Thanks. Don’t get too crazy tonight whatever you’re doing.
Another base hit, another run by Pittsburgh, cutting further into our lead. “Yeah,” I mumble to no one, “don’t get too crazy.”
And turn off the game.
I smile and lean back in my chair, no longer in the mood to pretend to work on my paper. I play on my phone instead, scrolling through TikTok and Instagram. I click on Jules’s new story. It’s a photo of six girls squeezed on a sofa, most of them I recognize from field hockey, but a couple aren’t familiar.
I press my thumb on the screen, keeping the story from disappearing, and bring the phone closer. Jules is on one end of the sofa, smiling at the camera and holding a can of sparkling water. There’s a girl wedged next to her. I’ve seen her a couple of times on Jules’s social media, dark hair, nose ring, slightly older. She’s leaning into Jules. But that’s not what makes me frown. It’s the way she’s gripping Jules’s side, way too high up on her ribs to be friendly. The longer I stare, the more I realize Jules is leaning into her as well.
Another crack of a ball off a bat and I release my thumb, letting the picture fade into something else just as the Pirates score another run to tie the game.
I shouldn’t let the picture bother me, but it does.
It makes me wonder when Jules started leaning into pretty girls. Why does this one in particular get to hold her like they’re more than just friends? Why doesherhand get to linger close to Jules’s breast in a possessive, flirty kind of way?
And why does Jules appear to be so damn into it?
“Congrats on your raise,” I tell my brother when he calls me the next day after my classes end. “Mom told me.”
He shrugs. “It’s not much, but I’ll take it.”
I’m still not exactly sure what it is he does, but it’s something with computers and IT, and he gets to do it remotely in between his classes, so I suppose it can’t be all bad.
“And what are you going to do with all that cash flow? Gonna finally start paying rent?”
“I mean, someone’s gotta pay for all those international trips you take,” he quips.
“Hey,” I say, offended. “I have my own job, thank you.”
He snorts. “Yeah, if you count collecting girls’ numbers when you’re supposed to be collecting membership fees a job.”
I smirk because while he’s stuck at a desk job fixing people’s printers, I get to watch NYU’s finest work out in tight-fitting clothes. “Don’t be jealous.”
“Of you? Never.”
I shake my head because I know he is.
“Speaking of international trips, have you applied to King’s College yet?”
“Not yet.”
He gives me a cheeky smile. “Is it because you think you’ll be rejected?”
I scoff because please. “Not a chance. My grades are amazing, and my résumé is even better.”
He scoffs right back. “Yeah, your résumé of working in the library and then at the front desk of a college gym. Very impressive to universities.”
I narrow my eyes, not at all amused. “You know I meant mytranscript. Don’t be an ass.”
He laughs, but it fades into something softer. “Are you sure you want to go somewhere that far? Have you thought about transferring to, oh, I don’t know, VCU?”
“I like London.” And that’s the truth. I always knew I’d probably transfer out of NYU, and I never made that a secret. At least not with Mom and Mason. As much as I like New York, there’s something about living abroad, learning new cultures and experiencing new things, that I can’t seem to get enough of.
Mason stares at me through the screen like he’s trying to figure something out. I stare back, waiting. Eventually, he backs off. “I’m sure that’s all it is.”
I’m not sure what he means by that, and I don’t ask.
A quick glance at the time reminds me that I need to start getting ready for work.
