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“You don’t have to make excuses for him,” Lexi replies. “Nervous or not, he shouldn’t have left you waiting, and if hehadto be late, then he should’ve apologized, at least. It’s just common courtesy.” She takes a breath, glancing up at the round timer. “How can you paint me when I’m moving around?”
“I’m not trying to copy you one-for-one,” I tell her. “It’s more about inspiration.”
The buzzer goes off, and she returns to the bag. I try my best to focus on my work and use Lexi’s flurries to fuel the flow of my paintbrush. It’s so tempting to let my brush take a different direction and paint Fletcher’s firm muscles instead—his tight arms and big, powerful hands. Imagine those hands smoothing up my legs toward my center, making my thighs ache.
Somehow, the round is over already.
“At least he stopped when you told himno,” Lexi says. “Small bar, right? Say no, back off. Maybe it proves he’s a socially awkward dweeb and not, you know, a monster.”
“Or maybe he’s just a monster who hides it well,” I counter.
Lexi puts her hands on her hips, breathing hard. “It’s possible. I hope not, though.”
“Are you close with him?”
She shakes her head. “Not really, but he was always a nice enough kid. He never really tried in practice, but he was friendly. No offense, but I set you up because I thought he was bland.”
“None taken,” I joke.
She gently touches my arm, then whips it away. “Sorry, I’m sweaty.”
I laugh. “It’s fine.”
“I don’t thinkyou’rebland. I thought, for your first date, it might be good to go with somebody who doesn’t have an overwhelming personality. You said his dad picked you up?”
I nod. “Yeah. Fletcher.”
“Fletcher Jacobson,” Lexi says, and I don’t like her tone. She’s got the playful glint in her eyes I recognize from countless other conversations, the glint that tells me, in no uncertain terms, that she feels attraction toward him.
My instinct is to throw my brush at her, tear my canvas to pieces, and toss myself into a world-record-level temper tantrum. I can’t think about Lexi with Fletcher. In my mind, insanely, he’s already mine.
“He’s something to look at, isn’t he?” Lexi says, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Her heavy bag session must be over.
“I don’t know,” I murmur, purposefully focusing on my painting.
“You didn’t notice?” Lexi laughs. “He used to come to class sometimes. He’d coach, or he’d hit the bag in the corner. There was always this intensity in everything he did.”
Just like in my fantasies last night…
“It was like he wanted to kill the bag. I had a crush on him.”
“Had orhave?” I ask, trying to keep my voice as casual as possible.
“Aren’t we a little old for crushes?” she laughs. “Maybe I’ve just got daddy issues.”
One of the reasons Lexi and I bonded so quickly is that we both went to college in our home city for similar reasons. Her dad walked out when she was thirteen, and she wanted to stay here to be with her mom. My dad passed when I was fifteen, and I wanted to stay for the same reason.
“But do you?” I ask. “Still like him?”
Luckily, she’s too tired and cardio-high from her workout to hear the desperation in my voice. I’m unsure what I’d do if I saw adventurous, dyed-hair,funLexi on Fletcher’s arm. Realistically, I shouldn’t do anything. I shouldn’t care, but I can’t ignore that I do a lot. I can’t ignore the fact that thinking of them together hurts.
“I wouldn’t kick him out of bed,” she says, “but dating a manthatold… I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
I should agree with this. My dad was fifty-seven when I was born. He and Mom had an amazing relationship. Mom often talks about it. Their sixteen-year age gap didn’t cause them any problems until it did, and Dad wasn’t there anymore. He left us alone.
“But he’s not old, old,” I say.
Lexi grins. “What does that mean? I’m young, young. He’s old, old.”
