I almost mention I don’t think it was honey when she reprimanded those guys by shouting boobs in the library, but she keeps talking. “Though I never understood why flies. Bumblebees are way cuter—and crucial for pollination, but don’t get me started. Anyway, why’d you do it? Did Armstrong use honey or vinegar on you?”
“I didn’t sleep with him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She splays her hands in a calm down gesture. “Whoa, whoa, didn’t I just say I don’t judge? You wouldn’t be the first. Armstrong’s a beast in bed.” When she sees what I’m about to ask, her nose scrunches. “Hell, no. He’s been with way too many of my sorority sisters. At this point, it’d be a little too incestuous for my taste.”
“From what I’ve heard, however,” she says. “If you’re looking to dive back in the dating pool, you can’t go wrong getting your feet wet with Armstrong.”
“Spencer doesn’t date.”
“I’m not talking about dating, Walsh.”
“Then what are you talking about?” I’m losing patience by the minute. “Why are you even here? You don’t want to do an interview, Summer, and I bought your flowers, so you can leave.” I pointedly look at my computer screen instead of her.
“Gift horse. Mouth. Another fantastic phrase.” Summer smacks my laptop shut, almost pinching my fingers. “Your stunt at the bar piqued my interest. I’m giving you a second chance, Walsh. Maybe give me a little honey.”
And suddenly, I understand what Summer Prescott wants. Not recited questions from a pre-approved list. An exchange. Information for information. Someone who so closely and carefully guards herself from something as accessible as the internet does not kindly share. If I’m to peek into her personal life, she wants equal opportunity to do the same to mine.
I should refuse. No good can come from such a bargain. But my curiosity’s intrigued.
“I threw beer on him because he said something rude,” I tell her. When she opens her mouth, I shake my head. I won’t repeat it. Even now, the words make my fingers curl until my nails dig into my palms. It’d been reprehensible of him—though, with a twinge of guilt, I wonder if he would have said it had I not brought up the video of Meegan and Levi. That had been cruel of me. Just another way Spencer brings out the worst in me.
Summer drums her fingers on the desk. “Too bad. That man is fine.”
Tell me about it, I almost say, before I remember this isn’t Rylie or Natalie. And we’re not discussing a rom-com actor.
So I straighten the pile of fliers she’s left scattered on the desk. “What did you mean—about getting my feet wet? I’ve been on plenty of dates.”
She keeps up the steady rhythm of her fingers. “How long were you with your ex?”
“Four years.”
She puffs her cheeks, blowing out an emphasized breath. “Yeah, no, Walsh. You’re going about it all wrong. I bet you’re going on these dates, looking for another main entreé, but you’re still full from the last meal. You need to cleanse the palate.”
When I still look lost, she throws her hands up in the air. “Get a rebound, girl. Bang your ex right out of your system. You’re not doing yourself favors, trying to date while the memory of the last penis that was inside you is there. Forget that dick. Find a new one.”
“I’ve… I’ve never had a one night stand,” I quietly confess with a wary glance around the library.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Summer mutters. “It’s not a big deal. You find an interested guy. Kiss him. Then ask if he wants to sleep with you. Most guys are very receptive to the concept. You don’t even have to like them that much. You don’t even have to know them. My best hookups were guys whose names I never knew—that’s not on the record.”
“I thought you knew everyone on campus.”
“That’s cute, you assume I date college boys.”
“You don’t?”
“Not ones who sleep with my sorority sisters. Or tools like Keeland. Which leaves a rather shallow pool.” She jumps off the desk, sliding her basket to the edge. Squinting at the flowers, I can see her trying to run the math in her head, before she waves a finger at the basket and asks, “How much are the rest of these?”
I tell her. She grabs her clutch again, pulls out another bill—because typical college students also carry extra Benjamin Franklins—and adds it to her lockbox of cash. Then, she types on her phone again.
“Look, if you can throw a beer on Spencer Armstrong, then you have the ovaries for a one night stand. Both require a certain level of not giving a total fuck. Stop overthinking it. Just do it. Literally.”
My phone alerts me of an email. Summer points at it. “That’s my schedule. Between classes and sorority obligations, I am a very busy woman, so you’ll have to work around those for your article.”
“You’ll really do it?” I ask, checking the message. Her days are tightly packed, but I know my own so well, I already spot pockets of time when we can meet.
“Same rules as before. If I want out, I’m out. And I get the green light on the final draft.” Stuffing the lockbox under one arm, she slips her phone back in her purse. With a sweep of her red outfit, she says, “Now, as you can see, I have a date.”
As she turns to leave, I say her name. Summer turns around, and I hold up the rose basket she left behind.
“Keep ‘em, Walsh. Maybe you’ll attract a bee. One with a big ol’ stinger.”
11
Kennedy
“You sure you don’t want to come with us?” Natalie asks later while she’s walking down the stairs into the living room. “Gray and I have a bet. Hookups versus breakups.”
On the couch, I fill out an answer to a homework question on my computer. “Who’s betting on what?”
She stands in front of me, adjusting an
