Corbin would never ask me to help someone he felt might be a threat to me in any way. Corbin has never trusted guys with me, and I blame Blake for that.
Blake was seventeen, and I had a huge crush on him for months. One thing led to another, and after several weekends of sneaking around, Blake told me he wanted to make our relationship official. And boy, did he break it. As much as a fifteen-year-old heart can be broken after the span of a two- week secret relationship. Turned out he was officially dating quite a few girls during the two weeks he was with me.
I found it almost impossible to date in high school until after Corbin finally moved away. As much as I hated it then, I would more than welcome it now. I lived with my most recent boyfriend for more than a year before we realized we wanted two separate things out of life.
He wanted me home. I wanted a career. The second my fingers squeeze his shoulder, he gasps and sits up straight as if I just woke him from the middle of a dream.
Or a nightmare. Immediately, he slides off the stool and onto very unstable legs. He begins to sway, so I throw his arm over my shoulder and try to walk him out of the kitchen.
Whoever you are. Just go to sleep. I fall with him and immediately attempt to pull away. I walk to where the throw pillow is and pick it up off the floor. I look down the hallway and back to him, wondering if I should leave him alone in order to give him privacy. My first instinct is to walk away, but for some reason, I find myself oddly sympathetic toward him.
His pain actually appears genuine and not just the result of an overconsumption of alcohol. I lower myself to my knees in front of him and touch his shoulder.
His eyes are mere slits and bloodshot red. He wraps it around the back of my neck and pulls me forward toward him, burying his face in the crevice between my neck and shoulder.
Instead, I gently push him back into the couch. I lay his pillow down and urge him onto it. His eyes are so full of hurt when he drops to the pillow. His eyes fall shut again, and he releases a heavy sigh. I pull my hand away from his, but I stay by his side for a few minutes longer. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his breathing is sporadic, failing to fall into a peaceful pattern.
For the first time, I notice a faint, jagged scar, about four inches long, that runs smoothly across the entire right side of his jaw. It stops just two inches shy of his lips.
I have the strange urge to touch it and run my finger down the length of it, but instead, my hand reaches up to his hair. I stroke his hair, comforting him, even though he may not deserve it. I have to give him that much. Whatever he did to Rachel, at least he loves her enough to regret it. Before I turn and head back to class, she stops me with a question.
She covers it with her hand. Clayton this period. I need you to show her to the classroom. My mother would have been proud to know that, although it leaves me kind of disappointed in myself. Detention is something every male in high school should accomplish at least once. I retrieve my phone from my pocket, secretly hoping Mrs.
Borden sees me with it and decides to slap me with a detention slip. She simply smiles and goes about her secretarial duties. I shake my head in disappointment and open up a text to Ian. Nothing new ever happens. Me: New girl enrolled today. About to walk her to class. Me: Will do. BTW, how many times have you had detention this year? Yeah, I need to rebel it up a little before graduation. I should definitely turn in some homework late this year. I slide it into my pocket and look up.
I never want to look down again. Borden points Rachel in my direction, and she begins to walk toward me. I instantly become aware of my legs and their inability to stand. My mouth forgets how to speak. My heart forgets to wait and get to know a girl before it starts to claw its way out of my chest to get to her. Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. Like prose and love letters and lyrics, cascading down the center of a page. Walking toward her. I tell her my name is Miles. She smiles.
She smiles again. Her smile makes me want to keep talking, so I ask her another question as we pass Mr. We keep walking. She keeps talking, because I keep asking her questions. She nods some. She answers some. She sings some. Or it sounds that way. I stare at the mouth that just delivered that question. When words come out of her mouth, it makes me wonder why words are so much better coming from her mouth than any other mouth. And her eyes. I stare at her for a few more seconds; then I point behind me and tell her we passed Mr.
I smile again. I nod my head toward Mr. We walk in that direction. I open the door for her and let Mr. Clayton know that Rachel is new here. I also want to add, for the sake of all the other guys in the classroom, that Rachel is not theirs. She looks at me and smiles again, taking the only empty seat, all the way across the room.
Clayton begins class. Miles Archer becomes obsessed. We have three classes together. Every time I see her, she smiles at me like she wants me to talk to her. Every time I work up the courage, I talk myself down. I used to be confident. Then Rachel happened.
