Page 62 of Rent: Paid in Full
I hate it.
He’s wearing khaki pants and one of those short-sleeve button-down shirts made of such fine linen it’s almost transparent. It has flowers or plants or some kind of botanical design embroidered around the hem. Very few people could pull it off. Of course Miller can. It’s unbuttoned, hanging open toshow off his abs. The tank he’s wearing underneath it is so tight I can see his nipples from here. He looks like an artist, a painter, or something like that. He looks like someone or something extraordinary. Not a real person, an A-list celebrity playing the role of a fictional hero.
“Hey, baby,” he purrs.
The sound travels up my spine and gets on my nerves. I force down my reaction, plastering it over with a broad faux smile and a “Hey, b-baby” that only sounds mildly uncomfortable.
He looks around, and when he deems the coast clear, he leans in and steals a kiss. It’s one of those kisses that’s so light it makes you lean in for more despite the fact you don’t mean to. One of those kisses that makes your lips tingle and your eyes close by themselves.
My head spins, but I quickly recover.
“Wow,” he says softly. “You look good.”
Emily came shopping with me the other day and strong-armed me into buying this T-shirt. I like the color, a cross between olive- and moss-green, but I’m not really a fan of the rest of it. I told her it was too tight. She said she was surprised I could see it at all, given how far up my ass my head is, and followed that with something about my eyes and this color being a good combination. I think electric was the word she used. Then she shoved the shirt onto the counter while I was paying, so I didn’t really have a lot of choice in the matter.
I was sure I’d never wear it. It’s not my style at all. And if it wasn’t for the utterly ridiculous fake date I find myself on with Miller, I would’ve been right.
Miller takes three steps backward, still facing me. “You ready?”
“Born ready,” I mumble, reminding myself to keep my eyes wide and show Miller my teeth at regular intervals. It’s Boyfriending 101, after all.
He waits for me, turning around and butting his shoulder against mine as we fall into step.
“Where are we going?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I can guess. Somewhere loud and flashy. Overpriced and expensive. Somewhere that the waitstaff makes you believe nothing you want is the slightest inconvenience despite the fact they’re quietly plotting your downfall. Somewhere Miller will feel at home, and I’ll feel like something that’s escaped from a specimen jar.
“Wait and see.”
He looks happier with himself than I can ever recall him looking, and that fills me with terror. We cross the quad, heading toward the arch. At the last minute, he slips his hand in mine, lacing our fingers tightly, and drags me through a gap in the conifers with him.
The space is secluded. It’s always secluded during the day, but at night, it’ssecluded, secluded. It’s dark and quiet. Dead silent. The air is stagnant, and there’s no sound except for a lone cicada singing its repetitive song. A crosshatch of shadows plays tricks on my eyes. It takes them a second to adjust, but when I do, I stand so still that Miller finds it necessary to place a hand on my lower back to nudge me along.
It’s almost pitch black. An unnerving take on Frances Hodgson Burnett’sSecret Garden. Walls of ivy. Ghostly silhouettes of old trees. Most of the lights from the faculty buildings around us are out due to the hour, and my bench stands out like a beacon. In the daytime, it’s school green and almost disappears into its surroundings. Tonight, there’s a profusion of pillar candles in glass hurricane lamps flickering around it.
It looks like a prop in a Broadway show. A chapter in a book about someone nothing like me.
“Miller! What are you thinking? Campus security is going to arrest you. You can’t—you can’t have open flames in a public space like this!”
“Oh, please.” He tilts his head back, grinning at me. “Who do you think I paid to watch all this while I waited for you at the library? You were late, by the way.” He lands a hand on my ass. Light, but crisp enough to put a little skip in my step. Crisp enough to make something warm bloom under my skin and roll heavy clouds over my judgment.
Once we’re sitting on the bench, Miller tucks one leg under his body and twists so he’s facing me. My back is unusually straight as I’m made to hold two crystal flutes that he produces from a picnic basket stashed under the bench. The champagne uncorks with a loud, hollow pop, and Miller effortlessly tames the jet of unruly bubbles, somehow wrangling it so it lands in the glasses without any spills.
I feel more than a little ridiculous as he unpacks strawberries, handmade dark chocolate truffles, and an assortment of crackers and cheese. I have that too close, too hot feeling in a very big way. I can tell my ass is in serious danger of starting to sweat. I’m awkward and fidgety. I feel exactly how I usually feel when someone gives me a compliment. Uncomfortable down to my bones. A horrible internal battle rages. Half of me is sure it’s a joke, and the rest of me is hoping and hoping and hoping like hell that it’s true. I hate it.
A date on my bench, away from judgment and prying eyes, is the last thing I expected, and I admit it’s throwing me a little. It’s messing with my head. I can’t bear it. Especially because Miller’s entire person seems to be immersed so deeply into this boyfriend persona, I’m starting to feel a little vague about things myself.
I’m on the back foot. I need to level the playing field stat. Luckily, I know Miller well enough by now to know there wasa chance of something like this happening. I came prepared. I reach into my bag and rummage around until I find what I’m looking for.
“I got something for you.”
“For me?” He says it with a hand clamped to his heart as if he’s never been given anything before. As if he’s not a spoiled rich boy. As if small things have meaning for him.
I hate myself for buying it. I swore I wouldn’t give it to him. When I heard the dull bleep of the scanner at the self-checkout counter, I told myself:it’s for emergencies only.
I took comfort in that.
I thought it would take more than basic competence at uncorking a bottle of bubbles to be classed as an emergency, but I was wrong. I hold the narrow glass bottle tightly for a while before unfurling my hand and showing Miller his gift.
“Everything Bagel Seasoning?”he bellows. “Are you for real? This exists? Holy shit. How did I not know this?”