I want to believe him, but the voice in my head—the one that sounds suspiciously like Dad and every other person who’s ever looked at me and found me lacking—won’t shut up.
You’re not enough. You’ve never been enough. Why would someone like Oliver want someone like you?
“Okay, new strategy.” Jackson releases my face and starts pacing. “Let’s talk tactics. How not to be nervous around Oliver tonight.”
“I don’t think tactics are going to help.”
“I’m a quarterback, Ryan. My entire life is tactics.” He holds up one long finger. “Number one: remember that Oliver is a person. Yes, he’s hot. Yes, he’s the hockey captain. Yes, he has that chiseled jaw thing going on. But underneath all that, he’s a guy who puts his pants on one leg at a time and probably has embarrassing childhood photos somewhere.”
“I’ve seen his embarrassing childhood photos.”
“Perfect! Use that! You have history. You know things about him that nobody else does.” Jackson holds up a second finger. “Number two: focus on listening, not performing. You don’t have to be witty or charming or whatever you think you need to be. Just be present. Ask questions. Let him talk. People love talking about themselves.”
“Oliver isn’t most people.”
“Everyone is most people when it comes to feeling heard.” A third finger joins the others. “Number three: breathe. I’ve seen you hold your breath when you’re nervous, and then you get all lightheaded and weird. So breathe in, breathe out, repeat.”
I try it. In through the nose, out through the mouth. My lungs expand, then contract, and some of the tension in my shoulders releases.
“Good. See? You’re already less caterpillar-browed.” Jackson drops his hand and grabs his phone from the desk. “Now, final thing. Escape plan.”
“Escape plan?”
“Yeah. In case it all gets to be too much, and you need an out.” He types something quickly, then looks up at me. “If you’re overwhelmed, if you need to leave, just give me a signal. Scratch your nose or something. I’ll see it, I’ll grab Drew, and we’ll be your getaway drivers. No questions asked.”
“Jackson, you don’t have to?—”
“I know I don’thaveto. Iwantto.” He shoves his phone into his pocket and crosses his arms. “You’re my best friend, Ryan. My weird, space-obsessed, vintage-wearing best friend who deserves to have fun tonight without feeling trapped. So, yeah, escape plan. Nose scratch. Drew’s car. Done.”
I can’t speak. The casual, unconditional support hits me right in the feels. This is what I’ve been missing all these years. Not just a romantic connection but a friendship that shows up. A friendship that plans escape routes just in case.
“Drew won’t mind?”
“Drew will probably volunteer to create a diversion if needed. The man lives for drama.” Jackson grins. “Besides, he likes you. Says you’re refreshingly not obsessed with hockey, which apparently is a rare quality in his current social circle.”
My chest loosens, and something between a snort and a sigh escapes me. “I don’t understand hockey.”
“Neither does half the campus, but they pretend to. You’re honest about it. It’s charming.”
Charming.The word is foreign when applied to me, but I welcome it regardless. Maybe I can be charming. Maybe I can be a lot of things I’ve never allowed myself to be.
“Okay.” I square my shoulders, meeting my reflection’s eyes. The terrified man in the mirror is still nervous, still unsettled, but there’s something else there too. Obstinacy, maybe. “Okay. I can do this.”
“Hell yeah, you can.” Jackson claps me on the back hard enough to make me stumble. “Now let’s go. Gerard’s probably already there doing the hand jive and traumatizing innocent bystanders because it’s coming off like the universal sign for jerking off.”
I appraise myself one last time in the mirror, and for once, I don’t hate what I see.
Cicadas singfrom somewhere in the darkness, their chorus competing with the distant thump of bass from a party across campus. And there, leaning against the streetlamp, straight out of a movie poster, is Drew Larney. He’s got the whole Kenickie vibe down to a science—white T-shirt, leather jacket, jeans cuffed at the ankle, cigarette tucked behind one ear, even though I’m fairly certain he doesn’t smoke. His chestnut hair is slicked back, and the streetlight casts dramatic shadows across his cheekbones.
“Drew!” Jackson’s voice comes out approximately three octaves higher than normal.
A squeak. My six-foot-two quarterback best friend just squeaked.
Drew pushes off the lamppost, a slow smirk spreading across his face. His eyes rake over Jackson from pompadour to polished shoes, and something hungry flickers in his gaze. “Tell me about it, stud.”
The Sandy quote lands like a bomb. Jackson’s knees wobble, and I watch in real time as his brain visibly short-circuits.
“Ryan.” Jackson’s hand lands on my shoulder, grip tight enough to bruise. His eyes never leave Drew. “We’re going to need, like, ten minutes.”
