air all douchebags possess. I would laugh at how quickly Nick’s mood changes whenever the guy appears if I wasn’t deeply, genuinely concerned about Red and the way she flinches every time the guy touches her. “Since when has another guy ever stopped you?”
“And what, exactly, is stopping you, seu medroso?”
Ben snorts from the other side of the counter, head shaking as he stirs a pitcher of too-bright blue liquid. A Cass recipe, if the strong smell wafting from it is anything to go by. “Both of you are pathetic.”
Oh, I know. I am painfully aware of my patheticness. And how ridiculous it is, so goddamn ridiculous, to feel sick to my stomach at the thought of Luna turning up tonight. Even sicker at the thought of her not. Which she probably won’t. She definitely got a better offer. She probably forgot I offered at all, actually. So, I’m not holding my breath.
Obviously.
She’s here.
Luna is in my house.
Luna is in my house, dancing in my living room, drinking my alcohol, and I don’t know what to do.
I saw her the moment she arrived when my hundredth completely nonchalant sweep of the house finally proved fruitful. When she strutted into my home like she owned the place. When every gaze swung toward her, like moths to the brightest flame. When every eye in the room scanned her from head to toe, noting the fluffy halo hovering above a cloud of wavy hair, the matching wings strapped to her back, the tiny white ensemble showing off enough shimmering skin to short circuit my brain.
When she sauntered into the kitchen, gaze sly and smirk secretive, extended her hand, and pretended we didn’t know each other.
“Luna,” she introduced herself to me for at least the third time, and I deflated like a fucking balloon. I shook her hand with a limp grip my grandparents would deem unacceptable. I politely smiled at the friend flanking her, ignoring the air of teasing emanating from mine. And then, I mumbled an excuse and fled in search of air that didn’t inexplicably smell like vanilla.
I’ve been hiding in the backyard for half an hour and still haven’t managed to achieve that. Slouched in one of the lawn chairs we nabbed from a yard sale over the summer, I stare blankly at the sky, ignoring the beer in my hand and the people around me.
I’m not going to lie, I’m hurt. And confused. I don’t get it. I thought… I don’t know, I thought we were friends. Acquaintances at the very damn least. Something worth a ‘hey, we actually know each other’ when Nick thought he was making first introductions.
Clearly, I thought wrong.
Obviously, I read too much into everything like a big fool with a pathetic crush.
Stifling a groan, I thump my head back against the lounger.
How fucking embarrassing.
I’m so tangled up in my thoughts, it takes me a minute to register the shimmering white floating in my peripheral. When I do, I don’t acknowledge it. I just… wait.
A long moment passes before a voice too chirpy for my current mood permeates the night air. “Stargazing, cowboy?”
Fingers tightening around my beer, I force myself to not look. Not to respond with anything other than a shrug. Not to acknowledge how the minute she appears, everything else around me becomes insignificant.
There’s a creak of plastic as Luna occupies the empty chair beside me, long legs outstretched, feet crossed at the ankles, and her gaze skyward. Nails tap against the armrest restlessly before she aims a finger at a cluster of stars. “That one’s Orion. I googled it.”
I stay silent even as something in my chest thumps a little harder.
“That’s Leo.” She shifts, pointing out a new constellation. “Might only remember that one because it’s my star sign.”
Again, I say nothing. I can’t bring myself to. I don’t have the energy to pretend I’m not upset.
Luna sighs quietly, the noise almost inaudible amidst the din of drunk students but distinctly irritated. Another round of creaking sounds as she shifts to sit sideways and scoots closer until her knees brush my thigh. “Hey.”
“Hi.” I clear my throat, an attempt to erase the kicked-puppy essence to it. “Luna, was it?”
Her laugh is an octave higher than usual. “Funny.”
“Wasn’t tryna be.” I don’t mean to sound so snippy but that’s how it comes out, and I hear Luna’s dissatisfaction in the kiss of her teeth.
“Baby, I’m not in the mood to nurse hurt feelings tonight.”
I purse my lips to stifle a bitter laugh. God knows I wasn’t expecting her to; I learned a long time ago that it’s rarely the cause of the hurt that soothes it.
I’ve never been one for quick, snippy comebacks, and it turns out, I don’t need one. The rest of the world reappears as a drunk guy stumbles over, and my head snaps towards Luna just in time to catch her jolt as a heavy hand jerks the back of her seat.
“Luna fuckin’ Evans.” Billy leers down at her, and I find myself wishing that when I helped him with his pitch last semester, I’d done something else with the baseball bat instead. “Been looking for you.”
Complete apathy paints Luna’s face as she drawls, “lucky me,” but her sarcasm is lost on Billy.
He smiles, wide and fucking creepy, and agrees. “Lucky you.”
Jaw clenched, Luna gestures to me. “I’m busy.”
“Ah.” Billy’s grin redirects, landing on me. “Lucky you.”
“Fuck off.” Luna huffs as she stands. When she makes a break for escape, Billy blocks her path, and before I know it, I’m on my feet and echoing her sentiment.
“Fuck off, Billy.”
Billy holds up his hands in innocence, swaying as he claims, “dude, I had her first.”
“Dude, I’m right fucking here,” Luna practically growls, body rigid, scowl deadly. “And the only thing you had was the stamina of an eighty-year-old man. Now, get out of my way.”
She doesn’t wait for him to obey. She simply shoves him aside, her heels sinking into the grass as she stomps toward the back door.
