Give Me You (16 page)

Skylar drives us to the airport like a man escaping Hell. Layla and I hop out and I have the urge to kiss the ground.

“I packed the Blu-ray copy of
Pitch Perfect
for you,” I tell her with a hug.

“I love you.”

I laugh but my stomach tingles a little. She means it. And I feel the same way. “Love you too, crazy girl. Now go get your fine piece of soccer ass.”

She’s nearly crying when she leaves us to run inside.

I climb back into the car with Skylar who pulls up to a place where we can park. “Just in case things go sideways and one or both of them ends up needing a ride back to campus,” he says.

“And here I thought I was the cynical one.”

“You are,” he says. “Speaking of which—”

“I know. I know. I lost the damn bet.” I smile to myself at the thought of Layla’s bold, brave choice. Good for her for going after what she wants. “So what did you win?”

Skylar turns to face me, propping himself so that he’s taking up every inch of space possible. “A trip to New York.”

My insides clench and churn. Good thing I haven’t eaten breakfast yet. “A what?”

Please tell me I heard him wrong.

“That’s what I want,” he tells me. “Valentine’s Day weekend I’m off. No games. No practice. I’ll buy the plane tickets and whatever else I need to.”

“Why New York?” I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.

“Because I want to see where you come from. What makes you,
you.
”

“Why?” My voice is practically a whisper.

“Because I’m trying to figure you out.” He tucks a stray piece of hair behind my left ear.

“Stop,” I say and he jerks his hand back like I’ve burned him. “Trying to figure me out, I mean. There’s nothing to figure out. I’m just boring old me and there is nothing in New York that matters.”

“I disagree,” he says.

Before we can argue any further about the God-awful terms of this bet, Skylar’s phone buzzes in the center console.

He retrieves it and smiles. “She made it in time. They’re boarding now.”

I am a swirling mess of conflicting emotions inside.

I’m happy for Layla.

But I’m terrified for myself.

I
t takes a while to process the fact that Layla’s really gone. Our dorm room seems unfinished without her stuff in it. Lonely.

She called last night to let me know everything was going well and I wanted to tell her everything. I almost spilled my guts about the bet, New York, and how much I was dreading letting Skylar see where I come from and why. It’s like I’m going to pull back the curtain and show him the broken girl behind the façade Wizard of Oz style. But I couldn’t. She’s happy. And I’m happy for her. I just wish I hadn’t bet against her and Landen. I got what I deserved I guess.

Skylar was right and I was wrong. Damn his arrogant ass.

Most likely because I stay on campus and work over Christmas break, Valentine’s Day weekend sneaks up on me. Of course Skylar didn’t forget our bet. He hands me a plane ticket as soon as I step out of my last class on Friday and off we go, on the trip of ill-fated doom.

“So this is it,” I tell him once we arrive at my mom’s. “Try not to be overwhelmed.”

I don’t watch him put our bags down because I don’t want to see the look of pity on his face. The apartment is a five-floor walk up with a tiny kitchen and dining table shoved into one corner across from a secondhand sectional. There’s no television because she’s never here to watch it. Her bedroom is on one side of the apartment and mine is a remodeled closet on the other. There’s a note on the table and Skylar nods to it as he lowers my overnight bag into one of the weathered wooden chairs.

Sorry I couldn’t be here when you came home. Had a date. Help yourself to the leftover lasagna in the fridge. Ms. Adele from next door made it last week but it should still be good. Have a great weekend. Love, Mom.

And that pretty much sums up my childhood.

Technically I haven’t lived here in nearly two years, since the day I moved out to move in with Eddie. Back when he seemed like Prince Charming rescuing me from my tower of doom. I wouldn’t even recognize the stupid girl I used to be if I passed her on the street.

Skylar’s face is stoic but I know him well enough that I can nearly read his thoughts.

“What’s your political stance on week old lasagna?”

He scratches his chin thoughtfully. “I think I’m probably for it.”

