The Opposite of Nothing (7 page)

The ache wrapping around her chest, crushing her lungs, slowly uncoiled. “I do. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be happy. This is exciting. Go get ’em, tigress.” She squeezed Callie’s knee again.

If only it were that easy for her.

“Have we met? I can’t go get him. I’m, well, me. And he wouldn’t—”

“He is obviously into you. I’ve never seen him play savior for anyone else.”

“I may have gotten in my own way.”

“Then fix it. Boys are easy. Just tell him what you want.”

T
he Student Union was a collection of ratty couches and a few metal cabinets filled with ancient board games, clustered in a glorified alcove. Callie scanned for Tayber. He always crashed here between classes on Mondays, too lazy to trudge across campus to his dorm.

She tripped on a wiffle ball and forced herself to stumble across the open space, drawn and repelled in equal measure. He was sprawled on a rust-colored sofa, his enormous, sneakered feet dangling over the worn arm. He had a notebook tented over his face, and his chest rose and fell with hypnotic regularity. Napping. In public. On purpose. She couldn’t even fathom such a risk. Actually, she could. Memories of a horrific eighth grade field trip to the Air and Space Museum threatened to pull her under.

She’d walked every inch of the museum, twice, doing the scavenger hunt designed for teams all by herself. She’d been so tired by the time they boarded the bus home, she could barely drag herself to the one empty seat near the middle. When Quinn O’Neil sat beside her and smiled, she’d nearly collapsed from shock. She’d thought maybe it was an overture of friendship, that she’d served her time in purgatory, proved she could take whatever punishment they could dish out, and her sentence would be lifted. She’d thought wrong.

“I like your jeans,” Quinn had said.

Maybe Mom was right.
Maybe a new outfit, still creased from the precision folding of a mall employee who’d bobbed to techno at the front of the store while she shopped, and a new attitude, had been exactly what she’d needed.

“Thanks. I got them at—”

“Oh, I know where you got them.”

Of course she knew. She was Quinn Freaking O’Neil. Stores like that checked with people like her to decide what to sell in the first place. Quinn could wear a Hefty bag as a dress and everyone would call it couture.

They’d sat in awkward silence after that, until exhaustion finally won. Callie had fallen asleep, dreaming of slumber parties and broken-heart necklaces and lunches that didn’t involve her sneaking Cheetos from the front pocket of her backpack when the librarian’s back was turned.

She’d woken up—alone again—to a nightmare. The top of her thigh felt damp. She’d looked down to find confusing multi-colored blobs.
What the...?

While she slept, Quinn had decorated her jeans. Not with daises or hearts or even initials. She’d drawn the word LOSER in big bubble letters with magic marker. It was as if she’d been tagged by a graffiti artist.

The worst part had been her own reaction. She hadn’t asked “Why did Quinn do it?
” Because she could.
Or “Why me?”
Because of course
. Her first thought had been,
How could I be so dumb?

Because hope had made her stupid. Hope always made her stupid.

Too embarrassed to tell anyone what happened, she’d blocked her lap with her notebook and shuffled off the bus. Her mother had taken one look at the ruined pants and winced. “Why would you let someone do this to you, Callie?”

Tayber’s mother probably never had to ask him questions like that. He didn’t let people hurt him. He was a Quinn. She’d known it from the very beginning. Whatever he did was cool by simple virtue of the fact that
he’d
done it. And he liked her.

She arranged herself on the edge of the couch, careful to keep a safe distance between them, and cleared her throat. No response. She bounced a little, and he stirred.

“I’m not seeing him anymore.”

“Huh?” Tayber grabbed the notebook and dropped it on the floor beside him. His face was soft with sleep, the sharp edge of his jaw blurred with stubble she ached to touch.

“I said I’m not seeing him anymore. The guy. We broke up.”

“Oh, that’s why you were upset.”

“Not really.”

“Come again?” He rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes and scooched himself into a sitting position, bringing his leg into contact with her backside. She shifted, putting space between them again. She couldn’t do this if any part of him was touching her.

“It wasn’t real. I thought it was, but it wasn’t. No big deal.”

