Revive Me: Part One: The New Haven Series (Book #2) Page 3

  Getting Sloane off the phone proved to be difficult once I told her about Chris TAing for my class, mainly because she wanted a second by second description of the entire ordeal so she could hold all the details she pried from me up as proof that the universe was bringing me and Chris together. While I didn’t agree with her, not even a little bit, I pretended her theory had merit, so I could get her off the phone and dive into my work. Thankfully, she was so caught up in the new development on the Chris and Mallory 4Eva front that she forgot to harass me about coming out with her tonight, so I’ve been working in the library in relative peace for the last few hours, trudging through paragraph after paragraph of dense finance terms before switching over to the problem set that has twenty questions in it altogether.

  I’m in the process of calculating the present value of a 12-year annuity with payments of fifty-thousand dollars a year when someone sits down at my table. I’m in the middle of the first floor of the library, nestled between two of the dustier sets of bookshelves, so I’m more than shocked to hear the sound of a chair dragging across the carpet. Even more shocking is the set of chestnut eyes that bore into mine the second I look away from my paper. At first I think I’m hallucinating him—and it wouldn’t be that far fetched since his handsome face has taken up a quarter of my brain since the kiss—but then his mouth turns up into one of his signature smiles, and I know I’m not.

  “Ms. Kent.” His eyes flash with humor as he does his best impression of Dr. Richardson, and heat creeps up my neck at the reminder of being called out for staring at him. “I would say it’s fancy meeting you here but—”

  “You knew this is where I’d be.” I finish for him, lifting a brow.

  “Exactly.” He leans forward, resting his arms on the table and drawing my attention to the oatmeal colored sweater he’s wearing now, the sleeves pulled up to expose his corded forearms. The table is blocking my view of the lower half of his body, but I assume it matches the top. Chris is always well put together, making it look easy to be so ruthlessly coordinated. “I heard you mention it to Richardson before you left class.”

  “Right.” I clear my throat, hating the way my heart is thundering in my chest just because he remembers something I said hours ago. “What are you doing on campus so late?”

  “Going to a party.”

  Eye contact isn’t usually a thing that makes me uncomfortable, but something about the way Chris is holding my gaze makes me want to get up and run. To put as much space between him and me as possible.

  “You do know this is a library right?” I make a show of glancing around the quiet space, acting like I’m confirming that we’re actually in a library to avoid acknowledging what being the sole object of his attention is doing to me. “Not the typical spot for a party.”

  Tilting his head back, he releases a deep, throaty laugh that makes his Adam’s apple bob up and down. By some small miracle, I manage to pry my eyes away from the oddly arousing sight by the time he’s done.

  “No shit, Mal,” he chuckles. “I came here to talk to you.”

  My heart sinks. I don’t know what he wants to talk to me about, but given the embarrassing incidents I’ve experienced in his presence in the last week, I don’t think it could be anything good. Needing something to do with my hands, I start to shuffle through the pages of handwritten notes I took while I was reading.

  “About what?”

  “Just wanted to know if you were okay after the whole thing with The Dick.”

  My breath gets stuck in my throat and I cough, loudly, as all of the papers in my hand fall back onto the table in a messy heap. “The what?”

  “The Dick,” he says again, like repeating the words will make them make sense to me. “That’s what all the business majors call Richardson because of his glowing personality and, you know, cause men named Richard are usually called Dick for short.”

  “No,” I shake my head vehemently, still coughing. “I don’t…honestly that makes no sense. His first name is Keith.”

  “Jesus, Mal. It’s just a joke.” Chris pushes out of his chair and rounds the table, dropping down on his haunches beside me and patting my back. “Don’t die on me.”

  I know I should be concerned that I’m literally choking off of nothing more than air, and probably my own saliva, but all I can focus on is the steady rhythm of Chris’ palm colliding with my back and the warmth of his skin bleeding through the fabric of my shirt. When I finally get it under control, my face is on fire, burning up from embarrassment. I don’t look at Chris as he stands and goes back to his seat.

  “You good?”

  “Yeah.” I nod, rubbing at my now aching throat. “You just caught me off guard with that one.” A smirk lifts one corner of his mouth as he reaches across the table and grabs my papers, straightening the pile back up and setting it down in front of me.

  “You’ve seriously never heard anyone call him that before?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Damn, you really haven’t been in the department long.”

  On instinct, my eyes narrow, turning into slits as irritation slides down my spine. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know he’s not trying to be malicious—Chris doesn’t play that way—but his words still strike the wrong chord. One that Dr. Richardson has been dancing on top of since last year when I had my first class with him.

  “I’ve been in the department long enough to know it’s a tired boys club full of assholes who think women, especially Black women, aren’t fit to study or conduct business. I also know that every year the same people they work to keep out of the field are running circles around them in every way that matters. Having that information feels a lot more pertinent than knowing what you and your friends call a man who’s ass you kiss publicly behind his back.”

  Venom coats each word, and I watch Chris’ expression change, intrigue mingling with surprise. Warmth spreads through my chest at the idea of being able to surprise him, to turn whatever he used to feel or think about me into something new. Something different. Something that more closely reflects the reactions guys like him gave the girl I used to be. A girl he’s never met because she died before I knew him. Chris raises his hands, palms facing me in a gesture of playful surrender that only lasts for a second and makes me want to smile at him for no reason at all.

