“I didn’t fucking cry,” Jace protests, whipping around. “I had something in my eye!”
“Sure you did.” Chris laughs.
“Hey, at least I don’t write poetry about the color of my girlfriend’s eyes like somelovesick—”
“One time!” Damon throws his hands up. “I wrote one poem after we got back together, and you assholes will never let me live it down.”
“It was fourteen verses.” Chris snorts, digging a hand in his monster bag of Skittles. “You compared her eyes to the ocean at sunset and her laugh to—what was it again?”
“‘Wind chimes on a summer breeze,’” I supply helpfully, my mood lifting slightly at Damon’s obvious discomfort.
“I hate all of you,” Damon mutters.
“It’s times like these, I’m so glad I don’t have a girlfriend,” West mumbles.
“Oh, just you wait. It’ll happen,” Chris says.
“And when it does, she’ll have your balls in a vise grip just like the rest of us,” Damon adds.
“Speak for yourself. My balls aren’t in a vise grip,” I say, and they all laugh at my expense.
“Bullshit,” Damon gasps, clutching at his stomach. “Your balls are so deep in Tatum’s pocket she doesn’t even know she has them yet.”
“At least I’m not writing poetry about wind chimes,” I shoot back.
“No, you’re just stalking a girl who won’t text you back,” Jace mutters.
“It’s not stalking if she’s your best friend,” I argue. “It’s . . . concerned reconnaissance.”
West snorts. “That’s some CIA-level justification right there.”
“You know what—” I start, but Damon interrupts.
“Hey, isn’t that them?” He points toward the dorm entrance where a group of girls has emerged.
“Oh shit,” Chris hisses, ducking down slightly. “Everyone act normal.”
“What exactly does ‘normal’ look like in this scenario?” Jace asks dryly. “Five guys crammed in a parked car for no reason?”
“Just shut up,” Chris whispers, peering through the windshield. “They’re heading for Liz’s SUV.”
I strain to see through the darkness, but Damon shoves my head down with his hand.
“Get off me,” I growl, slapping Damon’s hand away. “I can’t see—”
My words die in my throat at the sound of a sharp rap against the driver’s side window.
All five of us freeze when Charlotte’s face appears in the glass, her expression a dangerous mix of surprise and suspicion. Behind her, I can barely make out the silhouettes of a scowling Brynn and Liz.
Chris yelps, the sound so high-pitched, it would put a five-year-old girl to shame. His hand is frozen halfway to his mouth with a Skittle pinched between his fingers. “Maybe if we ignore them, they’ll leave,” he whispers, staring straight ahead as though Charlotte isn’t literally two feet away, clearly able to see him through the window.
“This isn’t fucking preschool,” I hiss, leaning between the seats. “Just because we close our eyes, doesn’t mean we’re suddenly invisible.”
Charlotte knocks again, more insistently this time, and mouths something that looks a lot like,Open the damn window.
“We’re so busted,” Damon mutters under his breath.
The soft whir of the window fills the answering silence as Chris holds the button down, allowing the chilly October air to slice through the car.
