Something inside me stirred. Fluttered. Hitched. I drew back, inhaling shakily.
Tim watched me from behind his glasses, a small half smile on his face. “Happy New Year, Dee.”
I gulped. “Yeah. Absolutely. Happy New Year.”
It was New Year’s. I had to kiss somebody.
But I thought it would be Sam.
“I should go,” I said. “It’s getting late. Toni will be home soon.”Maybe. “And I still have lots to do. Writing. I have to write.”
“Tell me about it.”
“My writing?”
“Yes.”
“Well...” I wanted to, I realized. It was the space he made for me, around me, a kind of No Judgment Zone. As if I could say anything, and it would be okay. I opened my mouth.
My phone pinged in my pocket.
“Sorry.” I fumbled for it. “That must be Toni now.”
It wasn’t Toni.
SAM:Just finished closing up. Happy New Year, Boots.
As messages go, it was certainly better than the usual,U up?Better than Gray’s,Am I bothering you?
But a text at two in the morning could only mean one thing. “If you want to be friends who have sex, I’m here for that,” Sam had said.
Was that what I wanted? How I was going to spend my New Year?
I looked up at Tim. “It’s Sam.”
His face rearranged itself to its usual blank politeness. “You’ll want to get that.”
Eighteen
You watched the cooking channel,” Reeti said in disbelief. “You and Tim. On New Year’s Eve.”
“His friend was sleeping it off down the hall. Besides, I love the cooking channel,” I said.
We were seated at our usual table at Clery’s, refueling after the library. Me, swaddled in a Trinity hoodie, my hair a messy lump above my makeup-less face, like a writer on deadline. Reeti, shiny and perfect—bright glossy lips, dark glossy hair, touches of gold at her ears and throat. Like she’d just stepped away from the makeup counter at Brown Thomas instead of spending the past four hours studying for her accounting exams.
“Still.” She wrinkled her nose. “Disappointing.”
I smiled. “Two weeks ago, you wanted me to ride Sam like a pony. Now you want me to hook up with Tim?”
“I suppose not,” she conceded. “I adore Tim. But he is a bit of a Pinocchio.”
“Stiff?” I guessed.
“Solid. Wooden. Not a real boy.”
“He’s reserved.”
She grinned. “He has no pulse. Although I suppose stiff could be a good thing. If you got together.”
