That wasn’t to say that guysnevertalked to Cherry...
She wasn’t untouched. Or even unloved. She wasn’t a virgin. Cherry had had two boyfriends in high school and one at the beginning of college, and she’d slept with someone else since then. And at least two of those guys had been in love with her. Maybe two and a half.
But none of them had hit on her out of the blue.
Cherry had to grow on boys. She had to wear them down, by being around and being charming. By being surprisingly cute for a fat girl. By smelling good. By brushing her hair against their shoulders when they talked. By having breasts that sat so close to her chin that you couldn’t really miss them when you looked in her eyes.
Every guy who had ever dated Cherry had been her friend first—and probably thought at first that she was too fat to date. But then she’d grown on them... and all the things that they liked about her had crowded out her fatness.
The point was, they hadn’t started talking to her in a bar. Or in the student center. Or at a party. They’d never actuallyhiton her.
So this guy, this skinny, good-looking guy with the deep blue eyes,couldn’tbe hitting on her. He wasn’t that drunk, it wasn’t that dark. Cherry wasn’t sitting behind a desk or standing behind a wall. He could see all of her.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked. He glanced over at Stacia. “Both of you?”
“That’s okay,” Cherry said at the same time that Stacia said, “Moscow Mule.”
“Moscow Mule,” the guy repeated. Russ. He was looking at Cherry.
“She’s drinking Coke,” Stacia said.
“Coke and...?”
“Just Coke,” Cherry said.
“She’s the designated driver,” Stacia said, like it was funny.
“That’s handy,” Russ said. “I could use a designated driver.” He pointed at Cherry. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
Stacia didn’t even wait for him to get out of hearing distance. “He’scute.”
“Is he?” Cherry made herself sound skeptical.
“What?” Stacia shoved her. “Yes. You know I like skinny guys with dark hair. He looks like a poet. Or like he’s in a band.”
“You just mean he looks pale and underfed. He looks like the third-best-looking guy in U2.”
Stacia made a face. “You think he looks like the bald guy?”
“Are you talking about the Edge?No.I meant—he looks like afictionalmember of U2, who would still only be the third-best-looking.”
“You just mean he looks Catholic,” Stacia said, tipping her copper mug up to empty it. “He’s cute enough for me.”
“You can have him.”
“I don’t know...” Stacia teased. “I think he likes youuuu.”
Cherry made a face. “You know how this goes. I’m just the approachable person who stands next to your intimidating exposed torso.”
“Shut up, Cherry,” Stacia said. But she still laughed, which Cherry took as affirmation that shedidknow.
“Ladies.” Russ was back with three drinks—two copper mugs and a glass of Coke.
Stacia took a mug, and Russ swung around to Cherry, standing close. “Trade me,” he said.
Cherry took both drinks, and he took her empty glass, and Stacia’s, and pushed into the crowd again. A second later, he was back, standing right in front of Cherry, taking his drink from her.
“Designated driver...” he said. Cherry was five-foot-four—almost five-foot-eight in heels—and he was a little bit taller than her, but not too much. (Russ didn’t look like the Edge; he looked like Bono.) “Do you take turns?”
