College Ruled

forty-one [part two]

41
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GRAYSON KATZ IS drunk.

That much is obvious. Just as he had been the first time we found ourselves on this particular middle ground, he sits sprawled out at the back of the pantry. His head lays back against the shelves, chin tipped at the slightest angle, arms the only working force to breech the space between his mouth and the vodka bottle firmly captive in his hand.

He looks, quite simply, a mess.

An utterly handsome mess, but a mess nonetheless. And yes, I happen to be nowhere near sober either, but I would wager he was even more far gone than even me.

The realization comforts me—convinces me that this somehow evens us out, him less likely to completely throw me off kilter with so many of his defenses down—and I move a step deeper into the pantry.

Grayson tracks the movement, eyes alit as they trail from my shoes, up my legs, to my face. The lip of the bottle rests now on his chin, arms tucking the drink firmly against his chest. He looks like a child helplessly clutching a toy.

          It's impossible to remember that we aren't technically speaking at the moment. That if he was sober and I was sober, one of us—both, most likely—would have already dove for the door.

Again, I hate him.

Again, I really, really don't.

"You're drunk."

"Well, yes." His grin widens, gaze sparkling. I absolutely loathe the way my heart lurches at the sight. "Very astute of you, Clarke."

          I blink at him. A smile of my own pinches at the edge of my lips, wanting to meet his. He looks so... happy. Flushed and mindless and completely at odds with the man I saw at Mystic a few hours ago.

         A tepid thrill warms my blood. At once my tipping mood summersaults back into an upward tilt, and I find myself content to simply stand against the door and watch him. Stare and track the twitch of his features as he stares back.

          Say something else, you absolute idiot, I curse at myself, Something preferably not absolutely idiotic.

         "Feel like sharing?"

          It's an idiotic thing to say. I don't like vodka and Grayson looks like he'd rather pass out than part with his pet bottle, but it's an excuse to stay. And I silently beg him to say yes.

         Grayson takes another sip, throat contracting around a slow swallow. His tongue peeks out to swipe at his damp lips. After another moment, the air settling heavy between us, he holds the bottle out to me.

      "Anything for you."

        I fold myself onto the floor and tuck myself between him and the shelf of opened, half-eaten bags of chips. At some point between now and the last time I saw him, he'd pulled a sweatshirt over his T-shirt.

       Now, he's deliciously warm when I sit next to him. And though it isn't that cramped, I find myself pressing deeper into his side as I take the bottle from his offering fingers.