She taps on her own laptop keyboard, adorned with a sticker of a bee wearing a crown that says ‘Queen Bee’ and the name of an international conservation nonprofit. Between my questions and calls to decorators, she’s been finishing an assignment with growing frustration. Now, she taps, taps, taps until she shoves the computer across the table. “And I have this damn exam next week on top of everything. I don’t know shit about stats. Why can’t you help me again?”
“I’m out of town this weekend.” The reminder makes my stomach flip. Because Brigid’s wedding is tomorrow.
More selfishly, I think, Spencer will have fulfilled his bet.
I’ve lost count of the number of times this week I paused in whatever task I was doing to stare off in the distance and daydream about tomorrow night. About Spencer. Rylie asked me during our shift yesterday if, after my foray into the college drinking scene, I’d decided to try cannabis as well. Which took me back to last Saturday and Spencer oh-so-gently combing back my hair when I threw up.
There was a time I would have died at the thought of Spencer Armstrong seeing me in such a state. Now I sigh to myself, remembering waking up the next day, before the sun had even come up, to his hand rubbing my butt and his whispering in my ear the definitions for ‘morning’ and ‘wood’.
“Oh yeah, the wedding,” Summer says, pulling me out of the memory. She rifles through her purse, then hands me a cylindrical object. “Here. The color will pop with your dress.”
I roll the lipstick tube in my hand. ‘Ruby Passion’. I’d shown her the photo Brigid had sent me of my bridesmaid dress a month ago.
“Don’t look at me like that, Walsh. I tried it, and it washes me out.”
The tube is completely sealed. Brand new.
Even with her sorority stressing her out and an exam for a subject she hates looming over her head, she’d remembered my sister’s wedding date and thought to buy the exact shade of red to ‘pop’ with my dress.
I pause the recording on my phone. “I’m sleeping with someone.”
“Walsh!” Summer screeches, forgetting we’re in the library. In a study room, with the door closed. Still, I wince. “You’re holding out on me?! How long? But more importantly, how good is it?”
I shake my head at her eager expression, the way she bounces in her seat. And as she watches me, my face heats, and she nods sagely.
“Oh, it’s good,” she nods. “If you’re blushing like that.”
“It’s… He’s phenomenal,” I admit, then cover my face. I laugh with equal parts embarrassment and relief, a burden lifted from my shoulders. Because Summer, unlike my roommates, doesn’t ask who it is. And having it out there, telling someone, even if I don’t say Spencer’s name, makes it more real. Like it’s not just some fantasy in my head, and I haven’t dreamed up all these moments with him.
“Well, congrats, Walsh,” Summer claps her hands. “You’ve joined the big leagues. Work your way through the appetizers. There’s no rush for a five-course meal just yet. Enjoy snacking for a bit.”
She glances at my phone. The recording’s still paused.
Then, she clears her throat, grabbing her computer again and shoving it in her purse so she doesn’t have to look at me. “ABB votes for our spring fundraiser every fall semester. Almost all my sisters voted for the Prescott Hall project.”
Anticipation bubbles in me. I sit up straight and swallow before asking, “What did you vote for?”
“Not… this,” she waves at her silent phone. She swivels in her chair, glaring at the ceiling. “But what I want doesn’t involve a party, so no one gives a hoot.”
She shakes her head and runs a hand over her forehead. “Nolan will be at the fundraiser. You want an interview with him?”
Her habit for abrupt topic changes doesn’t surprise me anymore. I’ve adapted to Summer’s unique ebb and flow of conversations, going along with it, letting her lead the way. But even though the journalist in me knows I should jump at this chance to meet with her father, a larger part of me, the one that actually kind of enjoys talking with Summer, doesn’t want to switch directions. Wants to ask what it is she voted for and her sorority turned down.
Her phone interrupts us by lighting up again. I see the name on the screen before Summer grabs it. Nolan.
“I need to take this,” she tells me, gathers her purse, and leaves.
I’m left on my own, reviewing my notes as I wait for her to return. A while later, I think Summer’s not coming back. Did she finish her call with her father and leave? Did she completely forget we were in the middle of an interview?
A knock on the door halts my thoughts. But it’s not Summer.
Spencer enters the study room. He drops my keys in my palm. “Car’s in the lot. Ready to go whenever you are.”
Since his schedule had been wide open after class this morning, he’d taken care of grabbing our bags from both our houses while our roommates are out. “Great. I’m almost done here, and we can head out.”
His eyes drop to my lips, and I smile, though a little part of me warns not to look so happy that he’s here. All week, we’d had too many close calls. Paying more attention to hanging out together than to our friends’ schedules on our secret calendar. Daring to go too long over our allotted time, to the point that he’d had to sneak out my window on two separate occasions. Yet, the closer the end of our bet draws near, it’s like our bodies can’t stay apart. The more we try to keep our hands off each other, the more they gravitate in the opposite direction.
Like now, when he glances
