“What are you studying, again?”
“Sport industry.”
“So, you’re not aiming for the NBA?”
“Of course I am! But I need a backup plan in case I get injured, and for when I retire from competing.”
She frowns. “Isn’t it kind of unusual for a player like you to stay at school this long? I thought the top talent got snapped up by the NBA in freshman year.”
I shake my head. “It’s a little more complicated than that, and anyway, graduating college is really important to me. I’ll be twenty-two next month—still plenty of time for the NBA.”
She nods and adds two more adjectives to my “positives” column—“academic” and “good planner.” Just as I’m feeling good about myself, the other column starts filling up, with words like “terrible communicator” and “horny brain,” and my smile drops.
“Okay, this is looking good now,” she says, reading back over her notes. “Anything missing?”
I glance down at the page. “I think that’s enough, don’t you think? Don’t make me throw myself in the Scioto…”
She sips on her coffee and places her pen down.
“So—what now? Enlighten me, oh mighty priestess of romance! What are the holy books saying about leveling up to ‘fiction boyfriend’ status?”
“We call them ‘book boyfriends,’?” she corrects, all serious. “And you do realize novels are just that, fiction, right?”
“Right back at you,” I snicker.
She looks offended. “Iknowthey’re fictional, thank you very much. That’s exactly why I love them.”
A thought occurs to me. “Hey, I never asked you. But do you have a boyfriend?”
“Absolutely not,” she answers sharply.
I’m taken aback by the tone—like it’s some crazy suggestion and it goes against everything she believes in.
“What’s with the attitude?” I ask.
“I just don’t want a boyfriend, that’s all.”
“I thought every girl was waiting for her Prince Charming.”
“Not this one.”
I hesitate. “Can I ask why?”
“You can ask—doesn’t mean you’ll get an answer.”
“Carrie…” I shoot her a warning look.
She narrows her lips and pauses before answering.
“Firstly, because I need to focus on my studies…”
It makes sense, but it sounds weird, like she’s holding back from telling me something.
“And secondly, because it’s always the same old story—I get my hopes up, make stories up in my head, and then inevitably get disappointed.”
“What kind of stories are you making up about me?”
“Absolutely none,” she says brightly. “When it comes to you, I’m a hard-core realist.”