I gave myself until today. She exits the classroom and smiles at me. I notice that same subtle change in her skin color.
I like that. I ask how her first week was. She tells me it was fine. She notices anyway. I tell her she smells good. I push past the sheen of moisture developing on my palms. I drown out her name, which I keep wanting to repeat out loud, over and over.
I want that nod, actually. Just a smile? She has plans tonight. The pounding, the sweaty palms, her name, a newfound insecurity I never knew existed, burying itself in my chest. I make room for those words. Lots of room. I let them invade me. I soak those words up like a sponge. I pluck them out of the air and swallow them.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, not even bothering to hide my smile. A lot. I might throw things. I might run to the bathroom and lock myself inside. How is this the same guy who cried himself to sleep last night?
This guy is intimidating. This guy is angry. This guy is watching me like I should be giving him an apology or explaining myself. Does he know it because Corbin told him I was moving in or because he actually remembers my telling him last night? I suddenly feel embarrassed that he might recall my consoling him while he cried himself to sleep. I roll over, still not quite finished with sleeping, even though he thinks I owe him some sort of explanation.
I pull the covers over my head. I remind myself that the person that sultry voice belongs to is now standing in the doorway, rudely demanding things without even acknowledging the fact that I helped him last night. Nice to meet you. I get none of that from this guy. And his phone, apparently. Too worried about himself to be concerned about how many people his carelessness might have inconvenienced last night.
I toss the covers off and stand up, then walk to the door and meet his gaze. I smile and walk back to my bed. I lie down and pull the covers over my head.
I win. The door opens again. I groan, then sit up on the bed and look at him. He looks genuinely shocked at my harsh response, which kind of makes me feel bad. I think. He started it. He eyes me hard for a few seconds, then tilts his head slightly forward and arches an eyebrow.
And this is great. I look him straight in the eyes to give him an answer, but his eyes catch me off guard for a short moment. Not at all the heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes from last night. I continue to stare at them, half expecting to see waves if I look closely enough.
He blinks, and it immediately pulls me away from the Caribbean and back to San Francisco. Back to this bedroom. Back to the last question he asked before Corbin walked through the front door. I stare at him, waiting for him to move out of my way. He stands taller, putting up an invisible wall of armor with his posture and his rigid body language. Corbin is rounding the hallway when I exit my room. I always miss him. Corbin releases me and pulls at a lock of my hair.
I reach up and flick the hair hanging across his forehead. I actually like the shaggier look on him. Our hair is the same rich hue of brown, but our facial features are nothing alike, specifically our eyes. Mom used to tell us that if we put our eyes together, they would look just like a tree.
His were as green as the leaves, and mine were as brown as the trunk. I always envied that he got to be the leaves of the tree, because green was my favorite color growing up. Corbin acknowledges Miles with a nod of his head. Rough night? Miles walks past both of us. Comfortable Miles opens another cabinet and takes out a bottle of aspirin, fills his cup with water, and pops two of the aspirin into his mouth.
His discomfort with his lapse in memory makes me laugh. I like that he has no idea what happened last night. I even kind of like that the thought of being with me seems to unnerve him. Miles steps out of the kitchen and glances my way, then looks back to Corbin. You have my spare set? He opens it, grabs a key, and tosses it to Miles, who catches it in midair. I want to shower first. After Corbin disappears into his bedroom, I turn and face Miles again. I just want him to leave, so I answer them all at once.
Just put some ice on it and wrap it for a few hours. I helped you into the apartment, and then I went to bed. Your phone is on the floor by the front door where you dropped it last night because you were too shit-faced to walk.
I spin around when I reach my bedroom door. That stare. I grab my keys off the bar. He pushes the down button. I step in, and Corbin holds the elevator for Miles. As soon as he comes into view, I lose the war. Miles is not the person I want to be feeling this for. He steps forward and completely ignores unspoken elevator etiquette by stepping too close and holding out his hand.
I live across the hall from you. I did tell him that. I take his hand and shake it. Miles finally breaks his stare and pulls his phone out of his pocket. I take the opportunity to study him while his attention is off of me. I come to the conclusion that his appearance is completely contradictory. The strength in his bone structure contrasts with the soft, inviting appeal of his lips. His personality flips between inviting and callously indifferent, muddling my ability to discern hot from cold.
