Shielding Morris from a fan of his dad’s. Bickering with Levi. Even contributing to Grayson’s winning funds, though he knows he’s likely to never see a dime of that money again. He’d avoided my question in the car, but I know the answer. These guys, his friends. He hides it, with scowls and sarcasm and all those swear words, but he cares for them. And that tiny morsel of truth, it warms something in me, as I stare down at the table and bite back an affectionate smile.
Until Levi asks, “Spence, what are you even gonna do without me there as your wingman?”
And Spencer tells him, “Score more pussy than last year.”
The cup slips out of my hand. Splashes water all down my dress. Rylie jumps up, grabbing napkins from the dispenser on the table to dab at my skirt. I take them from her without thinking, that warm, tender ache inside me hardened to a solid chunk of cold.
“Excuse me,” I tell them, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as shaky as I imagine it and my limbs not as rigid as they feel. I head for the restroom, accidentally bumping several people on my way.
Both stalls in the Kellermann’s ladies’ room are thankfully empty. I shut the door behind me, sliding the lock bolt over so I won’t be interrupted. Any girl who needs to pee can go to the men’s room, for all I care.
I lean against the door, unconcerned that my dress is wet, as one thought crowds my head, the one I’ve put off for weeks now.
I’m not the only girl he’s sleeping with.
I should have known, from the minute he went home with that cheerleader from our housewarming party. But I’d chosen to ignore it. Let it lurk deep in my subconscious because I hadn’t wanted to face the reality of it. I’d checked those days on the dumb calendar I made, the ones where our schedules don’t match up, and obtusely pushed away the question: If he’s not getting it from me, who is he getting it from?
I’m different, I’d lied to myself. It’s different with me because Spencer Armstrong kisses me every day, and I’ve slept with him more than once. More times than I can count. So easily, I’d deluded myself into thinking what we were doing mattered to him. Into believing I knew him, when I don’t know anything about him at all.
The realization strikes me right where it hurts the most. Because it’s the stark truth.
I don’t know Spencer Armstrong.
Besides that he plays football, enjoys one funny chick flick, and makes me climax like I imagine no one else can, I don’t know a single thing about him. I know his schedule. His classes. His workouts. But I couldn’t begin to describe what he does in the time between then. What his hopes are, his dreams. His favorite food or color. The small, unique details that make up an individual. I hadn’t even known where he’d be for a week.
On a beach. With babes and bikinis. With girls like Summer Prescott, who don’t get entangled with guys they meant to only share one night with.
I wrap my arms around my stomach, over the damp material. I’d been willing—eager—to let him do anything he wanted to me. Giving him special pieces of myself, like he couldn’t find another girl who’d be willing to do the same, or more.
I want to come inside you.
My stomach rolls at the words. I’d considered allowing him. But I’d told him no. Because I respect my own dedication to hold out for something better. A committed relationship, I’d told him. Opening a line of communication. A chance for him to volunteer. One he’d thrown back in my face. And now that moment, that pause between us, it hits harder because it makes me wonder just how many other girls he’d said those exact same words to and just how many of them had agreed without thought.
A chill travels over me, making me shiver, and my whole body sags. I’m tired. Fatigued and weary and sick to my stomach. I face the mirror above one of the bathroom sinks. Dark circles have formed under my eyes from pulling late nights studying, finishing up newspaper assignments, and packing for break all week. I attempted to cover them with makeup, but there’s no disguising the wan paleness of my features.
What are you doing, Kennedy? my reflection asks. You’re being naïve, thinking you’re cut out for casual. You’ve always been a relationship kind of girl.
A knock thunders on the bathroom door. I jump at the sudden noise. It pounds again.
“Hold your flipping horses,” I mutter, opening the lock.
A distinctively large and masculine body pushes in. “Spencer, what—”
“Who the fuck was that?”
He slams the door behind him, replacing the lock. Though his words are low, quiet, they’re as intense as if he had yelled them. Because I can see it, that he wants to yell. In the clenching of his fists at his sides and the stiffness of his shoulders. The furious gaze he pins on me.
“What are you talking about?” I ask him, guard up. Because I do know this Spencer. Angry Spencer. Mean Spencer. Already, my hands twitch, wishing I hadn’t dropped my water so that I could throw it on him. It’s a reflex, muscle memory from a time when I couldn’t stand this side of him, though that feels like forever ago.
“The asshole with the fucking suspenders.” He whips his hand, as though that gesture encompasses the entirety of the bar outside this small bathroom.
“Elijah?”
“Who the fuck is Elijah?”
My shoulders hike, and I cross my arms. I could lie. Placate him with an explanation that Elijah’s a friend. A classmate. Just some guy.
But why should I spare his feelings? Because the words hidden under that acidic tone, the accusation in them—he doesn’t try to spare mine.
Strength surges in me, powering through the lethargy I feel. Spencer backs me in a
