Page 4 of Only and Forever

In walks Gigi, then Charlie, talking loudly, laughing about something I can’t make out, as they shrug off their parkas and ease out of their boots. They step aside, like they’re making room for someone else, like they’re not alone.

Like someone else is there.

I lean back farther, trying to see past them. That’s when I catch it—a full, soft shadow; a quiet throat clear.

Goose bumps bloom across my skin.

And then, behind them, as striking as a sudden silent storm, walks in Charlie’s sister, the only other secret I’ve kept in my life:

Tallulah Clarke.

—

Tallulah Clarke is obviously not a secret to my family. They know her as Charlie’s quiet older sister who kept to herself, who never had the time of day for us Bergmans during the years Ziggy and Charlie were best friends, before we moved to Los Angeles.

The secret is exactly who Tallulah Clarke wasto me.

And so I’m not surprised that I feel my family’s eyes shift my way, curious, as I stare at Tallulah with my mouth hanging open, eyes ridiculously wide. I’m too distracted by the sight of her, the jarring impact of seeing my first bitterly unrequited crush, to worry about my family’s observation. Or to pay attention to exactly what my body’s doing in its chair.

As I lose all sense of balance, the chair wobbles, creaks, and, like a felled tree, tips back in slow motion. I pinwheel my arms to try to stop myself from falling, but it’s too late. I dive off the chair and land clumsily, managing to catch the chair right before it can crash to the floor.

Leaping up, I straighten the chair and shove it in against the table. My fingers curl around the top of it as Tallulah Clarke, seven years older than she was when I last saw her, steps to the side so Ziggy can shut the door behind her.

Jesus Christ. Tallulah is hotter than ever.

I didn’t know Tallulah when the Clarkes lived in Washington State. She never came around. Charlie was picked up and droppedoff by an au pair with a thick German accent or, on the rare occasion, her mother; her siblings were a mystery.

Until, of all places, Tallulah walked into my very first class at USC.

I didn’t know who she was until roll was called, until I did a double take at the name and pieced it together—Charlie’s dark hair and wide eyes, her upturned nose. This wastheTallulah Clarke.

I watch Tallulah as she stands just inside the door of the A-frame, eyes down, shimmying a highly impractical rain-dappled jean jacket off her shoulders, toeing off even more impractical leopard-print flats. She wrinkles her nose when she sees mud caked on them.

I recognize everything about her that launched my body from awkward adolescent horniness to sexually aching adultdesire. I’d had wet dreams, fantasies, curiosities, in high school, sure, but seeing Tallulah had obliterated all of that. Simply looking at her in class, being near her, was pure, lusty torture.

There’s the beauty mark, right where I remember it—just above and to the left of her pouty mouth. Big brown doe eyes fringed by dense dark lashes. The promise of deep dimples in her round cheeks. Glowing golden skin. And that body. That luscious body. Full, soft arms and thighs; wide, lush hips. The only stark difference is her once dark hair, now dyed icy aqua blue, swept up in a twist on her head.

Her top is white, striped with marigold, the perfect complement to her warm skin. It’s half-tucked into cropped wide-leg jeans that hug her hips, ripped in all the right places. She always dressed like the child of Hollywood royalty that she is—stylish, artsy, all LA glam. That hasn’t changed. Nor has its impact on me.

As if she feels me staring at her, Tallulah glances my way. Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second before they settle into that cool indifference that I remember all too well.

It bugged me then. And it bugs me now. Because—and I’m sorry, this will sound arrogant,but—everyone likes me. At least if I don’t stick aroundtoolong, or if they don’t; if we don’t spend enough time together for me to wear out my welcome and rub them wrong. When people meet me, I’m playful, charming, gregarious. I make them smile and laugh, I quickly figure out what makes them happy, then try to make them happier. To make them like me. And often, for a while, I’m damn good at it.

Except her. Tallulah was the one person who turned her nose up at me right out of the gate, my first and only semester of college.

It drove me up the damn wall.

Standing there, staring at her as she gives me another chilly glance, I feel the sucker-punchthud-thud-thudof my heart whacking my ribs. Just like it did when she walked into my class seven years ago.

I can’t stop staring at her, frozen by the memory of Tallulah as she answered quietly to her name beside me, as I turned toward her and pieced together who she was. Our elbows brushed, and electricity flew through my body so violently, I droppedMansfield Parkand lost my place. Tallulah glanced at the book, then up my body as far as my wide grin (after having braces for the second time late in high school—losing and forgetting to wear my retainer after braces round one bit me epically in the ass—I’d just gotten them off and was very into flashing my once again straight, bright smile). She gripped her chair and scooched it as far away from me as possible without being in the lap of the person to her other side.

I remember staring at her, crushed, offended, as she opened up her book bag, pulling out a thick novel made anonymous by a stretchy bloodred cover. Dark shoulder-length hair swept around her face, a curtain resolutely shut.

And that was that.

Tallulah and I don’t have a history. Or, I suppose you could say,we have a very one-sided history.Iwas fascinated by Tallulah, by her gorgeous looks, her expensive-smelling, sultry floral perfume, her always covered mysterious, thick-spined books. But Tallulah didn’t have the time of day for me. My pride was pricked. I could take a hint. I wasn’t going to bother someone who didn’t want to be bothered.

I can’t lie—it stung. It felt serendipitous, that after our families had crossed paths in Washington State, though Tallulah hadn’t gone to my school back then, here she was in Los Angeles, at my college, in my classroom. And yet, instead of looking as pleasantly surprised as I was by this turn of events, Tallulah looked thoroughly unimpressed.