I open the car door.
“Evan?”
“Yeah?”
“You’ll call me, right?”
When did anyone not call Nate after a hookup? Just the sight of him, looking all clean in his nice clothes, in his nice car, with his perfect skin and sexily messy hair. His cheeks all pink from getting a hand job under a shower. His conventionally handsome face and frat boy body. You don’t need to be a genius to know this guy has never had problems getting dates.
“Yeah, I’ll call you.”
The house is quiet when I let myself in. I tiptoe upstairs and get into bed, still so hard it hurts. But I refuse to touch myself. As if leaving it will make what happened that much different. Make it just for him.
11
NATHAN
The frat house was quiet when I got home last night. I was still in a daze as I let myself in and walked up the stairs to the shower. Peeling my damp clothes off my body. Remembering Evan hovering over me, making me feel good.
When I climbed into bed, I thought about all the other stuff too, like how Evan said he’d been with men, a lot of men. In the moment, it excited me, because it meant he might want to be with me. That he might not be as out of reach as I’d always thought.
But lying there in bed, replaying his words, the jealousy surfaces. Thinking about Evan touching all those other men the way he touched me. Them touching him. Probably making him feel better than I ever could.
His words came back—because it feels good.
Could I ever make him feel the way those men have?
Everyone’sup when I come downstairs, Ben manning the blender as usual. Priestley’s at the coffee machine, drinkingan espresso with his hair perfectly coiffed and the collar popped on his polo, looking like he’s been up for hours.
He raises an eyebrow at my appearance. I’m still wearing the ratty t-shirt and shorts I slept in last night. When I run a hand through my hair, it’s a mess and I can smell myself.
“Late night, Carter?” Priestley asks.
Ben flashes me a look I can’t read, but I’m sure he looks sad. Did something happen while I was away last night?
I ignore Priestley, taking a glass of green goop from the counter and forcing some down.
“Gah, what’s in this?”
Ben takes a beat before replying. “Celery, kale, coconut water….”
I don’t need to hear another word. I leave the glass on the counter and open the fridge, looking for something edible.
Priestley eyes me suspiciously as I reach for some cold pizza. “Don’t you understand that we’re supposed to be in the best shape of our lives right now? Regionals are only a few months away-”
“I know, don’t worry. I’m in good shape.”
His eyes scan my body in my sleep clothes and I feel exposed, like the dude has x-ray vision or something. I resist the urge to cover up.
Priestley somehow manages to ‘encourage’me to gulp down one of Ben’s disgusting ‘smoothies’ before we leave for practice.
I still feel a little sick when we get to the locker room and start changing into our tennis clothes.
Even after four years of private school, the second I stepped into this room, I felt like an intruder. Like someone—someone like Priestley Rosenthal—was going to see me and point me out as the imposter.
But it never happened. I’m still here. These crisp, navy tennis clothes with the logo of an Ivy League college belong to me. That’s my name on my cubby. My Wilson rackets neatly lined up. My custom tennis shoes. At some point, I stopped being intimidated.
I’m smiling to myself at the memory of last night when I catch Ben watching me. He’s biting the inside of his lip like he does sometimes when he’s nervous or something’s bothering him. I’m about to ask him what’s wrong when Coach comes in and asks us if we’re ready.
