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Anna
Despite the heated promise in his voice, and despite the fact that he came to my apartment for only one reason, when we get to my room, Drew doesn’t touch me. We lie side by side on the bed, both of us staring up at the ceiling. Our shoulders brush, but that is the extent of our contact. My hands are safely folded over my stomach and so are his. We aren’t fucking. I’m not trying to climb him like a tree or lick him like a Tootsie Pop. Though I want to do those things. Part of me always does.
I still can’t believe I have Baylor in my room. His presence fills every inch. He’s so expansive with his charisma that I can’t get enough air, or when I do, it makes my blood fizz and my head spin.
When he finally talks, my skin jumps at the rich, deep sound.
“What’s your thing with old Siouxsie there?”
I don’t need to see him to know he’s gesturing with his chin toward the framed poster of Siouxsie Sioux, lead singer for Siouxsie and the Banshees, that hangs over my bed. With her exaggerated straight black brows, wild black bob, and tiny red bow mouth she looks like a deranged Betty Boop, a goth flapper girl. She screams timeless beauty and “fuck off” all at once. I love her style.
“She’s not old,” I protest. Up there, on my wall, she’s immortal.
“You didn’t answer me.” A soft rustle of noise, and I know he’s turned his head to look at me. I keep my eyes on Siouxsie. This doesn’t deter Baylor. “You seem to have a thing for her.”
We’re listening to her now, her haunting voice singing a cover of “Dear Prudence.”
“Just look at her. She didn’t give a fuck. She led an all-male band, was part of a sound revolution.” I shrug. “And she’s fucking cool.”
He chuckles. It’s a good laugh. Deep and infectious. Just hearing it makes me smile.
His laughter dies down, and we’re silent for a moment, just listening to music and lying there. His legs are so long that his bent knees rise at least five inches higher than mine. They are dusky blue hills beneath the backdrop of Siouxsie’s haunted eyes. I’m relaxed, I realize. And at the same time, the ever-present tension when he is near, simmers low in my stomach.
“So you like old music, huh?” he asks.
I turn my head just enough to see his arm. His biceps is so big that I wonder if I can get my two hands around it. I’m tempted to try.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice far too husky. “I guess I do.”
He nods, and his square chin comes into view. And his mouth. I’m in love with his mouth, and I’ve never even tasted it. The lower lip is wide yet full, a gentle curve that I want to follow with my tongue. But I won’t.
His upper lip is almost a bow, a cruel little sneer of a lip, and yet the effect is ruined because Drew is almost always smiling. He isn’t now, though. His lips are relaxed, fuller.
They move when he speaks. “I like Zeppelin, Queen, The Doors, Nirvana, Pearl Jam.” He says this like it’s a confession. Like I’m going to sit up and point and shout, Ah-ha! Closet classic rock junkie! When he ought to know that I won’t, not when I listen to Brit-punk albums older than I am.
It’s his turn to shrug, as if my silence is agitating to him. “My dad used to listen to that stuff.” His body tilts toward mine as he reaches in his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. The picture held between his thumb and his forefinger shakes only a little as he hands it to me. “My parents.”
His parents are young in the photo. They’re hanging on to each other, arms slung over their shoulders as they ham it up for the camera. His dad is tall, dark, and handsome, in a fashion victim sort of way, with flowing shoulder length brown hair, and wearing torn jeans, and a beat-up flannel shirt over what looks like a ratty concert t-shirt. But his grin is wide, and a dimple graces his cheek.
Drew’s mom is kissing his other cheek, but she’s sort of smearing her lips over him as she turns to the camera, and she’s clearly laughing about her antics. She’s her own fashion victim, maybe more so than his dad, but she looks awesome doing it. Her hair is pinned back from her forehead with multiple butterfly clips and brushes her shoulders in a brilliant blond nimbus of curls. She’s got on an honest-to-God black lace bustier and a ruffled plaid mini-skirt, paired with combat boots that I kind of covet when I see them.
“Your mom was a nonconformist, I take it?” I grin over at Drew, and he laughs lightly.
“Yeah, for a few months, the way she’d tell it.” His expression turns soft. “They called this their Hall of Shame picture.”
I’m smiling as I study the picture. But my heart aches. I can almost feel their joy, and their absence.
“They look so young and happy. Beautiful too.” Because they are. Drew has his mom’s nose and eyes, and his dad’s sharp jawline and smile.
I give him back the picture, handling it with the care that it deserves. He doesn’t look at it as he tucks it away.
“They met in college.” His voice goes quiet, and he turns to stare up at the ceiling. “And they were happy.”
His profile is tight, the corners of his mouth hard. “I don’t know, I guess... I guess I feel closer to them by listening to what they listened to.”
The pain, that sharp, dark pain, buried deep in his words, the pain that he’s fighting to hide, hits me straight through the middle.
I clear my throat, find my voice. “And who doesn’t love Queen?” I give him a little nudge, just the barest move of my elbow against his arm. “I mean, isn’t ‘We Will Rock You’ like every jock’s anthem?”
