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“Hmm.” Casey purses her lips and lowers her brow in contemplation, contorting her face as if she’s deep in thought. Her eyes scan the room until they land on a guy with short, sandy-blonde hair near the kitchen. “Him. He’d be good.”
I look at my friend skeptically, an eyebrow raised. “You just randomly chose someone. Admit it, you’re full of shit.”
Her mouth opens in shock, a phony look of offense on her face. “I am not full of shit! I’ll have you know I can tell just from looking at him that that guy knows how to use his tongue.”
I throw my head back with a laugh. “You’re so full of shit.
“Well,” Casey begins wryly, gently poking me with her elbow. “If you’re so sure of that, why don’t you take him back to our place tonight and tell me first-hand I was wrong tomorrow morning.”
I roll my eyes. “I probably should’ve seen that one coming.”
Casey points at the guy we’re talking about. “I bet you could seethatone coming if you go over and talk to him.”
I gasp, reaching for my drunk friend’s arm to push it down. “Don’t point at people,” I admonish, trying not to laugh.
Casey giggles, bringing her Solo cup of beer up to her lips for a sip.
My eyes fall on a guy I kind of am interested in hearing Casey’s sexual diagnosis of. Shane, Hunter’s teammate who I’ve seen a bit of at the rink. He seems like a nice guy, and we’ve chatted a couple times.
“Think he’d be good?” I ask, nudging Casey and tipping my head in Shane’s direction.
Casey sizes him up. “Not for a hook up,” she says.
“Really?” I ask. Are we looking at the same person?
“He’s the kind of guy who’d be awkward in a hookup, but totally attentive and caring in bed when he’s in a relationship.”
“Yeah, you’re just making this up.”
Suddenly, I realize I feel … normal. Good.
I’m relaxed from the tequila. It doesn’t feel like the walls are closing in on me. I’m not being assaulted by memories of the car accident. I don’t have that unpleasant, ominous feeling that made me nauseous the last time I was at a party over the summer.
Two guys come up and introduce themselves. They’re not pushy or creepy or anything, and they’re both pretty good looking, so we settle into a conversation with them.
One of the guys, a tall blonde guy wearing chino shorts and a button-up shirt with rolled up sleeves, seems really into Casey. And she seems to reciprocate his interest. So, I lock more into conversation with his friend, a guy with curly brown hair, wearing a polo shirt.
He introduces himself as Brendan.
We chat about basic stuff; the classes we’re taking, how long we’ve been at Ridley—I leave out a big chunk of my story, simply mentioning that I recently transferred from a college in Maine—where we grew up, stuff like that.
He’s reasonably cute, nice enough, and can hold a conversation. I’m not sure how into the idea of heading home with this guy I am, but I’m happy enough to chat with him while our two friends both seem like they’re minutes away from eating each other’s faces.
I laugh as he tells a story about how a professor in one of his classes tried to screencast his laptop to the classroom projector but ended up accidentally showing a spicy e-mail his wife had sent him.
He says the professor was at least in his sixties, so, hey, props to their marriage for keeping the flame alive.
With a smile still warming my cheeks, I spot Hunter on the other end of the room.
He’s glowering in my direction as he sips his drink.
It’s the same kind of glower he threw at me when I was talking to Shane that day he was organizing the supply closet.
His brow is low, his face cloudy, his blue eyes that are normally so clear and bright are dark and simmering with tension.
Jeez, did I do something?
Or maybe he’s just spotting someone he has some stupid macho beef with over my shoulder.
