“Why not?” She folds the paper and stuffs it in her bag as the line shuffles forward. “It’s fire. A couple of people in my glass blowing class were talking about it this morning.”
My heart leaps, but I press my lips flat and shrug.
It doesn’t matter.
“Girl, I don’t know why you’re afraid to put your own name on the byline. This is pure gold.” Haley levels her gaze at me, but I look away. Because apparently, I’m a coward. Who writes under a pseudonym. “You should be proud of yourself.”
“Yeah, well, if you were the hot mess express, you wouldn’t advertise it either.” I gather my hair and twist it into a topknot, securing it with a rubber band from my wrist. I love Haley, but she just doesn’t get it. Not only is she confident—in herself and her work—she’s a visual artist. She lives for showcases and has the uncanny ability to let criticism roll off her back. I’d trade my soul for a skill like that. “People may laugh at my stories, but that doesn’t mean I have to be the butt of their jokes.”
Not anymore.
She frowns. “You really think people would laugh at you?”
“Come on, Hales. My own family doesn’t even take me seriously.” I force a self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve got half a dozen nicknames to prove it.”
“Fuck Noah and his nicknames,” she declares fiercely. There’s no hesitation, once again proving she’s loyal AF, even when it comes to family. “You give great voice. Everyone who reads your work knows it.”
In the year I’ve been writing for The Collegian, my features have garnered thousands of comments online. The only articles that get more likes on social media are the thirst traps featuring the football team.
Still, I’m not ready to go there. Not yet.
If not now, when?
Probably never.
The line inches forward, and Haley grumbles about the long wait. The girl has zero patience—especially pre-caffeinated—and I’m not above using the distraction to change the subject.
Caffeine withdrawal FTW!
“So, what are we getting into this weekend?”
“I’m glad you asked.” Haley draws the words out as she turns to face me. “I want to check out The Den tomorrow after the game. You in?”
The Wildcat’s Den is a bar downtown. I’ve never been, but it’s the place to be—if you’re legal and aren’t into the Greek scene.
“One tiny problem.” I pinch my thumb and forefinger together. “Neither of us is twenty-one, and I doubt even you can talk your way past the bouncer.”
She nods, a mischievous glint in her eye. “That would be a problem if Bryan weren’t getting us fakes. He’s picking them up tonight.”
“Fake IDs?” I wipe my palms on my shorts and imagine all the ways this could come back to bite me in the ass.Spoiler alert: gingers and orange jumpsuits do not mix. “We could get in a lot of trouble if we get caught.”
“Relax. It’s not a big deal.” Haley loops her arm through mine, all cool confidence and low-key coercion. “Besides, we’re not going to get caught.”
She sounds so sure of herself that I want to believe her. But the thing is, only two percent of the population has red hair, so the odds of a good fake are slim. And let’s be honest, I’m not exactly what you’d call lucky.
On the other hand, The Wildcat’s Den is the perfect place to find a hookup.
God knows I’m not about to try Greek Row again.
Not after Saturday night’s humiliation.
“I swear, if I get arrested,” I say, giving Haley the side-eye, “I’m never forgiving you.”
She squeals—like there was ever any doubt I’d cave—and bumps her hip against mine. “That’s the spirit!”
Spirit. Stupidity. Is there even a difference?
“I take it this means you and Bryan are back on?”
