“Your turn. Why do guys take so long to reply to messages?”
I shake my head. “Depends.”
“On?”
I consider how to answer this without making every guy sound like a complete dick. “I don’t know. I’m probably not the best person to ask this question because I try not to play mind games. If I’m interested, I’m interested. Maybe it’s because of Maggie and Rae, but that shit just complicates everything. I think, in general, guys will take a while to respond because they’re waiting to see if another girl messages them first, FOMO effect. Other guys I know have been worried about coming across too eager.”
Poppy’s quiet, considering my answer. I want to ask what prompted the question—if it was a who or a particular situation that drove the conversation in this direction. “Did you text Mike?”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s just a generalized question.”
I know this isn’t true. With Poppy, there are no generalizations. But I accept her answer, realizing she may not want to talk about it. “We should eat. You want to grab some plates?” She looks relieved to have a task and immediately moves to the cupboards, opening three before she finds the dishes.
“I forget how unfamiliar you are with things here. It’s kind of weird.”
She hands me the plates, and as I take them, my fingers graze hers. Her skin is warm, and her nails nude. As I look up, she’s staring at our crossed fingers and then startles out of whatever thought was holding her attention and pulls away and goes searching for silverware in the drawers. “Is this weird?” she asks, looking at me over her shoulder. “I mean, you know we can always call things off if it’s starting to feel weird.”
“No. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that it’s surprising because we’ve known each other for so long, but you don’t hang out here very often. Sometimes I forget that you were Rae’s friend first.” We stare at each other for a long second, neither of us moving or talking. Maybe she forgets sometimes, too.
Poppy resumes her search for silverware. “I’ve been thinking we should look at our schedules. Compare them. Also, should we invite Caleb to eat with us?”
“He’s meeting Julie in an hour.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, eyes wide like this makes her nervous.
“Lincoln bought a bottle of wine. I’m pretty sure it’s for their anniversary. Maybe we should drink it?”
This dims her gaze. “Because that would go over well.”
I shrug. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
At this, she grins. “I’ll get us some water.” She locates two glasses and fills them from the water kept in the fridge. “Do you miss that scene?”
“What scene?”
A furtive smile exposes her uncertainty.
“You mean drinking?”
“And partying.”
I shrug. “More at first. I miss the energy that came with going out. Everyone was always excited and pumped, and no one gave a shit about anything but feeling good. I know you and Rae like to have these meaningful conversations and discussions about feelings and pasts and heavy shit, but sometimes it’s nice to just be around people who don’t care about any of it. They don’t care if I play football or if my dad fucked up or if I’m good enough to get drafted…” I shake my head. “It’s all jokes and sarcasm and turning the world off.”
Poppy blinks like she’s considering the world I’ve just painted for her. “Does it ever feel lonely?”
“Lonelier than people constantly telling me whether they think I’m good enough?”
A wince pulls at her lips. “Celebrity status must suck sometimes.”
I shrug. “I can’t complain. I have a chance to change my entire life because I’m good at a sport. Not many people can say that. I have nothing to bitch about. I just sometimes need an escape from all the noise.”
“Not to sound like my mom, but maybe through this, we can find some healthier ways for you to find that escape.”
I grin. “Where’s your notebook?”
Her smile turns broad as she pulls out a notepad and pen from her purse. “Let’s do this.”
16
Poppy
Tuesdays, Pax and I don’t typically hang out, but after comparing our schedules, we found some crossovers that made it convenient to meet on campus. The weather is cooler. Fewer people gather outside, but there's still an audience as Pax approaches me, a conspiratorial smile on his face that anyone else would mistake for being flirtatious.
“Hey,” he says, his voice warm and gravely as he gets close enough that I smell his cologne. Some guys drown themselves in cologne, and you can smell them from several feet away, but with Pax, you have to be close, and even then, I sometimes have to focus on catching the hints of cedar and pine and sweetness that makes me take longer and slower breaths when I’m near him.
I tilt my head, knowing he’s going to kiss me, and ignore the way my pulse flickers. I wonder if this is how Hollywood actors feel when they’re on a set and have to pretend to be in love? Is it natural? Forced? Or can they just compartmentalize and realize it’s a role? Paxton’s hand spans across my waist, his warmth heating me like a portable sun. Our kisses have all been chaste, attributed to him catching me off guard and likely my nerves and several month hiatus from kissing. I’m trying to remember the steps when his mouth greets mine, warm and gentle this time, a note of patience like he can hear my thoughts going over the rules and instructions of how to kiss someone. His lips ply at mine, gentle yet forceful, taking the lead like he’s explaining the directions to me.
His fingers press into me, securing me to this moment in time. Then, his tongue grazes mine with