I step over to the fridge and survey the contents. Half a head of brown lettuce, a bottle of cheap wine, some individual bottles of off-brand ginger ale, a plastic container half full of moldy strawberries, a pack of cheese slices, and a container of plain yogurt from who knows when. The aforementioned pan of lasagna is covered with aluminum foil and is pretty much the only edible thing in sight. Lifting the foil, I’m hit with the potent aroma of entirely too much garlic. And I just remembered Ms. Adele next door has approximately sixteen cats that she lets roam all over the countertops.

I can practically taste the cat hair now.

I give Skylar the best grin I can manage. “On second thought, what’s your stance on greasy diner food?”

He appears pensive and his dramatic attempt almost makes me smile. “Will there be pie?”

I nod. “There will absolutely be pie.”

“In that case, I’m definitely for it. Hard core supporter.”

Dominic’s Diner is down the street a few blocks and has changed names and owners so many times the front window just says DINER in faded red letters. Mel’s would be slightly closer but there’s too much likelihood that I’d run into Eddie or one of his buddies there. I don’t know exactly how he was handled the day I left for California but I can imagine. I wouldn’t put it past him to retaliate if he saw me again.

Skylar keeps waiting for the walk signs to change. I try hard not to laugh at him. Taking his hand I pull him through the next few intersections while doing my best not to allow my brain to acknowledge how well my hand fits into his.

When a cab nearly takes us out and blares his horn in complaint, I don’t even flinch. Skylar squeezes my hand and pales as if he’s just seen his life flash before his eyes.

“So every day is like a giant game of Frogger, then?”

I release him to open the door to Dom’s. “Something like that. You get used to it.” God help the boy if he ever went to Midtown.

Before he can mumble something under his breath, I grab two menus and slide into a well-worn red vinyl booth.

“Don’t get the tuna melt, unless you have a death wish. Burgers are good, cheesesteak is fantastic, and the onion rings are ten times better than the fries.”

Skylar raises an eyebrow as he takes his menu from my hand. “Come here often?”

I shrug. “I don’t cook. My mom didn’t cook. Pizza gets old after a while.”

I want to leave it at that. But I can’t.

“Not all of us grew up with personal chefs. It’s a hard life, but we survive.” I clench my fists under the table, nearly wincing at the wounded look on his face. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s not being judgmental and he’s never once rubbed his money in mine or anyone else’s face—not that I’ve seen anyway. But I don’t want anyone’s pity and there’s maybe a tiny chip on my shoulder about it. Apparently I still have that strike first before you get hurt thing going for me.

Before I can apologize for the unnecessary jab, a middle-aged brunette waitress named Faye comes to take our order.

“Cheesesteak, no green peppers. With onion rings and a cherry coke, please.”

I hand her my menu and she turns to Skylar who’s still looking at his like it’s in French.

“Same, I guess,” he finally says.

I giggle when she walks away.

Skylar frowns. “What?”

“You really wanted to order a grilled chicken salad and a water, admit it.”

His mouth lifts at one corner. “You don’t think I can blend in with the city folk?”

I glance pointedly at his Polo shirt, designer sunglasses, and California tan. Truthfully, the only place he’d blend in would be a room full of GQ cover models. Not that he needs his ego inflated any further.

“You don’t have to destroy your perfect athlete diet to fit in, soccer boy.”

Our food arrives quickly and Skylar eyes it appreciatively. “My diet and I will be just fine. But thank you for your concern.”

I take my first greasy, cheesy bite and moan. “God, I almost forgot that there were things about New York that I missed.”

Skylar chews carefully before swallowing. “This is all you miss? The food?”

I hear what he doesn’t say.
What about your mom? Your friends?

“Pretty much.” I grab the ketchup bottle from the table behind us since we don’t have one.

“I guess there’s a reason you’re attending college on the other side of the country. Any plans to tell me what that reason is?”

I keep my mouth purposely full for several minutes.

“Nope.”

Skylar’s eyes narrow. “As in there’s not a specific reason or you don’t plan to tell me what it is?”

“Take your pick.”

“I pick whichever option means you tell me what you’re running from,” Skylar says quietly. “Not that I’m complaining but I can’t imagine many New Yorkers ditch the city for Cali. Unless you’re taking up surfing and just haven’t told me yet.”