“Can’t you, you know, just do this?” I make a shoving motion with my hands.
“Sure, if you want them to fall out.” He nods toward the other corner. “You do that one.”
At no point in my life did I ever think I’d be spending my senior prom night—historically when I planned I’d have sex for the first time—with the guy I did have sex with for the first time while he taught me how to properly tuck sheets. I’m going to have to check under the comforter when I get home to see if Martha uses the same fancy folding method. I’m probably going to check every bed I sleep in from now on and think of Sawyer fucking Bennett every damn time.
My edges aren’t as crisp as his, but the overhanging sheet doesn’t fall back out after I jam it under the mattress, so I consider it a success. “You can sleep on that side,” I say, nodding toward the corner he did. “In case mine falls out.”
Rather than laugh or make fun, Sawyer sobers. “I’ll take the couch,” he tells me.
“Oh.” Sleeping in bed with a guy would normally freak me out. I never have before. But I’m disappointed more than anything. And I feel guilty for putting him out. “You don’t—I’ll take the couch.”
That makes him grin. “You’d last five minutes.”
Mostof the time, I enjoy being accommodated. Prioritized. My last name means I get waved to the front of lines. Served first. Told yes when others would get told no.
But I do not like Sawyer seeing me as spoiled and helpless, and I think he might.
“No, that was you,” I say sweetly.
The amusement remains on his face, but it transforms. Smolders, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Wouldn’t your boyfriend mind?”
It takes me several seconds to realize what he’s talking about. I suppressed that humiliating phone call as deep as possible. Plus, I feel drugged, even though I left Manhattan totally sober. I’m drunk on him, on sudden exposure to an addiction that elicits bouts of insanity—like lying about dating someone so I seem less pathetic. Which is, undoubtedly, waymorepathetic.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I tell him. “And I”—I hate apologizing, but I owe him this one—“I shouldn’t have called you that night. It was … I’m sorry.”
I almost add that it was a lie. But that would be even more mortifying. Not to mention ruining everything calling him was supposed to accomplish.
I want Sawyer to think I’m over him. That I’m unaffected by being in his room, by the prospect of sleeping in his bed. That this is just another Friday night to me.
“It’s fine.” He heads for the door. “Glad you had fun.”
I scoff, but he’s already in the hallway, so I’m not sure he hears me.
I walk over to his desk, picking up and unzipping the bag I packed for the after-party. I thought, at some point, I’d regret missing most of the evening I’d planned meticulously, but it still doesn’t hit as I unpack.I set my toiletry bag on Sawyer’s desk, pulling out both sets of pajamas as I debate which to wear. I’m not sure if Sawyer is coming back or if he’s taken up residence on the couch.
AndI don’t care, I tell myself sternly.
I’ll leave tomorrow morning, spend as little time as possible in the Hamptons all summer, and fly to LA at the end of August.
I settle on the pink silk pair, toss the blue set back, and then reach for my overstuffed toiletry bag. My hand slows midair, my attention caught on the edge of an envelope holding the top desk drawer open an inch. I look over my shoulder. No sign of Sawyer in the doorway. So, I slide the drawer open carefully, heart somersaulting with the realization that he kept my letters. One of them at least.
It’s not until I slide the envelope out and see the neatly typed address that I realize this letter isn’t from me. My heart stills, but curiosity builds. The letter is from Cornell University. And it’s open, so I don’t think it’s illegal to read the contents of mail addressed to someone else without their permission. Just extremely unethical.
I’m too intrigued to care. I peer inside and scan the lines of text quickly, aware I could get caught at any second. If I’m going to get busted, I at least want to know what I’m looking at. After his address and a generic greeting, it reads:
Congratulations on your outstanding academic success!
Using information obtained from college testing services, the admissions office at Cornell has identified you as a student who may be an excellent candidate for our institution. Your strong performance on the SAT demonstrates a high level of academic potential and thekind of intellectual curiosity we look for in prospective students.
We encourage you to consider Cornell as you begin your college search. Our university offers a vibrant academic community and unique opportunities?—
I stop reading, stuffing the letter back in its envelope. There are more envelopes under the first one. Hastily, I peek in another. This one begins with:
Dear Sawyer,
My name is Dean Martin and I am the head baseball coach at Vanderbilt University. I am writing to express our interest in?—
