Last time.Another fictional encounter to add to our made-up sexual history. “Your room’s good.”
“Perfect.” He finally releases my hand as our food arrives, but the loss of contact hurts. “We can take our time. Do it properly instead of rushing as we have been.”
The waitress sets down our plates with a knowing smile, and I realize she heard that last part. Now she probably thinks we’re the couple who can’t stop fucking long enough to eat a meal. God, how I wish that were true.
I pick at my pasta, hyperaware of Drew’s eyes on me. “You’re not eating.”
“Not that hungry.”For food, anyway.
“You should eat.” His voice carries the same concern from earlier, but now it’s tinged with suggestion. “You’ll need your energy.”
I choke on air. He’s too good at this, slipping into the role of attentive boyfriend who’s also planning to rail me into next week. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here trying not to combust from a mixture of arousal and embarrassment.
“I’m fine,” I manage, twirling the Alfredo around my fork.
“Jackson.” My name falls from his lips with such unexpected tenderness that I can’t help but meet his gaze. “Eat something. Please?”
It’s thepleasethat does it. Soft and genuine, momentarily breaking through the performance. I take a bite to appease him, ignoring how the simple act of following his request causes heat to pool in my stomach.
We continue the meal in relative quiet, but the tension never dissipates. His foot bumps mine under the table and I nearly drop my fork. When he reaches for the salt, his fingers graze my forearm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound. By the time we’re finished eating, I’m wound tighter than a wind-up toy.
“Ready to go?” Drew asks, signaling for the check.
No. Yes. I don’t know.The idea of leaving with him, of continuing this charade somewhere private, is both heady and unsettling. Because what happens when we’re alone? Do we keep pretending? Do we acknowledge that this whole conversation has been a lie? Do I finally tell him that I want it to be real?
“Yeah,” I say instead. “Let’s go.”
Drew pays—insists on it, like a real boyfriend would—and then we’re standing, his hand finding the small of my back to guide me out. It’s such a simple touch, but my whole body lights up at the contact.
The cold air outside is a relief after the heated atmosphere of the restaurant. I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head, but Drew’s hand is still on my back, and his body is warm beside mine.
“Think it worked?” I ask as we head for his truck.
He considers this. “Maybe. We’ll have to wait and see what she writes next. I’m sorry if that was too much. I know talking about that stuff isn’t easy, since you’re straight and all.”
Straight. I haven’t been straight since I came to BSU. “It’s fine,” I lie. “Whatever it takes to fool her, right?”
“Right.” Something flashes across his face. Disappointment? Relief? I can’t tell. “Whatever it takes.”
We reach the truck, and Drew opens my door for me. Like a real boyfriend. Like someone who cares. And maybe he does, just not in the way I want him to.
As he walks around to the driver’s side, I close my eyes and try to get myself under control. We’re not going to his room. We’re not going to do any of the things we spent twenty minutes discussing. We’re two friends playing pretend, even if my body hasn’t gotten the memo.
But when Drew slides into the driver’s seat and smiles at me, his hazel eyes still dark with something that might be desire or might be good acting, I know I’m fucked in all the ways I shouldn’t be.
26
JACKSON
“Can I ask you something? About, uh, you and Gerard?” The day after that torturous night at the restaurant, I’m with Elliot at the library. He’s working, I’m studying—or supposed to be, anyway—and dreading what’s about to come out of my mouth.
Elliot raises an eyebrow. “That depends on what you’re asking.”
“It’s…” I stare at the table, at my hands, at the fascinating wood grain pattern. Anywhere but at Elliot’s face. “I mean, when you guys…” My voice cracks. “How does it—with two guys?—”
“Jackson.” Elliot’s voice carries that brand of exasperation he’s perfected over years of dealing with me. “Whatever you’re trying to ask, just spit it out before you give yourself an aneurysm.”
The words tumble out in a rush. “What’s it like having sex with another guy?”
