Stay With Me (8 page)

I force myself to look away from him and search his room. His bed is in the center, and a nightstand with a standard lamp and small alarm clock is to the right of the bed. There’s a nice-sized window that overlooks the backyard, and off to the side, is a small desk with a laptop on it. A few pictures line the dresser across the bed, and there’s a print of Van Gogh’s
Starry Night
on one wall.

“You like Van Gogh?” I ask.

“I’m not a really big art guy. It was a going away to college gift from Phoebe.”

“Who’s Phoebe?”

“One of my sisters.” Caleb pulls out the chair from his desk. “You want to sit?”

“Sure.” I take the seat, and Caleb sits down on the edge of his bed. “You said you had four sisters?”

“Yup.” He ticks them off on his fingers. “Daphne. Phoebe is fifteen but going on forty. Rhea’s twelve. And Persephone—but we all call her Percy—is eight.”

So that little girl
was
his sister.

“I ran into your sister and mother at the market earlier today,” I say. “Percy asked for my autograph and a picture.”

“Oh God. I’m sorry about that.”

“No, you don’t have to apologize. I didn’t mind, truly. Little kids don’t bother me. It’s the adults who cross lines that I have a problem with.”

He studies me for a long moment. “Why weren’t you going to come to the party?”

Damn, I should’ve blamed my not wanting to go on what happened before Art class. But it’s too late to do that now.

“Just some magazines I saw.” The wooden chair is starting to feel uncomfortable, so I get up and lean against the wall by the window.

“What happened?”

I let out a sigh. “It’s just my mother being my mother.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

Caleb pushes off from the bed and moves toward me. His hand cups the side of my face, his touch warm and seeping into me, easing the hard knot of tension in my chest but creating a different type of strain altogether. A strain that makes goose bumps appear along my arms, and causes my heart to race. “You sure? Because I’m here for you.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

“Okay.” He holds his hand out to mine, palm facing up. It’s open, wide, and if I slip my hand into his, I know I won’t ever let go. I won’t ever want to let go.

I stare at him and then at his hand.

“Trust me, Hailey.”

“Trust is . . . difficult for me,” I say.

“I get that, but I’m not going to hurt you.”

Maybe not, but if I lost my heart to him . . . well, there are a lot of ways to be hurt that you can’t come back from, as I very well know.

But to really be me—to really find out who I am and what I want—I
need
to start somewhere.

I take his hand.

And true to his word, Caleb doesn’t let go.

Chapter 8

W
E WALK DOWNSTAIRS, HIS HAND
still on mine, and I feel warm and glowing, as if incandescent lights are beaming from me, showing everyone how happy I am. Daphne and Nick aren’t anywhere near the keg, so we head to the kitchen. The shot table has been cleared off, and Daphne and Nick are by the island, their heads bent close together as they put candles on a sheet cake. Jamie is leaning against the patio door, keeping his eyes off the cake and talking easily with a bunch of people. Griff is in the living room but walks over to us, along with Kai and Dylan.

Jamie looks at Caleb and me holding hands. “I knew it!”

Nick glances over at us, a smile on his lips. “I think we
all
knew it.”

“I called it first,” Jamie points out. “So, you guys dating now?”

“Jamie, you’re worse than my mother and father combined,” Caleb says. “And, clearly, this is why you’re not dating anyone.”

“Man, you know why I’m not really dating.” Jamie gives an exaggerated sigh. “My heart belongs to—”

“Your cock,” Griff says suddenly, his voice deep and gravelly.

“He speaks!” Jamie goes to Griff, punching him lightly on his arm. “Only took you five hours until you decided to open your mouth.”

“I only talk when necessary,” Griff says. “I don’t go on and on and on, unlike you.”

Jamie rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Like a fart, you’re silent but deadly.”

“You’re drunk,” Caleb says, and looks toward his sister and Nick. “You two almost done over there?”

“Almost,” Daphne says. “We need something to light the candles with. Have anything?”

Caleb nods. “There should be some matches in the drawer behind you, Daph.”

“I’ll get them,” Nick says.