Bury a lie in the truth to really sell it. Her stomach rose up and she folded her hands in her lap in an attempt to quell it.

“Hey.” The weight of his palm on her back startled her. He stroked soothing, disconcerting, circles between her shoulder blades. “I’m sorry, Callie. What can I do?”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

That stung. All she did was lie. “I can’t do this here, in the middle of everything.”

He stood. “I have a thing after class, but let’s catch up tonight. We’ll walk. Clear your head.”

A thing? Maybe more like nothing. The thought of him hooking up with someone before he dropped by her place was gutting. “It’s still too cold to walk anywhere at night.”

“I’ll keep you warm. I mean moving, so you stay warm. About seven o’clock? In front of your apartment?”

He jogged backwards as he spoke. Grinning, so his dimples showed on cheeks that were maybe, possibly, just a little bit pink.
Was Tayber blushing?

* * *

S
uite 314 was the last door at the end of a long hallway. Tayber hadn’t taken any visual arts classes so the building was unfamiliar. Unnerving, too, but that probably had less to do with the location and more to do with what he was thinking about doing.

He’d swung by earlier to inquire about the modeling job, and a paint-spattered student assistant had told him to come back at quarter to six. The guy had barely looked up from his canvas.

The room was filled with students setting up easels and it smelled like a fresh box of pencils. His nose itched. He hadn’t expected a class to be in session.

A mousy redhead noticed him standing at the threshold and beamed. She clapped her neighbor on the shoulder—the painter kid from earlier—and bounced on her stool. “Guys, I think the model is here and he’s a hottie.”

He clenched his jaw. He couldn’t just leave now that he’d been spotted.

“Dana, we do not objectify the models. They share their form with us, and we honor that with respect and dignity. We draw life.” It had to be the instructor, though he’d never guess by looking. She wore a gray t-shirt and faded jeans. From behind, she looked like she could only be a few years older than the oldest students in the room, even if her voice was commanding. Dana blushed and ducked behind her large sketch pad.

The instructor turned to face him, and he was surprised by her very pregnant belly. “Sorry about that. You can change in the bathroom down the hall. There’s a robe hanging on the coat rack in the corner.”

Change? Robe?
He hadn’t taken the job yet. This was a fact-finding mission.

“I’m not sure I’m right for—”

“Can you sit still for long stretches of time?”

“Yes.” Sit still. The opposite of dancing—entertaining—though still naked, still exotic.

“Then you’re right for this job. It’s a fifty dollar stipend, paid in cash, at the end of each class.”

“Cash?” He rubbed his damp palms on his shirt. Take clothes off, accept cash, repeat, problems solved.

“Is that a problem?” She tilted her head, looking up at him like he’d suddenly started speaking Greek. He could feel the eyes of every single student studying their exchange. He felt naked already. The light bulbs in here had to be tiny nuclear reactors. He squinted against them. Was it a problem?
Fuck, yes.

“Actually, I don’t think I can sit still. Not for more than a few minutes. Sorry.” Maybe he could start flushing money directly down the drain. He exited the hot little room, full of scrutinizing gazes, with empty pockets. Dignity. Respect.
Shit.
He’d never had those. Why the hell did he care?

* * *

C
allie paced the cracked sidewalk in front of her building, expecting to see the familiar, dented grill of Tayber’s car turning the corner at any second, terrified that the tiny flicker of hope she’d nursed since last night would be snuffed out the instant she opened her mouth. She sucked in a breath when he appeared on foot, illuminated by the glow of her neighbor’s porch light. So, they really were going for a walk. He bobbed his head in her direction and broke into a jog.

“H-hey.”

The slightly breathless huff reminded her of exertion. She imagined that almost-pant against her ear, how warm his breath would be, how strong his hands...
Shit.
She hugged herself against a chill she was now too warm to feel.

“Why didn’t you drive? I didn’t think we were really going to walk.”

“I can’t be health conscious?” He fisted his hands and struck an exaggerated body builder pose. “You know this body doesn’t happen by itself.”

Laughter bubbled up inside her, despite, or maybe because of, all her tense yearning. “Says the guy who eats three bowls of rainbow loops for a snack.”

