“Thanks for lunch,” he says when we reach the corner where we have to part ways. “And for listening to me be an asshole about Trevor.”
“You’re always an asshole,” I point out. “It’s part of your charm.”
“Damn right it is.” He grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his gaze drops momentarily before finding mine again. “Seriously, though. Next year’s going to be your year. I know it.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. Because it’s high time that the rest of the world gets to know the name Jackson Monroe.”
He says it like a promise, and maybe that’s enough. Maybe having Drew Larney in my corner, even if only as a friend, is better than not having him at all.
“I’ll hold you to that,” I say.
“You better.”
The wind picks up again, and Drew makes this pathetic whimpering noise. “Fuck this wind,” he snarls, suddenly pressing himself against my side.
I’m about to make a joke about him being a baby when a sorority girl in a hot pink North Face jacket stops dead in her tracks. Her eyes go wide, darting between Drew and me.
“Oh my God, this is a-fucking-dorable!” she squeals, clutching her phone to her chest. “I can’t believe I’m witnessing this moment!”
Drew and I exchange confused glances. “Witnessing what?” I ask.
She gestures at us with perfectly manicured nails. “You two! Though, shouldn’tyou”—she points at Drew—“be protectinghimfrom the wind? You have more muscles. Never mind. Doesn’t matter. Can I please get a selfie with you guys? My sisters are going to die when they see I ran into BSU’s newest power couple!”
“Power couple?” My voice cracks.
“We’re not—” Drew starts, but she’s already squeezing between us, holding her phone up.
“Say cheese!”
We manage weak smiles as she snaps approximately seventeen photos. She’s barely walked away when two guys approach.
“Holy shit, it’s true!” one of them says. “Jackson Monroe bagged a hockey player!”
“Bagged?” I sputter. “Nobody bagged anyone!”
“Dude, respect,” the other guy adds, completely ignoring my protest. “Those hockey guys are impossible to lock down. I mean, look at Gerard—a complete virgin until he met Elliot. What’s your secret?”
“There’s no secret because we’re not?—”
“Jackson! Drew!” A group of girls from one of my literature classes last semester descends on us. “We’re so happy for you! It’s about time you admitted what everyone already knew!”
“What everyone already knew?” Drew’s voice rises an octave.
“That you’re perfect for each other!” one girl gushes. “The way you smile at each other at The Brew, how you’re always finding excuses to touch?—”
“We don’ttouch,” I interject as more people keep appearing.
Where are they all coming from? Is there some sort of Bat-Signal for gossip?
Soon, we’re surrounded by half the campus, who all want photos with the “couple of the century,” according to one overly enthusiastic freshman. Drew’s arm gets thrown around my shoulders, and I’m suddenly trying to process the tsunami of comments.
“The sexual tension has been killing us!”
“I knew something was up when you guys were spooning at the Polar Bear Plunge!”
“My roommate owes me twenty bucks!”
