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Bex
Several weeks later, I wake up in James’s bed. Again. After Darryl, I thought I wouldn’t wake up in a bed other than my own dorm room the whole rest of the time I was at McKee.
Yet here I am, buried comfortably in James Callahan’s bed, fighting the sinking feeling in my stomach that comes with waking up alone.
I’m not worried he left because he ended up not wanting me to stay; he said last night that he needed to wake up early for his workout. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish he was here so we could wake up together in a much more pleasant way.
I rub the sleep out of my eyes, sitting up with a yawn. Before we went to sleep last night, he shut the curtains—which he admitted his mother made him put up, insisting the room needed more homey touches—so even though the sun is up, the light inside the bedroom is still soft and gray. On the wall opposite, I see the photograph I gifted him. I signed it for him like he wanted, and he had it framed. It looks good over his desk, like a real piece of art.
There’s a note on the pillow, written in his messy handwriting. I bite the inside of my cheek as I read it. Trace my fingernail over the letters that make up my name.
Bex,
Hate to leave you. Stay, so I see you when I come back?
—J
I hate how I need to remind myself yet again that we’re not dating.
Not. Dating.
After the game against LSU, something shifted. I invited him home, to my suite, and he spent the night. We fucked three times before finally falling asleep. When I woke up in the morning, he was curled around me almost comically, his feet hanging over the edge of the bed, one hand palming my bare bottom, the other tucked around Albert. I’d stared down at him, panic curling through me like smoke, and the intensity of my gaze woke him up.
He’d smiled at me, gaze soft, the corners of his eyes crinkled adorably.
And then I’d tried to kick him out.
I blush now as I remember it.
“I have work,” I’d told him, even though that was a lie. I scrambled out of the bed, pulling the jersey over my head and tossing it into the hamper before crossing my arms over my bare chest. He’d sat up, looking at me calmly, and my voice ran ragged as I told him he had to go.
Instead, he pulled me back into his arms. Kissed the top of my head.
“Don’t panic,” he told me. “This doesn’t have to change anything.”
“How?” I whispered.
“We’re friends,” he said, stroking my tangled hair. “Friends who are attracted to each other. We can keep doing this without complicating it.”
“Sounds like a recipe for disaster.”
“Do you want to stop? Say you want to stop, and we will.”
“Our deal?”
“Not the deal. Just this.”
I shook my head. In the end, I couldn’t lie. “I don’t want to stop.”
“Then we won’t.”
He kissed me properly, then, and I hit his arm because our breath smelled horrible, and he’d just smiled and pulled me closer. That’s where we left it. Texting, tutoring, dates to keep up the fake relationship. I’m doing things like waking up in his bed and wishing he was around so I could sit on his dick.
A couple days ago, he officially received his nomination for this fancy football award, and where was I? In the background, doing a silent happy dance as he called his parents to share the news.
I slide out of the bed, making it up so it will be nice for him later, and use his shower. Having the private bathroom is a seriously nice perk. His brothers have been good to me, but it’s still nice to not have to see them before I’m put together. I dress in the change of clothes I brought along, throw on some makeup and my favorite pie slice earrings, and tuck my phone into my back pocket before heading downstairs.
The air smells like coffee; my stomach growls. I have a little while before I need to drive over to the diner—it’s been a few days since I saw my mother, thanks to a double shift at the Purple Kettle and working with James on our midterm paper—and maybe if I’m lucky, I can scrounge up a proper breakfast. Last night Sebastian made a roast chicken, which was delicious. Maybe there are some leftover potatoes that I can fry up with eggs.