His composure this morning contradicts his inebriated state from last night. I stop staring and step off the elevator first. Cap is seated in his chair, ever so vigilant. He glances at the three of us exiting the elevator and pushes up on the arms of his chair, coming to a slow, shaky stand. Corbin and Miles both nod at him and continue walking. I think my brother might have made a poor choice in the company he keeps. His wrinkle-lined lips purse into a thin line, and he gives a slight shake of his head.
Cap turns away from me and begins shuffling in the direction of the lobby restrooms. I kind of like that about him. I catch up with them to show them the way to my car. It takes three trips to get all my things up, not two. I need you home now. On my way. Me, sitting in front of my dad on the couch. Until now, I always thought he made good ones. He can see whoever he wants.
He can screw whoever he wants. I walk back. The house is too damn small to fit all of my frustration and disappointment. Lisa makes me happy. Sometimes moving on is. He looks up at me, hesitantly coming to a stand.
He seems smaller. Less heroic. I just want you to be nice to her. I nod. You know I will. It feels as though I just hugged my peer. He asks me to get the door while he heads back to the kitchen to finish dinner, so I do. I open the door. This makes me feel good. I accept her for what she is: our dinner guest. I nod and open the door wider to let her in.
Good to meet you. My eyes meet the eyes of the girl standing behind her. The eyes of the girl standing behind her meet mine. Rachel sounds a little bit like her mother, but sadder. Lisa looks back and forth between us. Neither do I. Our disappointment melts to the floor and combines in a puddle of premature tears at our feet. For the second time tonight, I feel sick. Lisa smiles and clasps her hands together. He hugs Lisa. My father already knows Rachel.
Rachel already knows my father. My father visits Phoenix a lot. My father has been visiting Phoenix a lot since before my mother died. My father is a bastard. He smiles, and relief floods his face. I look back at Rachel. Rachel looks at me. Her eyes are sad. My thoughts are sadder. She slowly walks inside, avoiding my gaze as she watches her feet with each step. I close the door. I switch my cell to my other ear and pull the apartment key out of my purse.
I only work weekends for now. Love you. Tonight was my last night of training before I start weekend rotations tomorrow night. I like the job so far, and I was honestly shocked to land it after my first interview.
It works out with my school schedule, too. I also like San Francisco. My smile fades as soon as it meets the eyes of three other guys—only two of whom I recognize. Miles is standing in the kitchen, and the married asshole from the elevator is sitting on the couch. Why the hell is Miles here? Why the hell are anyof them here? I glare at Miles as I kick off my shoes and drop my purse on the counter.
He extends his hand. I grew up with Miles. Miles walks back into the living room and points to the television. Game night. I have homework. I need to study. I roll my eyes and walk to my bedroom, slamming the door unintentionally. I change out of my scrubs and pull on a pair of jeans. I grab the shirt I slept in last night and just get it over my head when someone knocks on the door. I swing it open almost as dramatically as I slammed it earlier. If he were to wrap his arms around me right now, my ear would press against his heart.
Then his cheek would rest comfortably on top of my head. Something strange is going on in my chest. A flutter, flutter kind of thing. I hate it, because I know what it means. It means my body is really starting to like Miles. I just hope my brain never catches up. I cringe at the way his offer works knots into my stomach. I expel a quick, relinquishing breath. This is their thingthat they obviously do on a regular basis, and who am I to think I can just move in and put a stop to it?
He glances into the living room, then looks back at me. He swings his eyes to the scrubs strewn across my mattress. How can you already work as an RN? I already have my RN license. He walks back to the living room. I step out of the doorway and watch him.
Miles takes his seat on the couch and gives the TV his full attention. Dillon is giving mehis full attention, but I look away and head to the kitchen to find something to eat.
When I turn around, Dillon is still staring. He smiles, then steps forward and reaches into the refrigerator, coming inches from my face.
When Miles looks at me, his eyes hide everything. I walk to the pantry and open it to look for the bread. Once I find it, I set it on the bar and begin making my sandwich. I lay out bread for an extra sandwich to take to Cap. Dillon casually leans against the counter.
