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“Again? You’re way too obsessed with who I’m fucking. ”
“I’m not obsessed. I’m concerned. You’re a twenty-year-old guy with too many jobs and a permanent James Dean loner frown. If you don’t start using it to get laid, you’ll probably die of repression. And here’s Caroline—”
“Could you guys maybe stop talking about me like I’m not in the room?”
“And stop saying ‘fucking,’” Bridget suggests. “It’s degrading. And I think—”
“See, that’s your whole problem,” Krishna tells her. “You think fucking is degrading. ”
“Like I’m the one with the problem. This from the campus manwhore who—”
“You are the one with the problem! You never have any fun. ”
“I’m here, aren’t I? This is fun, right?”
Quinn groans. “Only for you two. ”
West comes up behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. I tip my head back to look at him upside down, worried how he’s taking this, but his mouth is soft, his eyes amused. “Caro and I aren’t like that. ”
I smile at him, because his denial sounds like a confirmation, and because his hands on my shoulders are smoothing back and forth. His thumbs find a spot to rest and press on the back of my neck, which makes my breasts feel full and heavy and the pit of my stomach go molten.
I’m ridiculously pleased with Krishna’s implication that West is in the middle of what sounds like a long dry spell. Although, considering the source, Krishna could just mean West hasn’t had sex in a week.
I don’t like thinking about West having sex. At all.
“So what are you two like?” Krishna asks.
“They’re friends,” Bridget says.
“No, we’re not,” West says.
Bridget looks confused.
I understand. It’s kind of confusing. “Can we not talk about this?”
But Krishna is way too invested now. “No, I need to figure this out. Every time I go to the bakery the past few weeks, there you are. Seems like West’s always texting you all of a sudden. He just came through the door smiling at you like the sun rises and sets on your ass, and now h
e’s got his hands all over you. ”
Quinn chimes in, “He’s always got his hands all over you. ”
“That’s not true. ”
But, actually, is it? His hands on my shoulders are familiar. At the bakery, he often touches me like this. Casually—tapping my kneecap on the way past, dropping a hand on top of my head when I’m about to leave, rubbing my shoulders in an idle moment when we’re both chatting with Krishna.
He’s a physical person. It doesn’t mean anything to him.
I’m the one whose heart stops, every time.
“It’s nobody’s business but ours,” West says.
Any normal person would be dissuaded by how forbidding West looks right now, but Krishna isn’t normal. “If you’re not going to fuck, we should start thinking about hooking Caroline up. It’s about time she got back in the game, don’t you think?”
Bridget punches him in the arm. “It’s not a game. ”
Krishna pitches his voice in a spot-on imitation of Bridget. “It’s not a game, it’s not fun, she’s not a piece of ass. ” Then, in his normal voice, “Swear to God, woman, it’s like you’re allergic to everything in the world that might accidentally make you feel good. ”
“Don’t be a dick. ”
