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I smile tightly, stand up, and walk to the kitchen with Sage following behind me. I want him gone, so I can cry myself to sleep, or call my bestie, Chelsea, to talk so much shit about Brandon his ears catch on fire and burn down his whole apartment block. I feel played, and stupid, and about as desirable as a bowl of stale broccoli even though it’s been months.
“Come with me,” Sage coaxes again, his husky voice seeping into my body and melting my lady parts into warm goo. What’s wrong with me? This is my best friend we’re talking about. Countless times I watched him go home with other girls, puking in national parks, and experiencing meltdowns. Crying happily when his parents got divorced, weeping sadly when his father died of liver failure after years of alcohol abuse, and roaring triumphantly when he got a full scholarship for college.
“I have an exam, remember?” I open the fridge and take out a carton of OJ. I slam the door and when I turn around, he is caging me in, bracing the counter from each side of my waist, his mouth so close to mine I can see the dimple in the center of his full lower lip. He stares me down predatorily.
My heart is in my throat.
My soul is most probably in my eyes.
And I am scared. Completely, utterly, and desperately frightened of what he can do to me if I let my guard down. If I let him.
“Wasn’t talking about the party, Jo. Let’s go to my room. Forget about Brandon. About people. About all the bullshit. I want to make you feel good.”
“Sage,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes. “Please don’t make this an issue. I’d hate to move to another apartment, but I will, if that’s what it takes to save our friendship.”
And my heart.
He throws his head back and shakes it, staring at the ceiling, exasperated. Then he pushes off the counter and I’m left to stand here, watching his tight ass walking toward the hallway. What’s with this dude? Did he actually not know I had lady bits before he saw me naked? I refuse to sacrifice our friendship because he suddenly sees me as a convenient fuck. He’s been acting so strange lately.
I watch his back, knowing the knot in my stomach—the one I’d formed when I was ten and he moved next door—is going to tighten. As if on cue, it does. Blinking, I pour myself a glass of orange juice, spilling some on the countertop, knowing the rest of my night is a bust.
Twenty minutes later, he walks through the door clad in a navy varsity jacket, dark distressed jeans, and his I-just-fucked perfect hair, looking like the perfect sin.
Forty minutes later, Chelsea appears at my door armed with Halo Top ice cream. (I liked Brandon, but not enough to waste my Pilates body on real ice cream because of him.)
An hour later, I get a stream of text messages.
Sage: Dedication doesn’t have an off-season. Get ready for me, JoJo. Because I’m coming for you. And guess what? You’ll COME for me, too.
Sage: Please told me you got the sexual innuendo.
Sage: *tell. Not told. Don’t give me shit. I’m not drunk.
Sage: Also, we’re out of milk, but don’t worry, I’ll buy some on the way home. Notice how I don’t didn’t use any sexual innuendo even though it’s white and sticky…
“Please tell me you didn’t forget to ask her this time.”
Mark’s elbow is propped against the kitchen island I’m leaning on. The party is a bust. Even though it’s at a big-ass mansion on the outskirts of Baton Rouge, the vibe is just…off. Every fucker in my year seems to be here and I don’t know half of these people who talk to me, but everyone knows me. This chains me into a string of endless, meaningless, mundane conversations about grades and football, two things I shouldn’t be thinking about during my time off.
Mark snaps his fingers in front of my eyes and I blink, realizing that he’s been doing it for some time now. He is the tall, dark, handsome, nice-enough-not-to-fuck-his-secretary-in-twenty-years type. Congressman daddy. English teacher mommy. Three sisters. Perfect reputation. White picket fence and two dogs with adorably stupid names. Wholesome and nice. He is the exact opposite of me.
I chew on the red Solo cup that I’m holding and zone out again, letting the half-naked bodies and the heaps of alcohol melt together in my vision.
“Asked who what?” I buy time.
“Your hot roommate. Did you ask her if she’s into me?” Again, I find myself wanting to punch my own balls for downplaying my relationship with Jolie. This is all my doing, and the reason I don’t tell people how close we are is because I don’t want any cock-blocking scenarios to get in my way of a good pussy. Well, this month it backfired in my face. Not only did I experience a life-changing moment with another girl, which pretty much served as a wake-up call to who I really need to be with, but now I have to deal with my smitten teammate, too.
