Just sex.
And when she drapes herself over my body, I remind myselfthat she’s staying because she’s worn out and doesn’t want to walk the dozen steps to her own bed, not because she craves the physical connection like I do. I fall asleep to the constant refrain.
Just sex. Just sex. Just sex.
At least, for her.
I jugglethe cellphone in my hand, too much nervous energy in my system for my hands to stay still.
The past four days have been an emotional roller coaster. Quinn and I came to an agreement last night—three times, to be exact—but the emotional bomb of the weekend is still hanging over my head.
“You’re asking for a broken screen,” a voice says, and I jump, fumbling the phone and barely catching it before it hits the cobblestones.
Richard is standing in front of our school’s door, shifting his messenger bag higher on his shoulder as he exits.
I smile sheepishly. “Not my best habit.”
He lets out a long sigh. “There’s another habit of yours I wanted to talk to you about.”
My brow furrows. I can’t think of anything I’ve done that would bother him. “Yes, sir?”
“I was talking to Giancarlo Guarino in the common room a couple days ago. He mentioned you’ve been making a stir on campus.”
“I wouldn’t call it a stir,” I say with a little laugh that Richard doesn’t return. “All I did was offer to be a resource for Quinn’s class.”
“We talked about this, son.” He claps me on the shoulder. “No making waves until you’re established on campus. Follow the path I set out for you, and everything will be fine.”
“I wasn’t going to leave her up there alone,” I say, some of my frustration edging into my voice.
“She’s made her own decisions,” he says in the tone of a placating parent. “Don’t throw away your future over some misguided feeling of obligation.”
My stomach plummets. “I believe in what she’s doing, and she’s getting the professors on board. It’s not a risk.”
Richard sighs again and pats my shoulder. “Think about what I said. It’d be a shame to lose another promising mind to my daughter’s whims.”
He turns and heads down the street before I can respond. I want to yell after him that this isn’t a whim. This is the result of years of hard work on Quinn’s part. But by the time I rediscover my voice, he’s been swallowed by the crowd.
I lean back against the stone wall, thinking through everything Richard said. The churning in my gut makes me sick, but I remind myself that it’s just Giancarlo causing trouble. We still have five weeks to win him over.
I close my eyes and release a heavy breath, finally biting the bullet on why I’m pacing to begin with and pulling up my mother’s contact. Might as well tackle all the turmoil at once. It’s early, but she’ll be up. She’s always been a morning person, like me.
It rings three times before she picks up. “If this isn’t the perfect way to start a day, I don’t know what is.”
“Hey, Momma,” I say, unable to keep the smile off my face, even as adrenaline flows through my veins.
“How’re you doing, sweet boy?”
I chuckle. It used to drive me crazy when she called me that, especially in front of the other kids in high school. But now it feels special, a recognition of all the effort she put into me when I was little to make sure I could be who I am today.
I struggle with what to say next. We need to talk about her spending—for her to understand where I stand financially—but I don’t want to disappoint her.
I decide to start with a softball. “How’s the renovation coming along?”
Her tinkling laugh comes down the line. “Colton Ford Miller, actually interested in my decorating schemes?”
“I show interest in your life,” I say with a scowl she can’t see.
“Sure, sure,” she says. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. I know you care about me. But you’ve never been good at faking interest for things you don’t enjoy.”