He wants me to answer him first. He smiles and takes a swig of his beer. He just continues to stare at me until my sandwiches are made. My grandfather was a pilot. My father was a pilot until he retired a few months ago. My brother is a pilot. I much prefer a guy with a little more modesty and a lot less wife.
His words might be innocuous, but his eyes are definitely telling Dillon that he needs to return to the living room. Dillon sighs as if Miles just stripped away all his fun. He hands it to me. I wrap both sandwiches in a paper towel. Not until everyone leaves. Take your sandwiches with you.
With eyes like his, that should be illegal. He studies the exhibit a little longer before leaning into me again. He grabs the key off the bar behind me and slides it into my front pocket. It feels like my pocket is on fire. I persuade my feet to move, needing some time to process all of that. I go on my own accord, not because he wants me over there and not because I really dohave a lot of homework but because the thought of being inside his apartment without him there is sadistically exciting to me.
Not even his eyes can do that. At all. No paintings on the sterile white walls. No decorations. No color whatsoever.
Even the solid oak table dividing the kitchen from the living room is undecorated. The only impressive thing about this apartment is the bookshelf in the living room. I walk over to the bookshelf to inspect his selection, hoping to get a glimpse of him based on his choice of literature. Row after row of aeronautical themed books is all I find. I give up on the living room and walk into the kitchen.
There are a few takeout boxes. Orange juice. I open a cabinet, grab a cup, then pour myself some juice. I drink it and rinse the cup out in the sink. There are a few other dishes piled up on the left side of the sink, so I begin washing those, too. Even his plates and cups lack personality—plain and white and sad.
I have the sudden urge to take my credit card straight to the store and buy him some curtains, a new set of vibrant dishes, a few paintings, and maybe even a plant or two. This place needs a little life. I wonder what his story is. It makes me wonder about Corbin, too. Considering his abundance of one-night stands and lack of commitment, it confuses me how he could be so protective of me growing up.
I guess he just knew himself too well. I wonder if Miles is a guy like Corbin. I spin around and catch sight of a looming Miles, almost dropping the glass in my hands in the process. It slips, but I somehow manage to catch it before it crashes to the floor. I take a calming breath and set it down gently in the sink. I look at the dishes that are now in the strainer. Just as soon as his lips start to curl up, they mash back into a straight line. False alarm. He notices the orange juice still out on the counter, so he picks it up and puts it back in the refrigerator.
That was an oddly sexy sentence. So was his presence in delivering it. Still no smile, though. Jesus Christ, this man. Does he not realize that facial expressions are supposed to accompany speech? I use the sprayer to wash the remaining suds down the drain.
I find it quite fitting, considering the weird vibes floating around his kitchen. He raises an eyebrow, confused about why his answer caused me to laugh.
His eyes move slowly around his apartment as he processes my comment. He turns around completely and walks out of the kitchen, heading toward his bedroom. He pushes his bedroom door closed but leaves it open just enough so that I can still hear him speak.
He hates Dillon. Why did that just disappoint me? My voice makes me sound oddly impressed. He nods and walks into the laundry room adjacent to the kitchen. Stop staring at his stomach. Oh my word, he has the V. But why would that impress me? A guy folding laundry while flaunting his abs and being a pilot is seriously impressive. Miles is fully dressed now. I walk to the table to grab my things. Someone-passed-out-drunk-in-the-hallway day?
He closes the door behind us. I hand him back his apartment key, and he locks his door. I walk to mine and open it. Instead, I turn around and face him, pretending to be completely unaffected by this man. That was an exception. A very rare exception. He stands paused at his front door, poised to walk toward the elevators. I should tell him good-bye. Maybe I should tell him to have a safe flight. That could be considered bad luck, though.
I should just say good night. I really just chose to say that instead. WHY did I just say that? His posture changes. His expression freezes, as if my words jolted him with a bolt of lightning. Quick, Tate. I hit a nerve. Did I embarrass him? Piss him off? Make him sad? Whatever I did, I hate this thing now. I walk inside my apartment and close my door, but the awkwardness is everywhere.
Lisa and Dad try to include us in the conversation, but neither of us is in the mood to talk. We stare at our plates. We push around the food with our forks. Dad asks Lisa if she wants to go sit out back. Lisa says yes. Lisa asks Rachel to help me clear the table. Rachel says okay. We take the plates to the kitchen. Rachel leans against the counter while I load the dishwasher. She watches me do my best to ignore her.