“I already know what I’m wishing for.” Jamie looks over at Caleb and me. “You two should be dating. Or at least
go
on a date. Don’t you want to go on a date with my bro, Hailey?”

“I would, but Caleb hasn’t asked me yet.”

“Ohhhhh, Caleb!” Jamie wags his finger, laughing. “You’re in so much trouble.”

“Dude, you’re about to be in so much
more
trouble,” Dylan pipes up, and when Jamie reaches for a drink on the counter, he grabs it from him. “You’re done for the night.”

“I haven’t, have I?” Caleb murmurs to me, his eyes intent.

I bite my lower lip. “You haven’t what?”

“Asked you out yet.”

I shake my head no.

“Excuse me, guys.”

And not waiting for them to say a word, Caleb pulls me out to the backyard onto the deck. Surprisingly no one else is out there with us, and I’m glad we have this space to ourselves, that like the night we first met, the deck is just Caleb and me.

Caleb shuts the sliding glass door and gives Jamie the finger when Jamie presses his face against the door. There’s laughter as Jamie’s dragged away, and Griff shuts the blinds, closing us off from prying eyes.

Caleb tugs on my hand, and I go with him down the steps and off to one side of the house, in the small pathway between his house and the next. It’s enveloped in darkness, the only light coming from the sky.

He leans against the brick wall, and gently tugs on my hand again, bringing me close to him. His other hand lands on my hip, and I brace my free one against his chest where I feel his heart pound in an increasing rhythm against my palm.

We stand there for a moment, stars shining upon us, his hand on mine, my hand over his heart, our eyes locked onto each other. The wind is soft, a whisper of a low whistle that sends scattered leaves brushing past our legs like waves hitting the shoreline. A few strands of my hair blow across my face, and Caleb removes his hand from my hip to brush the offending locks behind my ear.

He strokes his thumb across my cheekbone, and that small touch sends a thousand prick points of delight to my every nerve. It has me leaning even closer to him. His fingers tangle in my hair, and I tilt my head up.

“Hailey.”

My name is said so softly, so tenderly, the two syllables strung together in the sweetest way, and said in the lowest tone. My name feels like two heartbeats upon his lips, and I wonder if I said his name right now whether it would come across the same. Two heartbeats, two hearts, but there’s something here—something I can’t name yet. It almost feels like there’s this thread, this oh so delicate thread connecting us. That with each moment, with each shared heartbeat, with each barrier we break down, this thread will only grow stronger, firmer, and never break.

Caleb touches me again, his thumb sweeping down the side of my face. “I have to ask you a question.”

“Okay.”

The wind falls suddenly silent, as if it too is holding its breath in anticipation of what will come next.

He lowers his head, his lips almost near my own, his eyes warm and hopeful. “Will you go out with me?”

There’s only one answer I can give, the only word I want to say.

“Yes.”

And as his mouth touches mine, the wind celebrates and leaves swirl around us.

T
HROUGHOUT THE WEEK I’M STILL
floating on Cloud Nine from what happened at the party. Caleb asked me out.

He asked me out!

I could dance right now, even in the middle of Philosophy. It would save us all the boredom that is Plato’s Cave.

After class is done, I grab my messenger bag and start to head out the door.

“Hailey, a moment?” Professor Clark, a heavyset woman in her fifties with short salt and pepper hair, is standing by her desk, rifling through papers.

I adjust my bag and walk toward her. “Yes?”

“I wanted to talk to you about your paper.” She pauses for a moment as she finds what she’s searching for. “Ah. There it is.”

My grip tightens, but I try to not show it. This can’t be good. It’s never good when you’re called to speak to a teacher after class. Even
I
know that, and I’ve never been in a
real
class until college. “Oh.”

“Your paper on Socrates.”

Ugh.
That.

“How bad is it?” I brace myself for bad news. “Did I even pass?”

“You got a F.” She holds the paper out to me, and I wince seeing the red inked F.

An F is horrible. An F is a failing grade. An F is not going to help with my GPA or doing anything for me.

“It seems you are having a . . .” Professor Clark hesitates a moment. “A difficult time with this particular coursework.”

“I’m still adjusting.” I know it’s a pitiful excuse, even if it is the truth. “I’m trying to do better, I swear. It’s just . . .”

