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And he’s still doing a really terrible job of pretending not to give a shit.
We were never going out.
We’re not friends.
He told me less than forty-eight hours ago that he wanted to tongue my clit until my thighs were trembling. I don’t know what’s changed. Something. Nothing. He hasn’t bothered to tell me.
Because, after all, when does he ever bother to tell me anything?
I should be angry, but I’m so surprised and so fucking disappointed. I thought I’d be in his bed right now. I thought we’d be smiling, naked, rolling on a condom so I could finally, finally, feel him inside me.
Instead, he’s so far away, I can’t even find him in his own face.
“Right,” I say slowly, looking at those five pathetic words on the ground. “We were never going out. ”
He glances at the restaurant behind him. “I gotta go. ”
I should let him.
I should tell him to go fuck himself.
But I need something, some rope to catch hold of, some idea what happens next. So I ask, “Will I see you? At the bakery, or will you come to the rugby party Saturday, or … ?”
“I’m sure I’ll see you around. ”
“Yeah. Great. That’s just fucking great, West. ”
His eyebrows have drawn in, like maybe I’m getting to him a little bit.
It could be because tears are making hot tracks down my face, puddling beneath my jaw, cooling on my neck.
It could be that.
“You have a great shift,” I tell him. “I’ll see you around. It’s a good thing we’re not friends, or else maybe I’d miss you. Or something more than friends—it’s a good thing we weren’t going out, or I’d be gutted right now. But, you know, we’re not. Going out. Obviously. It’s so obvious, I’m not sure why I didn’t get the memo on that. Maybe it was all the phone sex, addling my stupid female brain. Or, hell, maybe it was all those hours we spent together at the bakery, hanging out, or that time when I slept in your bed and cried on your lap on the bathroom floor. I just got confused about what we are. I didn’t get the memo. ”
“Caroline—”
I take a step back. I lose my footing, slip, and fall on my tailbone. The pain pushes up more tears. When West offers me his hand, I swat it away. “No. I’m fine. Enjoy your night. ”
I lumber up, and if his eyes have thawed at last—if his expression is full of as much misery as I’m feeling—damn it, I’m not going to let it matter.
I’m going to walk away from him before all of it can catch up to me.
I walk fast, and then I start to jog, because I’m afraid if I let myself feel everything that’s in me right now, I’ll have to accept that he’s breaking my heart on purpose, and he won’t fucking tell me why.
The rugby party is legendary.
Author: Robin York
It’s actually three parties. Starting right after dinner, there’s a pre-party in Rawlins lounge that’s just for the team. At nine, the whole-campus party kicks off in the Minnehan Center, which is always packed with bodies, because the rugby team throws the first big party after winter break, plays the best music, and never runs out of beer.
In between the two parties—well, that’s why it’s legendary. The blow-job contest.
Last year I missed it. I guess I was studying. But this time there’s no question I’m going. I helped Quinn with the planning, showed up to decorate Minnehan with paper cutouts of fierce rugby-playing women and this sort of oversize mural thing on the wall, which I think was supposed to be a life-size representation of a scrum but ended up looking like a giant lesbian orgy, all tongues and hands. Really we’re just lucky nobody from the college is paying attention to the decorations, because wow.
Wow.
Quinn says she’s going to save it and put it up in her dorm room after the party.
