I blink, confused. Aren’t guys like him supposed to love that kind of female attention? “It’s okay.”
“So, no sign of your roommate, then?” I shake my head, and his brows draw together. “Damn. I thought that would work.”
I shrug and sigh down at my phone, still hoping for a message from Quinn. “Thanks for trying.”
“We can try a few other frats, if you want.”
I stare at the line of houses before telling him honestly, “I don’t think I’m up for that.” That was one frat party too many, and I might pass out if forced to endure another hot, sticky basement.
Wes shoves his hands into his pockets and glances around the street with a thoughtful expression. He bites the inside of his cheek with narrowed eyes, like he’s trying to think up a solution to my problem. Suddenly, his eyes light up. “Hey, I know! Why don’t you come back to my place?”
It takes a moment for me to process his question, but once I do, my insides go cold.
“You want me to go back to your place?” I repeat, my voice quiet.
He nods with too much enthusiasm. “Sure! You can spend the night. I’ve got a Tempur-Pedic that’ll knock your fucking socks off.”
His words are the harsh reality check I needed, and I take a step away from him, my stomach flipping over. “T-that’s—” I break off. Take a breath. Try again. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Are you sure?” He takes a step in my direction, but I back up further, regarding him with unease. His brows pull together for a moment before shooting up, eyes widening in alarm ashe understands my sudden hesitation. “Oh, Ivy. Shit, I wasn’t saying—I didn’t mean to suggest—not spend the night likespend the night.I’d sleep on the couch, obviously.”
I have no idea if I’m thinking clearly (my racing thoughts say otherwise), but I react on instinct. “Thank you for your help,” I mumble, “but I should go. See you in class.”
His face falls, dejected. “Ivy, wait?—”
“Hey, Doc!” interjects one of the drunk guys on the lawn. “Come play pong!”
Distracted, Wes glances over at the guy, and I take that as my opportunity to turn and speed walk away. I don’t look back, but he calls my name again when I’m halfway down the block. I ignore it, and this time, he doesn’t follow me.
I’m almost back to the dorm when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I hastily glance at the screen.
Kinsley:We’re back. Ava’s sick.
I breathe a long sigh of relief, and when I make it to the apartment, the door’s unlocked. I hear the muffled sound of water running and Ava’s retching as I slip inside.
Shutting myself in my room, I strip off my winter clothes and crawl into bed. For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about Wes’s face before I turned away, guilt eating at my insides.
Why should you feel guilty? He wanted you to sleep in his bed. He was trying to take advantage of the situation.
Was he? Or was he just being…nice?
Once my brain thaws out, I go back and forth in my head for hours, deliberating whether I was justified in my response, debating the nuance of our conversation. The sad thing is, by three in the morning I still can’t come to a conclusion, and the guilt fisting my heart in an iron grip won’t loosen.
Why can’t I tell the difference between a threat and a genuine offer to help?
I think some part of me is broken.
FIVE
I try notto think about Wes on Sunday or Monday, but it’s impossible when my Public Speaking assignment quite literally revolves around him. Transcribing his responses into an informative outline, I can’t help but replay my (over?)reaction to his question Saturday night a million times in my head.
I am dreading Tuesday.
But, like all things I’d rather avoid, Tuesday comes quicker than I’d like, and I start my morning out wrong with a text from my mom.
Mom:You’re coming home next weekend for your father’s birthday, right? He’s turning sixty. That’s a big deal, Ivy.
Still in bed, half-asleep, I blink at the message. Of course I’m coming home next weekend. When have I ever missed a birthday or a holiday or a mandatory family…anything? It’s one of the downsides of going to school in the same state as my hometown—I’m always expected to show up, and I always do.
