Then I sigh. But we haven’t fucked yet. And I really want to.
Becks wrinkles her nose. How long has this been going on?
I try to calculate. It’s weird, because there’s no real start date to our relationship. We’ve been going to Marjorie’s house for over a month now, but we only started being friends partway through that. Yet we’ve been getting to know each other since the first night we picked him up in Minnie. It’s very confusing.
Maybe ten days since we first kissed? I venture.
Ahhh, I see. What you’re experiencing is normal dating; so, unlike your normal one-night stands.
I thought guys liked to fuck, I complain. I have this nagging insecurity that maybe Mats just doesn’t want to fuck me specifically. I haven’t asked again, but I don’t understand waiting. The memory of his incredible naked upper body is starting to fade, despite my best efforts to summon it every time I get myself off.
Everyone likes to fuck. But there are people on the planet who don’t jump into bed two minutes after they’ve met, she replies.
I wonder how long he waited to fuck Lana.
I immediately hate myself for voicing those words. I’m not normally jealous, but there’s something about Mats and Lana that bothers me. I could tell that Mats was unhappy at the beginning. He was sad because he and Lana had broken up—fuck, I saw him five minutes after it happened. So, I assumed that he wanted to get back with her.
Becks leans closer. Did you hear that Lana is dating Luke Charlevoix?
Charlie? From the men’s team? On one hand, that should be good news, but it’s also disturbing. He’s nothing like Mats, except that they both play hockey. Is this her scheme to make Mats jealous? Or is my brain scrambled because I’m so into Mats?
Ugh, I’ll go with brain omelette.
Weird, right? Becks asks.
I nod. Anyway, I’m here to ask you for a favour.
Nope, she replies automatically.
I ignore this. I’m having Mats over for dinner tonight.
With the emphasis on having? She leers.
Yup. So, could you eat dinner early tonight? Like around 5:30?
Just me? What about everyone else?
I count off on my fingers. Knudy has a class tonight, Woolly is listening to a speaker, and Jinx has a date. You’re going to be the only one home, and I’d like a dinner for two.
Becks wears a shit-eating grin. I should get to know your young man. After dinner, you can go to your room for some privacy. What are we having?
We are not having dinner. Mats and I are having chicken tacos. Something healthy. Also, easy. I’m an okay cook, but I can’t do anything gourmet. But I know what Mats’s food preferences are. Even if I don’t eat clean, I know what I’m supposed to be eating.
Anyway, it’s time to get ready, so I leave without getting Becks’s promise, but my fingers are crossed that she’ll leave us alone. After all, she’s the one who wants me to date nicer people.
I clean up my room by picking up my clothes from the floor and throwing them into the hamper, then I vacuum. It’s hard to imagine Mats in here. My room décor is minimal, not in the classy Nordic way, but more like someone forgot to decorate. I still have the plaid bed-in-a-bag set that my mother got me in freshman year. And besides a corkboard with team photos and various crap pinned to it, I have zero wall decorations. Even my desk chair has seen better days.
Ah, well. It’s not like I can redecorate in an hour. Maybe I’ll borrow one of Jinx’s big candles and turn out all the lights. Wait, that would mean I’d see less of Mats, so forget it.
I prep dinner. All I have to do is cook the chicken and assemble the toppings. Mats can pick whatever ingredients best fuel his incredible physique. That upper body… I thank whatever combination of genetics and gym work sculpted him.
Smells good in here, Knudy says. She makes a sandwich and then eats it standing up. Why are you making so much food?
I’m having Mats over, I explain.
Really? So, something is going on between you two? I knew it, she says smugly.
Knudy single-handedly figured out my issue with Mats and Jordan, but she hasn’t bugged me about it since. She loves to know everything, but she’s not a gossip.
