Mess To Be Made

49

"She is such a bitch," Tyler muttered, his soft brown hair brushing across his forehead as he shook his head with grave disapproval at the TV screen in front of us.

I pushed a threatening smile back into my mouth and pulled his comforter around our bodies tighter, allowing my shoulder to slide further across his chest until the smell of our half-eaten Chinese food was overpowered by his familiar scent.

I once thought it was the simple aroma of soap, but this weekend I realized I was wrong. It was fresh—like dewdrops left behind from an early morning rain in Spring. The smell of crisp, cool air warming under the peach sunbeams of daybreak.

Definitely not soap.

"She's misunderstood," I countered, slyly eyeing the last spring roll on his bedside table.

I'm not sure why I continued to argue with him about Blair Waldorf. Or anything Gossip Girl, for that matter. He was hooked after I showed him the first episode and hadn't looked back—not displaying even a sliver of shame like most guys his age would around the obsession.

He scoffed, his hazel eyes darkening beneath narrowed lids. Not once removing his gaze from the Upper East Side brunette threatening one of the new Constance teachers, his fingers plucked the lone spring roll from its container, offering it to me.

Clearly, I hadn't been as sly as I thought.

"You just think she's pretty."

"Obviously." I would've smacked his chest for emphasis if my heart wasn't fluttering so wildly over a fucking spring roll. Instead, I snatched the delicious snack from him with resolve, though my foot tucked deeper into the mattress under the covers, hooking our ankles together. "Leighton Meester is gorgeous."

Tyler hummed, his chest vibrating underneath me. I swallowed a gasp when his hand wrapped around my thigh, squeezing blithely. "I guess I just have a thing for blondes."

"Ha, ha."

Considering Tyler and I had spent most of the weekend in this exact position—snuggled together in his bed, bingeing guilty pleasure TV that served as an intoxicating distraction from my sobering reality—, it had flown by at a surprising speed.

After my less than pleasant conversation with my parents on Friday, when I ran to Tyler like a helpless child being reunited with a parent after getting lost in the amusement park for the afternoon, he hadn't hesitated to insist I stay with him that night.

When I asked how his dad might feel about that, Tyler shushed me so harshly most people would've probably taken offense to it. But me, well—him getting snappy with me always made me smile.

He told me not to worry about that. That he would take care of it.

He did. In fact, Tristan barely bothered us, though he was hardly home as he worked most of the weekend.

And without anyone stopping us, our Friday night turned into Saturday. And Saturday into Sunday.

We mostly stayed holed up in his room, definitely not daring to venture beyond the confines of his house. We had dinners delivered, made sandwiches for lunch, and cooked breakfast together in the morning. With no change of clothes, I wore his softest t-shirts, which hung to my mid-thigh, and a pair of San Diego State sweatpants that bunched around my ankles. My usually sheet-like hair slightly curled at the tips from using his voluminous shampoo and his citrus body wash clung to me like a comforting cloak.

I learned that he played baseball in elementary school, had never been roller skating, was terrified of mice and needles, hated the color grey—

"You wear grey all the time," I had pointed out when it came up in conversation late Friday night, the smooth sound of Denzel's voice serenading us in the background as Training Day played on the television. One of my all-time favorite movies. Turns out, it was one of his too.