  “Shit.” His tongue comes out, swiping over his full lips and sending a tremor through a part of me that’s lain dormant for years. “Where have you been hiding all that attitude?”

  The question takes the wind out of my sails, so to speak. Well, it’s not the question as much as it is what it reminds me of. The loss of my fire. The dimming of my light. The death of the sassy, fun, spontaneous Mal who believed in people’s inherent goodness. All the best parts of me that I left lying broken and bruised in a place I should have been smart enough never to go.

  I shrug and reach for the stack of papers on the table between us, shuffling through them again. “I don’t know. Guess you don’t really need it when you spend all your time studying.”

  Studying? More like using books to hide from life.

  Chris stares at me, looking more thoughtful than I’ve ever seen him. Silence stretches between us, blanketing the small corner of the world where only he and I seem to exist, and I squirm in my chair. Uncomfortable with being held in his gaze, with feeling like he’s seeing me in ways I’m not used to being seen.

  He must sense my discomfort because his eyes drop to my hands, watching me flip through the pages to find a good place to tuck my notes. Even though I just got the book earlier this week, it’s already starting to look well used. Streaks of brightly colored fluorescent ink from my highlighters marking passages I deemed important, a few sticky tabs flagging things I needed to review for better understanding.

  Eric and Nic pick on me for how anal I am about note taking when I read, but it helps me keep my mind on the text and away from things I’d rather not think about.

  Chris purses his lips, letting out a
low, semi-impressed, whistle as he takes it all in. “You really do take studying seriously, huh?”

  “Yeah, unlike some people, I take most things seriously.”

  Both of his brows lift, and he places a hand on his chest, feigning hurt. “You wound me.”

  “And you prove my point every time you open your mouth.”

  Don’t talk about his mouth, Mallory! It’ll only make you think about kissing it.

  The snarky voice in my head—who has decided to be helpful for once—is right to warn me because the instant the words pass my lips all I can think about is the kiss. About Chris’ hand cupping my jaw. About every urgent, incendiary swipe of his tongue against mine. I didn’t know kissing him would be like that. Hell, I didn’t know kissing anyone could be like that.

  A burst of energy.

  The first satisfying crackle of kindling catching fire.

  The sweet, heavy scent of rain clinging to the air after a storm.

  “Contrary to what you might think,” Chris says, pulling me out of my thoughts and looking at me with eyes so intent they make me wish I could disappear inside them again. “I do take some things seriously.”

  I swallow, sending the stupid question his words and suggestive tone inspired back where it came from. Nothing good can come from asking him for the list of things he takes seriously. Especially when I’ve seen first hand just how serious he can be about a kiss.

  “Sure you do.” My voice sounds small, shrinking under the pressure of my constricting throat.

  Chris leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “You don’t believe me?”

  “I don’t need to. You believe you and that’s good enough for me.”

  “So you just think everything with me is all fun and games?”

  He tries to make the question sound light-hearted, but something in his tone is all wrong. For a second, it sounds like he’s upset by the idea of me accepting his playful, jokey persona at face value, but that can’t be right. No one puts so much work into being seen one way just to be upset when people buy into their act. In fact, and I’m speaking from experience here, it’s usually the other way around.

  Pressing my lips together, I try to think of a way to answer his question that won’t make this moment any more awkward than it already is. “Maybe a little.”

  The dissatisfied puff of air that comes from his flared nostrils is the only sound around us, and I sit there horrified and steeping in the cold silence as a bubble of anxiety starts to expand in my chest. Every second that ticks by with Chris staring at me like I’ve accused him of being an ax murder contributes to its growth, and just when I think it’s about to pop, Chris’ lips twitch.

  It’s a small movement, but I catch it, see it turn into a full-blown smile that’s only there for a second before his lips part and a dark, smooth chuckle hits the air. It starts out low, with a slow rumble I can feel deep in the pit of my stomach, and it builds until his broad shoulders are shaking from the force of it.

  My jaw drops. “You’re such an ass.”

  “You should have seen your face,” he wheezes, wrapping one of his arms around his torso in a futile effort to stifle the laughter. “God, I wish I had a camera. I’ve never seen your eyes that wide before.”

  Another wave of heat floods my cheeks, and I shake my head, trying to look exasperated when what I really am is embarrassed. Again. It seems to be my constant state of being at this point, and I hate it. The way it makes me feel like I’ve lost my grip on the mask I’m too used to wearing now. Even though it doesn’t fit right anymore, with it’s fused edges that leave no room for the kind of self-assuredness you need to be able to laugh at yourself chafing against my skin, I’m reluctant to part with it.

  I flip my textbook back open, avoiding his gaze. “Don’t you have a party to get to?”

  “Yeah.” All the humor has left his voice, and I don’t know how to feel about him reading my shifting mood so accurately. The table shakes a little as he prepares to rise from his seat, and I expect to see his retreating form fading from my peripheral vision in the next few seconds, but a full minute goes by and it doesn’t happen. I don’t need to lift my head to know that he’s still at the table. I can feel his eyes on me. “Do you want to come with me?”