“They’re a part of a balanced breakfast. It says so on the box.”

“Do you believe everything you read?” Her mouth went dry. Did she really just say that? He believed too much of what he read. From her, anyway.

“Only on cereal boxes.”

They fell into pace beside each other, the sidewalk breaking up beneath their feet the further they got from the semi-disreputable outskirts of campus. Dilapidated row houses spreading apart, patchy brown lawns turning into actual yards with narrow driveways. Working class houses, with rusted swing sets and front windows glowing TV blue. Eventually, they were walking on the shoulder, the shadowy stretches between streetlights giving her time to shore up her armor.

“How did your uh, thing go?”

“The thing was a shitty job interview, and I blew it. So we walk, because I can’t afford aimless drives around town while you unburden yourself on my willing shoulder.”

“I don’t need to unburden anything. I’m fine. And I could chip in on gas. We don’t have to—”

“I don’t have gas money, period. Or phone money. Or housing money. I’m screwed.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, maybe to find some loose change he’d forgotten, or to hide their emptiness. Her own palms itched to hold those empty hands. To squeeze. To soothe.

“So take the summer session off. Go home, re-group. Not graduating early isn’t the end of the world.”

“I can’t go home. I don’t think I have a home anymore. And I don’t have enough financial aid left to cover tuition and my dorm.”

She almost asked how that could be, him not having a home. But she knew how that could work. She looked back in the direction of her own small apartment. The apartment her mother paid a full year’s lease on, just so she didn’t have to deal with Callie coming home too often. “It makes sense, dear.” Her mother had chided. “If we’re going to pay all this money for an apartment, then we should save on transportation, shouldn’t we?”

She didn’t want to go home anyway. She kicked a can abandoned on the roadside. The tinny scrape of metal on pavement echoed in the stillness. “What about one of the frats? They have cheap summer rent.”

“You have serious faith in me if you think I can carry the credits I need living in the land of beer bongs and keg stands. Everyone chill is heading to Europe or the Shore. Maybe I can borrow a tent and
occupy
the quad.”

“Campus security would probably give you a hard time.”

He grabbed her arm, pulling them to a halt. “Hey, what about us?”

Her heart stopped. No, it crawled up into her throat and attempted escape. Us? She’d hoped. Jessa had said. But she hadn’t thought it would happen like this. So easily. Words. Now was the time for words. “Uh?” It was all she could force out.

“We get along pretty great, when we aren’t arguing about dumb shit. You’ve got a quiet apartment. And an unoccupied futon. Aw, fuck. Never mind.”

He wasn’t interested in her, he was interested in her apartment. Shame heated her face. “You want to move in with me?”

“I’ll be a perfect gentleman. You won’t even know I’m there.”

What fun would that be? Also, impossible. “My apartment is the size of a shoe box.”

He raked his fingers through his hair and huffed. “Like I said, never mind. It’s too much to ask. I’ll figure something out.”

But he wouldn’t. Not this late in the semester. His time was up, and she had the power to help him. She swallowed the last bitter drops of shame and disappointment.

“No. I meant we’ll be on top of each other. Not, on top on top. Just, I wouldn’t be able to miss you. I’m shutting up now. Of course you can stay with me.”

“You sure?” He tugged at the sleeve of her cardigan. The slight contact sent a shiver up the length of her arm. She nodded, afraid to say anything else.

His face broke into a dimple-busting smile, and he scooped her up into a bear hug. Her toes barely scraped the ground. “Great. After finals I’ll haul my shit over.”

Her whole universe shrank down into the space created by the circle of his arms. This. This was what she wanted. The squeeze of his arms. The warmth of his chest pressed against hers. The two of them, occupying the same physical space. And so much more. “Maybe you should move in sooner. Instead of going hungry in the dorms. You can use my kitchen.”

He set her down and cocked an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth quirked as he tried to stifle a laugh. “Got any rainbow loops?”

“Stale Oreos.” She wasn’t going to lie about her homemaking skills. She couldn’t hide that if he was moving in right away. Shit, she wasn’t going to be able to hide anything. Her stomach churned.