The word ‘fake’ hits harder than it should. “Right. For show.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then, “Though apparently you don’t need my fashion advice. That freshman seemed pretty invested in your wardrobe choices yesterday.”
I pause, watching her attack an innocent candy wrapper. “Are you jealous, Hawkins?”
“Of a freshman who can’t find the biggest building on campus?” She scoffs, but her cheeks flush pink. “Please. I just think it’s funny that Mr. ‘I Hate Social Interaction’ suddenly turns into a campus tour guide for pretty boys with good hair.”
“Good hair?”
“Not that I noticed,” she mutters, then louder, “I’m justsaying, you’re usually so prickly with strangers. But one bat of his eyelashes and?—”
“Definitely jealous.” I decide, fighting a grin.
“I am not!” The wrapper goes flying. “I’m just... observant.”
“Very observant. Especially of his hair, apparently.”
She throws her picker at me. I catch it, laughing, and for a moment it’s like nothing’s changed. Then our eyes meet and the air crackles with three days of wanting to touch her again.
I absolutely do not think about how the tailor in town is open for another hour, or how I could probably get there if I leave right after this. Just like I’m not thinking about how she felt in my arms Saturday night, or how hard it was to leave Sunday morning.
I’m distractedas we head on our fake-double-date that feels more like a real date than any other date I’ve ever been on. Which isn’t many. I keep thinking about the text I just received from my mom.
Mother
RE: the donor dinner on Thursday. You’ll bring your... friend, of course.
And make sure she wears something appropriate. Something less garish. The trustees can be so traditional.
My fists clench. Tara is too fucking good for these people.Fuck. The donor dinner. That’s why they’re reallyhere. I can’t believe I forgot about it. Now I have to tell Tara she’s got to pretend again.
No.
I’ll figure something out; I can’t put her through that.
I try to put it aside as I walk into the restaurant. Tara arrives in a white dress with pink flowers, and I resist the urge to adjust my newly-acquired pink shirt that cost more than my monthly grocery bill. Not that the money really matters to me; I have a sickening amount in a trust that I get each year.
Her eyes light up. “Oh my God, you did have a pink shirt!”
“Found it in the back of my closet.” I lie, like I haven’t spent the last few hours getting it altered to fit perfectly. Like the smile she’s giving me now isn’t worth every penny.
Paige turns out to be exactly Ethan’s type; sharp, pretty, clearly smarter than him but finds his jokes funny anyway. She watches him order wine with a huge smile that makes me think maybe he’s not completely delusional about this being different.
“So,” she turns to us over appetizers, “how did you two first meet?”
I catch Tara’s shoulders tense beside me. I place a hand on her thigh under the table and I’m happy to feel her muscles relax under my fingers.
Good.
I remind myself that the Spencers do not dolove- not the kind that lasts, not the kind that matters. We make arrangements, forge alliances.
But Tara? She deserves someone who knows how tolove without agenda. Someone who isn’t broken by generations of turning off their feelings.
I should remove my hand. Should stop letting her get so close. Stop letting myself want to be closer.
Instead, I find myself draping my arm around her shoulders, knowing I’m only making it harder for both of us in the end.
“First week of term, two years ago,” I say. “Troy threw this party?—”