Every single thing has just become Rachel. My thoughts are Rachel. I look at the sink. I want to look at Rachel. I breathe in air. I want to breathe in Rachel. I close my eyes. I only see Rachel. I wash my hands. I want to touch Rachel. I dry my hands on a towel before turning around to face her.
Her hands are gripping the counter behind her. Mine are folded across my chest. Her voice cracks. My heart cracks. She laughs. She sighs. I fall in love with that, too. She shrugs. We hate him. I can tell. She continues to look directly at me. Her body reacts. She stands taller but not by much. She breathes heavier but not by much. Her cheeks grow redder but not by much.
My hand fits her waist. My eyes search hers. She inhales, stealing some of my breaths. I breathe into her, giving her more.
Our tongues touch and our guilt intertwines and my fingers slide through the hair God made specifically for her. My new favorite flavor is Rachel.
My new favorite thing is Rachel. I want Rachel for my birthday. I want Rachel for Christmas. I want Rachel for graduation. The back door opens. I release Rachel. She releases me but only physically. I can still feel her in every other way. I look away from her, but everything is still Rachel. Lisa walks into the kitchen. She looks happy.
She has a right to be happy. I tell them both good-bye, but my words are only for Rachel. She knows this. I finish the dishes. I tell my father Lisa was nice. Maybe I never will. I go to my room. I take out my phone, and I text Rachel. Me: What do we do about tomorrow night? Rachel: We lie to them? Me: Can you meet me at seven? Rachel: Yes. Me: Rachel? Rachel: Yeah? Me: Good night. Rachel: Good night, Miles. I turn off my phone, because I want that to be the last text I receive for the night.
Until now. My eyes leave his clothes and meet his concentrated stare. He continues to watch me in silence for the remainder of the elevator ride, and I stubbornly do the same. You headed home yourself?
Miles apparently just looks at everyone this way. He turns and begins walking through the lobby with Corbin. I look at Cap and shrug my shoulders. Archer might be having another bad day. He gives me a farewell salute, and I salute him back before walking toward the exit. You can drive back tomorrow. I climb into the backseat and try to figure out where to sit. Everything is Miles. I can tell when a guy is attracted to me, and Miles definitely does not fall into that category.
I pull a paperback out of my purse and begin to read. Miles turns on the radio, and Corbin lays his seat back and kicks his feet up on the dash. He turns around and looks behind us to back out of the spot, and his eyes briefly meet mine. He turns around before getting my answer and puts the car in drive, then glances at me in the rearview mirror. I make sure to tack a smile onto the end of that word. He looks straight ahead, and I look back down at my book.
Thirty minutes pass, and the movement of the car accompanied by my attempt to read is making my head hurt. I set the book down beside me and readjust myself in the backseat. I lean my head back and prop my feet up on the console between Miles and Corbin. He holds his stare for no longer than two seconds, then looks back at the road.
I hate this. He never smiles. He never laughs. His face appears as if he keeps a constant veil of armor between his expressions and the rest of the world. I want to know all the thoughts that pass through his head.
I look down at my phone, a little embarrassed that he caught me staring at him. The second I look into the mirror again, so does he. I look back down. This drive is about to be the longest drive of my entire life.
I make it three minutes, then I look again. So does he. He smiles, too. Miles looks back at the road, but his smile remains for several seconds. I want to take a picture of it before it disappears again, but that would be weird. He lowers his arm to rest it on the console, but my feet are in his way. I push up on my hands. His fingers wrap around my bare foot, stopping me. His hand is still wrapped around my foot.
Holy hell, his thumb just moved. Deliberately moved, stroking the side of my foot. I have to chew on the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Thanksgiving has always been a small affair at our house.
Last year, it was just Mom and me, since Dad and Corbin were both working. And Miles. Please note that the tricks or techniques listed in this pdf are either fictional or claimed to work by its creator. We do not guarantee that these techniques will work for you. Some of the techniques listed in Ugly Love may require a sound knowledge of Hypnosis, users are advised to either leave those sections or must have a basic understanding of the subject before practicing them.
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