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When she straightens again, I realize she’s been doubled over with laughter. She wipes tears from her eyes, still shaking with silent giggle fits.
“It’s not that funny,” I huff.
“Yes, it definitely is, Cass.” She breathes in deeply, rubbing her eyes. “Shit. Ah, okay. That is more complicated, yes.” She shakes her head, studying me. “Look, Cass, it’s only the start of the semester. Give it some time. See which of the hot guys drooling after you you prefer more.” She sticks out her tongue. “Which, by the way, cry me a river.”
I snort, unable to help myself.
“But honestly, if you really want to do this, you just have to go for whichever one you like more. Just be real with them. They’ll understand. Especially if they’ve known each other forever and have similar taste in girls. I’m sure they’ve run into this situation before.”
You have no idea, I think, my lips firmly clamped shut while I nod. It’s good advice. Figure out which one I like best. Except, I don’t know either of them super well yet. From what I can tell, if I met either Vin or Anthony in another situation, I’d have liked them instantly. I can’t tell who I like more, because I like them both, at least from what I’ve seen so far.
But also… That’s kind of beyond the point. Because the boys don’t want me just for one of them. They want a ménage-à-trois. From a girl they don’t even know is a virgin. I’ve never slept with one guy, let alone two at once.
How could I possibly let this happen? How could I even be considering it?
And yet, Vin’s words echo in my mind, too. You have no clue what you would do in the heat of the moment.
I really, really don’t.
“Thanks, Nita, that helps,” I say, even though my mind is still racing, jam-packed with a confusing jumble of thoughts.
After I hang up and head back to the room, my stomach twisting itself into knots as I worry about possibly finding Anthony there, or Vin half-naked instead, or even more terrifying, both at once.
But when I creak open the door to our room, it’s dark and quiet. Only when I flick on the light do I see the book on top of my bed. The newest Jeanette Winterson, one I haven’t read yet, the pages white and the spine unbroken. Brand new. From Anthony, I’m sure.
I sit on the bed and hold the book in my lap, tracing the cover as I try to wrap my mind around this mess I’m tangled up in.
Four
The guys’ first lacrosse game of the season is that Friday. I finish my homework in time since I promised myself I would only go if I got that out of the way first. Then I dress in the sportiest outfit I have—basically the one school sweatshirt I own, paired with tight jeans and some boots since it’s finally fall for real.
I sit with a couple of girls I met in Chemistry, who seem nice enough, though we haven’t really talked about anything except for comparing notes after class and complaining about how fast our prof speeds through the slides.
As soon as the lacrosse game starts, though, I forget all about the girls beside me. I have eyes only for the field—and specifically, for numbers 9 and 11 on said field, one blond and one dark-haired, both sprinting every which way as they compete with the opposing team. They’re clearly two of the best on our team—constantly taking passes from other players and racing ahead of the pack down the field. When Anthony nears the net, I find myself on my feet cheering with only the most involved of our spectators.
Then Anthony whirls at the last second, faking out the goalkeeper, who dives to block him. But he wasn’t aiming for the net. He threw the ball high, in a graceful arc to Vin, who seems to catch it without even looking, and in a whip-fast move, hurls it toward the goal instead. It sinks into the back of the net, and the opposing goalkeeper curses as the boys whirl away to high-five before they’re buried in a crush of their teammates celebrating.
The way they work together, seamlessly mirroring one another, racing up and down the field, is beautiful to watch. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that their muscular arms are on display in their short-sleeved jerseys. I could watch them play this game all day.
But before I know it, they race toward another goal—Vin passing to Anthony this time, who fires a speed-shot past the goalie’s head into the net, a tie point just in time—and the game is over. We won.
I’m still sitting in the stands watching, mouth slightly ajar, when one of the Chem class girls nudges me.
“Aren’t you coming to celebrate?” she asks.
That’s when I notice the flood of people jumping the fence and racing onto the field, chanting. Most of the girls make beelines for either Vin or Anthony, and pretty soon, the guys disappear in a sea of cheering women.
My stomach tightens at the sight, and I feel vaguely nauseous watching all of those beautiful, hot ladies high-fiving Vin or grabbing Anthony in hugs. I’m too far away to make out their faces, to see if they’re enjoying this attention, but how could they not be? Those girls are all hot as hell. Vin and Anthony could have their pick, anyone they wanted.
So why me?
With a start, I realize that I’m actually jealous. Of both of them. What is wrong with me?
I shove out of the stands and hurry down the bleachers, though not toward the field. I need to get out of here. I did my duty, came and supported my roommates in their game. Now I need some air. And to not watch them get hit on anymore.
But before I can make it to the exit of the stadium, I hear my name being shouted. I turn around to find both Vin and Anthony jogging toward me, the crowd abandoned behind them. I catch more than a few glimpses of girls pouting as they leave, though the girls pretty quickly turn toward the guys’ teammates instead.
I linger at the fence dividing the stands from the playing field as the guys skid to a halt on the other side.