  My head snaps up, shock coursing through my veins. “No, thanks. Not really in the mood to spend the next few hours in a crowded room breathing smoke filled air and watching drunk twenty year olds bump and grind on the dance floor. I can think of a million different ways to spend my night.”

  Actually, I can only think of one, and he’s standing smack dab in the middle of it.

  “Funny, I don’t think I heard you complain once when we were at my place last week.”

  I shrug, willing myself not to stumble over my words even though the mention of his party last week has my heart pounding against my rib cage. “That was different, the crowd was smaller.”

  “True.” Chris nods, a teasing glint in his eyes as they skate across my features. Tracing every line of my face before landing on my mouth. “And I guess the game made a difference too.”

  Air leaves my lungs in a small whoosh. “Right, the game…” I mutter, eyes bouncing between his face and the dusty bookshelves. “Yeah, that could have been it.”

  “Why’d you choose dare anyway?”

  “What?”

  “Dare,” he repeats. “When Sloane called your name, why’d you choose dare?”

  That was a question I’d been asking myself since the moment the word left my mouth, but I’ve yet to come up with an answer, and it bothers me that Chris looks like he has it. “Oh, I don’t know. Guess I didn’t want to be the only person choosing truth when everyone else went with dare.”

  He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Yeah, but that’s not like you.”

  This is the second time he’s said something like this. A summarizing statement, a finite declaration, a resolute testament that speaks to the truth of who I am even though I don’t feel like that’s something I know anymore.

  “What’s not like me?”

  “Going along to get along.” I raise a brow, unsure about what he means, and he continues. “You don’t let other people’s choices influence yours, Mal. You might not want to admit it to yourself, but you chose dare because you wanted to, not because every other drunk idiot before you did.”

  The absolute certainty in his voice renders me speechless, and I watch as a self-satisfied grin takes over Chris’ entire face, making him look even more handsome as he taps the table twice with his large fist and finally stands.

  “I guess I’ll let you get back to studying. See you in class on Monday.”

  4

  CHRIS

  They always start the same. The nightmares. With the echo of the slamming front door and the heels of my mother’s shoes sliding over the threshold. The last time I saw her. From there it switches to flashes of her in the hospital, her strained cries filling the room, her body bowed with pain, her blood soaking the sheets and spilling onto the floor as faceless doctors rip her apart with scalpels and ruthless fingers to pull my sister into this world.

  Trading one life for another.

  The last half, the bit about the dimly lit hospital room with cruel surgeons and evil nurses, is pure conjecture, of course. I wasn’t in the room when my mother died, but I’ve seen it. Years after she took her last breath, when I’d all but forgotten her face and the smell of her hair, I visited it—a large and luxurious birthing suite on the private floor of Johnson Memorial Hospital because the Chief of Surgery’s wife and the daughter-in-law of the CEO of the hospital couldn’t possibly give birth anywhere else—and waited to feel her. To sense some part of her spirit in the sterile white tiles and multiple thread count linens on the oversized hospital bed.

  I never felt her there.

  Just like I never felt her in the home my father moved her into after they married, and continued to raise us in after she was gone, or at the spot at the edge of our proper
ty in the country where he spread her ashes. I don’t feel her anywhere. She is, and has always been, missing from me. A hole in my heart where nothing else can grow. A dark cloud over my head that nothing can pierce through. A glaring emptiness in my life that nothing will ever eclipse.

  And the nightmares ensure it stays that way.

  They started when I was four, just after my dad came home with the fluffy bundle of pink that was Teresa and no mom. I would wake up screaming, tears and snot running down my face, sobs wracking my body so hard I threw up. My father woke up with me the first time. His thick, dark brows pinched in disapproval and frustration as he barked orders at Margaret—the live in nanny who’d been with us since my older brother, RJ, was born—to clean me up and get me back to bed. After that, he didn’t get up any more, so it was just me, Margaret, and baby Teresa.

  Margaret would always try to get me to go back to sleep, but the taste of vomit and the metallic tang of invisible blood filling my nostrils clung to me, making it impossible to rest. It took months of her trying every sleep remedy under the sun to get her to accept that once a nightmare woke me, sleep was no longer an option, but once she did we developed a routine. She’d fix me a cup of warm milk while she prepped a bottle for Teresa’s next feeding, tuck me into the twin sized bed she had in the corner of the nursery and let me read to her softly while she went back to sleep. Eventually, when I was tired of reading and Margaret was giving off too much body heat, I would trade my spot in her bed for the rocking chair next to the crib and watch my baby sister sleep.

  It was a nice routine. One that evolved as I got older and the nightmares progressed. Margaret hasn’t been with our family for some time now, but we still keep in touch, and I still value the role she played in helping me realize the ways stability and routine can help you live with the monsters you can’t slay.

  She’d be scandalized by my routine now, though.

  It’s all about mind-numbing sex, followed by long runs and a hot shower before starting my day at a time when most people my age are just going to bed. Not a drop of warm milk or a freshly laundered footed pajama in sight.