“No. It’ll just get back to Ellie. I don’t want that.”
“I doubt Patrick would mention it. Guys don’t talk the way girls do.”
Oh, to be so naive. “Men love gossip as much as women do,” I regretfully inform her.
“Pretty sure they don’t.”
“Trust me, Ellie and Patrickdo.”
“You don’t evenknowthem.”
I would respond, but all of my nerves are standing on end, because there it is again…
“Do you smell watermelon?”
“Oh my God, what iswithyou and watermelon lately? Is this some kind of stroke? No, I don’t—oh. Wait. Yeah, actually, I do. That’s weird, I wonder where—”
But I’ve already zeroed in on our cracked-open window. I jump out of the bed.
“Thatgets you up? Fuckingwatermelon?”
Fucking watermelon indeed.
I can see only the back of his head, but I’d recognize him anywhere. Right there, sitting at the picnic table outside our dorm, is Alex Aquino, reading a book and vaping.
“Mother. Fucking. Watermelon.”
Well, this is a surprisingly welcome distraction.
I glare down at him, incensed that I could travel fourteen years back in time to before we even met, and he’s still right there. Omnipresent, hovering around the edges of my periphery at seemingly every moment. Haunting me. Mocking me.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m halfway down the hall outside our room.
“Joey,wait,” Madison calls, catching up to me. I stop and turn around. She holds up my student ID. “You forgot this. Unless you’retryingto get locked out of the building in your lobster pajamas.”
I glance down—sure enough, I’m in my old favorite pajama set, matching bottoms and a button-up shirt decorated with cartoon lobsters wearing top hats, purchased for me when I was fifteen by my mom at this kitschy beachside boutique we both loved in San Diego. I’m also not wearing a bra. Madison makes a good point, but… I shrug. Who cares?
It’s just Alex.
I thank her and turn down the stairwell. Madison follows me to the first floor.
“You’re not wearing shoes,” she points out.
“Have fun with Patrick,” I say, my voice singsong.
“How can I have fun when I’m worried that my roommate islosing her mind?”
“Try making out,” I offer with a shrug.
“How many times do I have to tell you—” she begins, then stops as I push open the door leading from the stairwell to our dorm’s lobby. She follows me through it.
“I know, I know. You’re not into him. But consider this—what if you are? What if you like Patrick, you just don’twantto like Patrick?I know you have some vision of yourself where you’re a woman who dates men like… I don’t know. Chris Evans or Chris Pine or any of the Chrises. And let me just say—you absolutely could. But Patrick is a good guy. Just admit that you like him and save yourself a whole lotta heartbreak.”
I exhale, kind of winded from my speech.
“I don’t know why you’re all up Patrick’s ass,” she mutters.
Speaking of Patrick’s kinks…
