Everything Between Us by Mila Ferrera Page B

… it was such a dream. His body was so substantial, so safe and strong and right and perfect. I could hear his voice rumbling through his chest as he spoke. I could feel his heart beating. I wanted him to kiss me again, but it was clear that was the last thing he wanted to do. He probably thinks I’m absolutely crazy, and I can’t blame him at all.
    I get dressed, and as I walk by my bedside table, I see two things. The first is Daniel’s drawing of me from a few days ago. That girl is too pretty to be me, too bold. I’ve stared at her the last few nights before I fell asleep, wishing I could be more like her, wondering if Daniel could want me if I was. Next to the drawing is a folded stack of hundreds. My “pizza money” from Dad. Money meant to make up for the fact that he was leaving. Giving up on me. I sit on the edge of my bed and count it. A thousand dollars. In my family, this is how we do things. If we want something, we buy it. If my dad wants to screw his secretary, he slaps down his cash for two first class tickets to Germany and a little chalet in the mountains or whatever. If my mom wants a mister, she pays for his paintings and his body and, apparently, art lessons for her crazy daughter.
    The bills are crisp and new, and they make soft, clipped noises as I shuffle them between my fingers. What if I want something? Could I use this to get it?
    How freaking sleazy.
    But …
    “No, stop it,” I mutter. Because I just had the most tempting, terrible thought ever.
    Shaking my head, my wet hair slapping against my shirt, I head to the kitchen. I open the fridge and check the milk and the cheese, then stare at the eggs. The power was off for hours, but we didn’t open the fridge … what are the chances everything’s still okay? Not good enough for me to risk it. I’d feel terrible if I rewarded Daniel for staying with me through the storm with a raging case of food poisoning.
    I crank the stove and settle on making biscuits because they don’t require eggs, only some shortening. I can use a can of evaporated milk from the pantry. I’m a decent improviser. My shirt is splotched with flour and I’ve got dough under my fingernails by the time I pop a batch of biscuits into the hot oven. When I turn around to wash my hands, Daniel’s standing there. Watching me. He’s wearing his clothes from yesterday, but his hair is wet from the shower. “Hey,” he says softly. “I thought I heard you bumping around in here.”
    “I’m making biscuits,” I say, wishing I could just stand here and stare at him forever. Or, better yet, that he would walk up to me. Put his arms around me and tell me last night changed everything, that he wants me.
    You could pay him to want you.
    I blink. “Do you like biscuits?”
    He gives me a strange look, probably because I’m even more twitchy and nervous than usual. “Sure. Thanks. Do you want me to cut up some fruit or something?”
    “Yeah,” I say, my voice rasping. “So. The power’s back on.”
    He nods as he snags a few apples and plums and takes them to the sink. “It came on around three. I turned off the lights that had been on. The plow guy came, too. The driveway’s clear, and the dude even scraped off my car. That’s good service.”
    “Did he help you get your car unstuck?”
    He blinks at me, then turns away quickly. “Yeah. It’s ready to go.”
    My throat is tight. “Oh. Good. That’s good.” He has no reason to stay with me any longer. “You probably need to get out of here so you can finish your pieces for that show you mentioned.”
    He turns off the faucet and looks over his shoulder at me. “It’ll be fine as long as I get them to the owner by tomorrow night. The show’s on Friday.” He sets the fruit on the counter. “I usually like gallery show openings. It’s with a few other artists, but my work will be on display. There’s a chance someone will want it.”
    “What’s that like?” I ask, grabbing the coffee carafe and