Billy watches her retreat with a whistle—apparently, he’s one of those guys who takes a woman’s complete disinterest as a challenge. Clamping a hand down on my shoulder, he murmurs in my ear like we’re co-conspirators, like I’m not five seconds away from throwing him out of my house. “Watch out, man. She might fuck good but the attitude ain’t worth it.”
Heat creeps along my skin, and for once in the presence of Luna, it’s not from mortification plaguing me. Shrugging so his hand falls away, I turn toward Billy. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“I get it, okay? She’s hot. But does hot really outweigh batshit crazy?”
I blink at him. Once, twice, three times, whilst wondering if he really just said that. If he’s really smiling while he spouts shit. If he’s really waiting for me to laugh and agree.
I don’t know who’s more surprised, Billy or I, when my palms connect with his chest and shove him backward. “Don’t you ever—”
“Jesus Christ.” Nails dig into my bicep as someone yanks me, hard, away from a stumbling, shocked Billy. “Reign it in, cowboy.”
I do no such thing. Unable to shake the surprisingly strong grip, I stab my free hand in Billy’s direction. “Get out of my house.”
“Jackson.” Another hard pull drags me towards the back porch, inside the house where I can’t glare at Billy anymore, and doesn’t stop until we’re upstairs. Luna shoves me into the first bedroom she stumbles upon and storms in after me, slamming the door shut behind her. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“He-”
“-has the emotional maturity of a child, yes, I know. I didn’t know you shared that affliction.”
“He said-”
“I heard what he said,” she interrupts me again, hands on her hips and fury in her eyes, “and I can handle it. I don’t need you flouncing in like some hero.”
“That’s not what I was doing.”
“Well, that armor of yours is looking awfully shiny.” Luna huffs, hair flying as she turns away from me, heels clacking as she paces the room. “You gotta pick your battles, cowboy. Drunk dipshits at house parties are not worth the effort.”
You are, though, I don’t deign to say aloud.
But I don’t apologize either.
I just stand and stare and as I do, it starts to sink in that the bedroom we’re in?
It’s mine.
Luna Evans is in my bedroom.
Standing bang in the center. Arms crossed, back to me. Long hair grazing the curve of her ass as her head tilts toward the ceiling, and when I follow her gaze, I suddenly hate her being in here. With a soft sigh, some of the tension eases from taut shoulders. “These are amazing.”
I frown at the rough paintstrokes holding her attention. Almost broke my damn neck, painting up there while trying to balance on an old, rusty ladder. But the view of rolling hills and blue skies reminding me of home is worth it. “They’re rough.”
Luna glances over her shoulder, pretty eyes rolling. “You’re modest.”
I drop my gaze before the full effect of that smile hits. Quiet and discouraged, I ask, “Did you bring me up here for a reason or can I go?”
“Alcohol makes you feisty, hm?”
Yeah, the fault falls on the single beer I’ve had, for sure.
Heels clack against wood as Luna approaches, the tips of her toes just visible as she ventures too close. “I thought we solved this eye contact thing.”
Swallowing a sigh, I reluctantly look up.
Luna scans me the same way she perused my artwork, smile as strained as the humor in her tone. “Mad looks good on you.”
“I’m not mad.”
“No?”
“No, Luna, I’m not.”
She doesn’t seem convinced. “Billy was just being a drunk dick.”
“I don’t care about Billy.”
“Looked a lot like you cared.”
“Not about him.”
Pink lips part on a sharp breath, nothing else escaping them. They roll together for a moment, thoughtful and oddly nervous, before she inhales again, slower this time, releasing it with a confession. “I panicked, okay? I saw you and I panicked.”
When I frown, Luna rolls her eyes. “Because,” she answers the question I only silently asked, “you make me kind of nervous, Jackson.”
“I make you nervous?” I gawk at her, mouth wide open, perfectly aware of how foolish I look and sound yet powerless to stop. “Why?”
Luna doesn’t answer. Instead, she cocks her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Is that really so hard to believe?”
I decide against responding, and the smile that curves Luna’s lips in response to my silence?
Downright terrifying.
“It is very nerve-wracking, Jackson,” she all but purrs, “to not know when the hell a guy is gonna make a move on you.”
Oh.
Oh.
“I thought maybe you were gonna the other night, in your truck,” she continues, another purposeful step eliminating the distance between us. “The whole way home, I wondered if you’d thought about it.”
I did. There was a long moment where I considered it before common sense kicked in. “Did you want me to?”
I can’t tell what answer I’m hoping for. Half of me begs, please God, say yes. The other half prays she’ll laugh, say no, crush the little hope I have once and for all because Jesus Christ, this is painful.
It’s painful feeling so awkward and helpless around her constantly. It’s painful trying not to make a complete ass of myself. And, God, it’s painful wanting to kiss her.
And I really, really want to kiss her.
As slow as the smile that graces her lips, Luna’s hands dance up my chest, toying with the fabric of my t-shirt, until her hands are linked behind my head. “Yes.”
I can’t speak or move or breathe but it’s fine because she does it all for me. Luna leans forward, melding to me perfectly, breath brushing my lips. “I wanted you to, Jackson,” she says, and as though compelled by her words, my hands move, landing on the curve of her waist.
Another one of the few inches between us is decimated when her nose brushes mine. “Really, really badly.”
It’s not the feel of her breath on my lips that does it. Not the feel of her fingers tangling in my hair either. No, it’s those goddamn eyes, the soft genuinity in them that matches the upturn of her lips. They provide the encouragement I need.
They convince me to tug her forward, so gently, and press my lips to hers.