“You’re overwhelmed.”

I frown at that. “Not overwhelmed. I’m not that. I can handle this.”

“October is a week away, and with that, mid-terms are around the corner.” Professor Clark’s dark brown eyes are shadowed behind her round-framed glasses. “And your work hasn’t been up to par with other students.”

“Are you saying I’m the only one struggling?” I find that hard to believe; I cross my arms across my chest, the messenger bag sliding with the movement. “Or are you just trying to make a point with me?”

“Well, Hailey, the truth is, you
are
famous, and that you’ve had things easily handed to you. You’ve never had to work at anything until now.”

I draw back, feeling as if I’ve been slapped across my face. “You don’t know anything about me. I know my stuff isn’t as good as everyone else’s. I know who I
used
to be, but I’m done with that part of my life. I’m a student.”

Professor Clark holds the paper out to me. “Then start acting like one.”

P
ROFESSOR CLARK’S WORDS ARE STILL
burning a deep path of anger in me. They were harsh words, unflinchingly so, and perhaps even crossed a line. But how many other people are
just
like Professor Clark? How many other professors feel the same way as she does? That I’m famous, had it easy, and am just coasting by?

I know other students are probably in the same boat as I am—in that they’re struggling with adjustment to college life. But because of my name and how famous I am, I’m being held to a standard most don’t have to meet. Or worry about.

Maybe it’s unfair for me to think like that, but I can’t help it. But since that’s how it is, I have to deal with it. And fight against the preconceived notions the professors have about me.

Yes, acting, singing, and dancing did come easy to me. Natural as breathing to me, but I also worked every day at it. I became better with each role, and it’s why my mother/former manager believed from the time I was six and had my first Broadway role that I was destined for winning Oscars, and getting an EGOT, as I had won a few Grammys and Emmy awards by the time I was fourteen.

But I still worked at my career, because my mother wanted me to be the best—because, at the time, I wanted to be the best and earn my mother’s love.

I don’t want to be in Hollywood anymore. I don’t want to go on tours and perform for hundreds of thousands of peoples. I don’t want to turn on the radio and hear a song of mine playing or get in yet another argument with record executives about the direction of my career.

I don’t want to be famous.

I just want to be able to walk into a room and not have anyone notice me. I just want to be like everyone else, to never have had to deal with paparazzi stalking my every move and rifling through garbage to get the latest gossip. I don’t want to break up with a guy and then see the headlines on papers or read interviews about it. And I never want to read an article again where my turning eighteen was celebrated because I was “officially legal.”

Ugh. Disgusting.

But it is true: I haven’t done as well in my course studies as I want to. And clearly I have to work harder at that. If I need help, I have to ask for it and get it. Being a student is something completely new to me, and I have to learn how to be one—and not flunk out before I can do so.

I scowl. I’m not going to flunk out. I’m not going to fail. Especially not at this.

I quicken my pace, walking up one side ramp to the library. And I’m going to start getting this together—now.

I head to the circulation desk, surprised to see Griff behind there, and stop short. “You work here?”

“Yup.”

“For work study?”

“Yup.” Griff puts some books on a cart. “And because this is my major. Library science.”

This buff, ripped, scowly guy wants to be a . . . “You want to be a librarian?”

He finishes putting books on a cart and disappears for a moment as he wheels it out one door and into the main area. I hurry over to him.

“Yup,” he says firmly. “I love books. And I love libraries.”

“Oh.” I fall silent for a few, still processing the fact that this is what Griff wants to do and feeling suddenly foolish as I’m clearly showing what an ignoramus I am. “I love books, too.”

“Good. I never trust anyone who doesn’t love books.” Griff wheels the cart down one long aisle. “Do you need something?”

“Um . . . Yeah. Kind of. Sort of. Maybe.”

His dark eyes glance over at me, and he waits. Griff is very patient as it takes me some time to find the words.

“I’m not doing well in class,” I finally admit.

“Which class?”

I look down at the floor, feeling a hot flood of embarrassment sting my cheeks. “All of them.”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

“I’m not stupid,” I say, feeling indeed very stupid.