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“Peyton,” Derek says, his tone full of warning, but it’s clear he’s fighting a smile. “Go away.”
“Yeah, we might need the storeroom in a little bit,” Riley says, winking at her husband. “You should go home to sext him,” she says to me.
My cheeks are hot.
So are my panties.
“Um…thanks for the tip,” I finally say. Because I want to be the type of girl who’s fine talking about sex and hot guys and flirting and all of that with two really nice and fun women who should be my peers.
They both grin and head back to their table. But as they go, I’m hit by the realization that they’re not really my peers. They’re easily six to eight years older than me, but we still should have similar interests, watch the same videos on line, listen to similar music, read the same books, be into the same things. But we don’t. I know that without even asking.
They’re the types of girls I tried to fit in with for years.
In grade school, I tried to fit in with the girls in my classes at school, but they were three years older than me. It was impossible. I tried to hang out socially with girls my age, but we never saw each other at school since I was in classes three grades ahead of them, so we didn’t have the same experiences and didn’t know the same people.
Plus, sleepovers, dances, and pool parties have never been my thing, so I was fine staying home on the weekends.
College was a little easier. No one there knew that I’d skipped three grades, so I could fake “normal” there. Or so I’d thought. I know exactly why I’d slept with Matthew Latham, the one and only guy I’ve ever had sex with. The entire reason. Because normal eighteen-year-old girls in college are supposed to meet cute boys and have sex with them once in a while.
Just like normal college girls are supposed to go to football games and have fun. And out to bars, where they do shots and dance to the current top forty. And stay up with other girls in the dorms, eating pizza and talking about their hopes and dreams until three a.m.
I did all of that. Even though at eighteen, I was actually a senior according to my hours and in classes with people who were at least three years older than me. And kicking their asses on exams and papers.
I’d faked it and lied about the classes I was taking to the girls in the dorms—the freshmen who were my age but way behind me academically. Yes, I’d lived in the dorms, where I’d hoped to have a “normal” experience.
Turns out that lying about what you do, want, like, and are interested in doesn’t actually produce a normal experience at all.
It was exhausting. I wasn’t interested in watching reality TV every Thursday night, or parties at the frat houses, or getting a tattoo that meant nothing, or group study sessions for Sociology 101. I’d taken, and aced, Soc 101 as a freshman in high school.
They all thought I was stuck-up and weird. I thought they were silly and immature.
I’d moved home after that one year in the dorms and worked on my advanced degrees from my childhood bedroom.
I look down at my phone and re-read Torin’s text.
You can wear, or not wear, whatever you want.
Well, hell, that makes me hot all over. But I have no idea how to sext. Maybe I should tell Torin that’s what I want to try. I bet he’d make that fun. He can make me horny just by texting about dancing and shoes.
That’s probably weird.
I pick up my bottle and finish off my cider, then take a deep breath.
Are you wearing dancing shoes right now by chance?
I frown at the words. That sounds like a version of “what are you wearing?”. Maybe cheesy. But he’d texted me that same thing essentially a few days ago. And I want to know. It’s crazy, but I’d love to see a photo of Torin’s shoes.
Okay, that’s definitely weird.
I push send and then rub my fingers over the center of my forehead. What am I doing? He’s a prince.
I cannot date a prince.
I can’t sleep with a prince.
I definitely can not marry a prince.
So I shouldn’t be texting and flirting with a prince.
