The Wookiee joke was just a coincidence. It’s one of the most famous quotes from the franchise. There are all kinds of memes and merch dedicated to it. Quinn reciting the line doesn’t mean a damn thing. Because Quinn couldn’t possibly be the anonymous woman I’ve been texting, could she?
15
QUINN
It’sSunday afternoon and I’m camped out on the couch working on an article for The Collegian. Despite my total lack of a hangover, it’s slow going. Mainly because I’m stuck in my head, worried Coop will see the piece and realize I’m the author.
But that’s stupid, right?
There are forty-thousand undergrads at Waverly.
Plus, he’s busy with football. He probably doesn’t have time to read the paper. Even if he did, it’s all anonymous. It’s not like anyone would know the article is about him.
Quit obsessing and just submit it already.
There’s no doubt my readers would love another story about the cockblocking jockhole. The last one got nearly fifteen hundred comments. And, honestly, what are the odds I’d run into the same interfering jock twice?
Pretty good when you’re a walking disaster.
I groan and tip my head back, letting it rest against the couch. I’m overthinking it. I know this, but I can’t seem to stop. If I don’t get a grip, I’m going to spiral and I really don’t have time for that.
Not when I need to revise my essay for Creative Nonfiction.
According to Call-Me-David, the piece I submitted wasn’t vulnerable enough. Because sending the class into fits of hysterical laughter as I described my summer working at a paint your own pottery studio where I broke half a dozen finished pieces, crowned one of the regulars with red paint, and was banned from using the kiln wasn’t sufficiently deep and heartfelt.
Which just goes to show how much he knows.
Because after that reading? I was definitely feeling some kind of way.
Yeah, well, apparently stabby doesn’t count.
Whatever. I’ll think of something else—eventually.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and tap the submit button on my article.
When I open my eyes, the confirmation message flashes on the screen.
No turning back now.
“Please tell me you’re not still working on that article,” Haley says, flouncing into the room with a plastic tote in her hands. “Sundays are for relaxation, not homework.”
I roll my eyes and close my laptop. “Maybe you could explain that to Call-Me-David because he didn’t get the memo.”
“Besides,” she says, sitting the tote on the coffee table and flopping down on the couch next to me. “I need the tea. What happened last night?”
“Nothing.” Not a total lie. I’m still a card-carrying member of Virgins-R-Us.
“Bullshit.” She narrows her eyes and looks me over, as if checking to confirm my virginity is intact. Which, I’m pretty sure, isn’t a thing. “You didn’t have sex, but something went down.” She shoots me a smug grin, victory flashing in her eyes. “Otherwise, it wouldn’t have taken you so long to write that article.”
Damn. She knows me too well.
“Or…” I say, dragging the word out to buy myself some time. “It took forever because I had to make it up and I’m light on inspiration.”
“I can’t believe you’re holding out on me.” She removes the lid from the tote and tosses it on the floor at our feet. “When I lost my virginity, you were the first person I told. And who was there when you needed help picking out a vibrator? Oh, and what about the time B’s piercing got stuck—”
“You promised we’d never speak of that again!” I squeal, covering my ears. Because, just no. Hearing that story once was more than enough. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you have a tendency to overshare?”
“Not even once.” She reaches into the tote and grabs a bottle of fuchsia nail polish. It’s been her signature color since freshman year. “Come on. We’ll do mani-pedis while you tell me all about last night.” She shoots me a stern look. “Don’t you dare leave anything out.”
