Head to the English building? Brook will be there, and we can brainstorm questions to ask in my next interview with Summer Prescott. I’d met with the sorority girl earlier this week, and that meeting had gone swimmingly compared to the first. After a quick chat about how the rest of our Valentine’s Days went—Summer rounded third base, but hadn’t been impressed enough to call the guy for a second date. Mine passed uneventfully. That’s all. Nothing more—Summer hadn’t raised a fuss while we discussed her publicist’s question list.
Alternatively, I can take preliminary pictures of the Prescott Hall construction for the article. But a stroll all the way to south quad through the cold and snow, and when I’m running on little sleep…
I cover a yawn with the back of my wrist. Rylie and Natalie kicked off a spontaneous kitchen dance party late last night, complete with serving spoon microphones and mixing bowl drums. I’d rocked a frying pan guitar. The previous weekend’s party evidently had not been enough for my roommates to get out all their fun-loving energy.
As much as I know I should work on my newspaper assignments—or regular homework, or start researching wedding gifts for Brigid and Charlotte, or hit the gym because Natalie’s constant baking is going straight to my waistline—I’ll get sick myself if I don’t take a break soon.
So when Rylie walks through the door, looking as tired as I feel, there’s no question about it. I’ll drive home. Make a huge mug of coffee. Take a nap. Or watch a movie. Maybe even—and the straight-A student body treasurer in me gasps in horror—I’ll skip my afternoon class.
When our house comes into view as I turn the corner of our street, I grow giddy with excitement at the idea of a day off, cozy on the couch. The Tipsy Turvy sign is conspicuously missing from above the door. Levi had hung it there before our housewarming party, except he hadn’t done a secure job of it. In the middle of the week, it had blown off in a rough winter storm. Natalie said she’ll get one of the guys over to fix it, but she’s been busy preparing for a test (probably the catalyst for last night’s silliness—too much time cooped up studying) and hasn’t gotten around to asking yet.
Inside, I shower off the smell of coffee and pull on a shirt and pajama bottoms. Then it’s on to the kitchen. While I brew a pot of coffee, I tackle the mess from last night’s fun, which had started with Natalie demanding midnight brownies. Made from scratch.
My hands are pruney from soapy water when I hear the front door open. Thinking it must be Natalie, making a pit stop before her exam, I call out, reaching for the towel we keep near the sink as I glance over my shoulder, “Give me a minute, coffee’s on. I’ll pour you some.”
Spencer stands in the kitchen entryway, hands in his jacket. A rainbow lanyard hangs from one pocket. Natalie’s keys. But he is most definitely not Natalie.
I freeze in the middle of drying my hands.
I haven’t seen Spencer since our housewarming party last weekend. When his tongue had been down that cheerleader’s throat. And then he’d left. With her.
I don’t want to see him.
“Mason says your sign fell down,” he says with a shrug.
Nodding to the wooden plank on the counter opposite me, I turn my back to fix my drink. Natalie had left a drill and a step ladder next to the sign as a reminder to finish the chore. Besides the shuffle of Spencer picking up those things, silence settles over us. Thick, weighty, awkward silence.
“Coffee?” I ask, just to disturb the quiet.
He grunts.
Right. We’re back to that.
I grab another mug and pour coffee in it. Add sugar, a splash of cream. Choose butter pecan and vanilla for flavor and use them in both cups. Spencer slams the front door after him. When my eyes prick with the familiar sensation of tears, I dump the entirety of the raspberry syrup in one mug and leave it on the counter for when he comes back inside.
I take my drink to my room, slamming my own door behind me, even though Spencer can’t hear it.
Two days. It took him two freaking days. Less than that. Not even forty-eight total hours after nearly sleeping with me, and he kisses someone else. Homicide detectives take more time to get case leads than Spencer does to get in another girl’s underwear.
And I… I foolishly believed he might want to try again. To give me the full Spencer Armstrong experience, sans allergic reactions and trips to the emergency clinic. He bought me hair ties! The sweetest, most thoughtful gift I’d ever received from a boy, and it didn’t cost him more than a cup of Busy Beans coffee. Not only that, but—condoms. Ones that won’t make my skin blotchy and red and itchy. If that doesn’t say I still want to have sex with you, but let’s do it right this time, then I don’t know what does.
It’s true what they say. One girl. One night. And I’d had mine. I don’t even have my Leopard Leap questions as an excuse to spend time with him anymore. I’d turned the rest of that article in to Brook a week ago, since Spencer had finally cooperated with me. Now we’re back to being two people, with friends in common, who hate each other and just happened to touch each other’s naked bodies for one all-too-brief night.
I brush dampness from the corner of my eye. I refuse to cry over Spencer Armstrong. I did it. I had a one night stand. Got my feet wet. Cleansed my palate. I have the ovaries to move past it. I give zero total flips.
I’d even gone on a date this week, with one of Rylie’s art classmates, Elijah. She’d introduced us at the party,
