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“What’s Connor’s roommate’s name again?” Ruby asked. “Wesley?”
“Weston,” I said.
“What’s he like?”
“Econ major. Intelligent. But prickly.”
“How so?”
“Cynical. He compared feelings to tonsils.”
“Ouch.” Ruby laughed. “Is he hot?”
The unhesitant thought, he’s gorgeous, caught me off guard. “I guess so,” I said. “Tall. Blond. Blue eyes. He’s a track and field runner.”
“Track and field…” Ruby’s eyes widened. “Oh wait, Wes Turner? Oh my God, where’s my head? Of course. The Amherst Asshole.”
I stared. “The what?”
“You really have been on another planet, haven’t you? That’s Wes’s nickname on the track, on account of his sunny disposition,” she said with a laugh. “He’s a real dick to his opponents, apparently.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s too bad. We had a nice talk.”
Except that Weston hadn’t been too friendly. Not at first.
But we warmed up to each other, eventually.
“He has a rep for being quite skilled in the bedroom department, too.” Ruby grinned. “This night just got a whole lot more interesting.”
I glanced at my friend under the streetlamp. She was beautiful, smart, and the boy-crazy act was only one manifestation of her bottomless well of self-confidence that I envied.
If Weston tried to mess with her like he did me, she’d snap right back. They might hit it off.
The thought was oddly unsettling.
The Uber took us down Pleasant Drive to the little town of Amherst. Yancy’s Saloon was only a block away from the Panache Blanc.
“I’m not staying out too late,” I told Ruby as we exited the car. “I have to work my double shift tomorrow.”
“Tell that to Connor when he takes you home tonight,” Ruby said.
“No one’s taking me home but you.”
Ruby did her best—which meant terrible—Jack Nicholson impersonation. “I tell you, buddy, I’d be the luckiest gal alive if that did it for me.”
We pushed through the swinging doors into a fog of beer and greasy pub food. Wood furnishings and warm yellow lights. Purple and white Amherst banners plastered on the walls. “Be Mine” by Ofenbach played over the sound system. I recognized it instantly. We didn’t get much alternative music back home, and I’d fallen in love with it at Amherst. Like denim, my mother’s oldies and Dad’s blues were things I left at the farm.
The music barely masked the crack of pool tables from the gaming area, where Ruby was now pointing. Connor Drake stood in a circle of friends, head thrown back in laughter.
“There he is,” Ruby said. “Let’s go say hi.”
“I want a drink first,” I said, steering her to the long bar.
“Let him buy,” Ruby said. “God knows he’s good for it.”
I stopped. “What do you mean?”
“I mean his dad owns like a zillion companies and his mom’s a senator.”
