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“Yeah, except he didn’t even get my name right. The dumb shit couldn’t tell us apart, and still he had the gall to come knocking and ask for my sister’s hand in marriage, like, a week after he met her.” Tammy rolls her eyes.
“In his defense…” Paige starts. “You two do kind of look alike.”
I try not to laugh at how delicately she tries to put it. Her effort to be considerate to my friends makes me like Paige just a little bit more. Maybe I should cut her some slack.
“Yeah, but he met us both. Together. He should have known better than to brazenly get down on one knee without being absolutely sure,” Tammy snaps.
Poor Tori. The pain of it all is so clearly written across her face that all I want to do is pull her into a hug, but this is between her and Tammy. As crazy as the two can be together, anytime I’ve ever tried to insert myself in their scuffles, they’ve joined together for a double-barreled donkey kick to knock me the fuck out of their business.
“How about we discuss someoneelse’slove life now? That sounds like a great plan,” Tori blurts. Her eyes find mine, making my stomach drop. “Whitney, what’s your boy story? Meet anyone new this summer?”
Fuck.I can’t hide my embarrassment this time. I’m sure I’ve turned a bright shade of red by the way the twins’ eyes widen in surprise.
“Oh my god, you did!” Tammy crows, redirecting her attention to me. “And from the look of it, you’ve got some juicy details. Tell us all about him. Is he handsome? How’d you meet? Does he go to Rosehill?”
“Does he go to school?” Tori adds pointedly, silently acknowledging that not everyone chooses to go to college. Of course she would be the one to try and consider the bigger picture.
“Uh, no, actually. He’s, um, a bit older, so he’s already graduated.” In truth, I don’t know if Ilya even went to college. But at least my answer is honest. He’s certainly old enough to have graduated whatever level of education he went through. I know I might be fudging it with the “bit older” part. But I really don’t want to have to dig into that mess further.
“What’s he look like?” Tammy presses.
“Oh, tall, dark hair and eyes, bit of a beard… pretty muscular.”Vague, keep it vague. Definitely don’t mention the Russian accent.
“Tall, dark, and handsome, eh? If your blush didn’t say it all, I might have thought you were making him up,” Tammy teases.
If they only knew. Just picturing Ilya turns my insides to mush, and my mind flashes to our weekend together, the masculine scent of his cologne, the way his strong body felt pressing me into the mattress.Pull your shit together, Carlson,I coach myself and suck in a deep breath to stave off the heat boiling up in my stomach.
“You look like you’ve got it bad for this guy,” Tori observes with a kind smile. “How long have you been dating?”
“Not long. We–uh–just kind of made it official. So… nothing too serious yet.” But dear god, I’m not sure how much more serious it could get. I suppress a shiver as I recall the way his fingers tightened around my throat, making me wonder if he might not kill me.What’s more serious than life-or-death sex?
“Well, I want to meet him sometime,” Tori says, gripping my hand affectionately.
“Sure,” I say before I fully consider the implications of my agreement.
These girls can’t meet Ilya. No one can. That would be the end of my reputation at school–not to mention possibly their lives. While Ilya hasn’t expressed any need for secrecy, I don’t get the feeling that openly discussing our relationship is the best idea.
“While I hate to break up boy talk, if we don’t get a move on, we’re going to be late for class,” Paige says, earning my eternal gratitude as she relieves me from the hot seat.
“Party pooper,” Tammy pouts, even as she glances at her phone to confirm Paige is right. “We’ll see you in dance appreciation?” she adds, meeting my eyes once more.
“See you then.” I flash a smile, and we all head into the dance building, parting ways at the stairs.
“What class do you have now?” Paige asks, following me to the second floor.
“Ballet I. You?”
“Same.” Paige gives me another brilliant straight-toothed smile that could only come from an orthodontist’s expert touch.
I smile back, committed to befriending the girl my friends have basically assigned to me. The least I can do is try to find our commonalities and reserve judgment until I know her better.
“We’ll have to compare schedules and see how many classes we have together,” she adds.
“Sure.”
I’m sure I’ll learn to tolerate her. I have most of the people at Rosehill, despite our distinctly different backgrounds. Not many students come from the poorer neighborhoods of Chicago–not when the private school offers so few scholarship opportunities. It’s strange to think that I’m now a member of the group who doesn’t have to worry about that kind of thing. And I have Ilya to thank for it.
10
