The cherry on top of it all, though, had been that the sports club had served day-old shrimp cocktails. Ashton woke in the middle of the night with a bad case of food poisoning. He absolutely wrecked the bathroom. So after taking care of him, I’d had to stay up and clean it. The next morning, he gave me a box of those gross chalky candy hearts and went back to his frat without so much as a ‘Gee, thanks, babe’.
I flop back on my pillows after telling Spencer all this. “I was so mad at him.”
We argued for days after that. Until Ash made other dinner reservations and bought me a gaudy diamond necklace I never wore to make up for that night.
Spencer makes a noise of disgust. “Fucking prick.”
I wrap my arms around my middle and close my eyes. Because he’s absolutely right. While we’d been dating, it had been so easy to forgive Ashton’s less admirable qualities. But now…
What had I been thinking?
The shush of moving paper makes me open my eyes. Spencer scans one of the pamphlets the nurse left.
“Latex’s in a lot of shit, isn’t it?” he asks.
I nod. Certain types of clothing. Rubber bands. Erasers. Kitchen cleaning gloves. A whole slew of fruit—which makes my reactions to bananas and strawberries so much more clear now. Already, I’m going through a mental map of my house, noting places to check and things to throw out for possible triggers.
Including, I realize when I scratch my head and a strand of hair falls out of my ponytail, my preference in hair styles. Remembering the reaction of my hair tie around my wrist, I conclude that the red mark hadn’t been normal winter dry skin like I’d thought.
I reach up to take out my hair. It’s already dilapidated from Spencer kissing me, anyway. But at the last second, I think better of it. With a quick glance at Spencer, I clear my throat.
When he looks at me, I point at my ponytail. “Elastic has latex in it. Can you take it out?”
He stands up, setting his coffee cup on the table next to the bed. Gently, he grips my ponytail by the base, lightly tugging the tie out. He lets the hair fall, strands slipping over his hand. His fingertips brush the back of my neck. My eyes close and my face goes slack as goosebumps break out on my skin. That feels nice. I want him to do it again. And then kiss me.
“Kennedy?”
I open my eyes, and Spencer stares down at me, brow furrowed. Can he tell what I’m thinking? Is he looking at my lips, wanting them on his again?
“How did you not know about this?”
That enticing fantasy bursts. My blush heats my throat and chest from my inappropriate thoughts. As if he’d ever want to kiss me again after tonight.
He sits back down. “You’ve used condoms before. This should have happened sooner than this, right?”
I groan, sinking down in the bed. I want to cover my red face in one of my throw pillows. Or crawl under my blankets and never come back out. I don’t have either of those things, however, so I settle for burying my face in my hands.
“I haven’t,” I say through my fingers.
“Haven’t what?”
“Used a condom. Ever.” Before he can ask, I confess, “Ashton and I were each other’s firsts. And I’ve been on the pill since I was sixteen.”
Spencer doesn’t say anything at first. Then he grunts, that cryptic sound which doesn’t tell me squat about what he’s thinking. He looks forward at the opposite wall. Taps a fist on the arm of his chair.
The quiet this time becomes cloying. I don’t think we’ve been in one another’s presence this long without upsetting the other. Or, as of tonight, taking off clothes. Waiting here, taking care of me, it’s not the harsh Spencer I’m familiar with. I hardly know what to do with this Spencer. The one who calls me by my actual name or sits in comfortable silence with me.
“I can call a rideshare, you know,” I finally speak, sliding my phone screen open.
Spencer holds out his hand. Reluctantly, I pass him the device, hiding a wince when he sees the background selfie of Ashton and me. I’ve been meaning to change that. I haven’t figured out what would be best to replace it with, though.
When Spencer gives back my phone, I see he’s opened my recording app. He says, “First question. Why do I train in the off-season?”
Fidgeting in his seat, he bumps a fist in an open palm. “I said before, I like to stay in shape. But I also want the pros to know I’m serious. I might not enter the draft this year, but I can show them now that I’m dedicated. That football is my life.”
He glances over, meets my eye. “Do you need to take notes?”
I shake my head, slowly, and try to hide my grateful smile. My phone automatically uploads files to the cloud, so I can access this recording from my computer later. I tell him this and he continues with the second question. About his playoff fumble.
“It sucked. There’s no way around it,” he blows out a breath. “But I have my team to back me up—my friends.” He grins in memory. “Don’t write this, but Morris and Hart found me beating up a dumpster after that game.”
“What’d the dumpster do to you?”
“I ask myself the same thing. What was the third question again?”
I remind him, and he describes his pre-game ritual to me. Finding a quiet corner of the locker room, closing his eyes, counting numbers in his head as he takes deep, calming breaths.
I sit up. “I do that, too.”
“Oh, when you
