“All right,” I say at last. My throat feels swollen, like I’ve swallowed something that scraped the inside raw. “Okay. Fine. Sure. I guess I don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”
Which only makes the kicked-dog expression on his face worse. “Thanks…. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know what you’re apologizing for.” My hands are sweaty as I clench them into fists at my sides, then flex my fingers again. This whole conversation just got way more awkward than I bargained for. “I’m gonna go, then.”
He clears his throat and nods. “I’ll take care of it with the registrar. And with Ava.”
He’s still standing so close, as near as he did at the club last night when I could smell the heady mix of sweat and deodorant on his skin. Today he’s more pulled together, professional. He’s even got a collared shirt on.
Not that I can’t very easily imagine him with the shirtoff.
“And you’ll email me about setting a time to look at my portfolio and discuss my capstone,” I remind him. If I’m not mistaken, that color is back in his cheeks.
“Right.”
“Great. I’ll see you, then.” I’m halfway to the door, portfolio tucked under my arm, when I pause and look back. He’s watching me, still blushing like a teenage boy, as I throw out one last barb: “Last night was amazing, by the way.”
The choked sound he makes in response to that is worth all the drama. I leave before he can say anything that would ruin my tiny victory.
¦
The rest of my classes feel like they speed by in a haze. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation; maybe it’s just Wyatt fucking Cole. Eitherway, my brain isn’t exactly present for Brianna Earnshaw’s Art Criticism syllabus review or even Héctor Pérez-Wahid’s demonstration of platinum printing. Michal is a familiar face in a few of my courses, although I don’t see her at lunch—which maybe makes sense if she has to go off campus to find something kosher to eat.
It’s still blazing hot out by the time classes are over, right in time for the rush-hour commute. I find myself crammed into a hot box on the N train, some man’s elbow in my stomach and my face shoved against a girl’s fuzzy pink backpack. Half the people empty out at Queensboro Plaza, but at that point there aren’t that many stops left before mine, so it’s small consolation.
Ophelia and Diego are both home already when I get there. Diego’s fussing around in the kitchen with something that smells like onions, and he catches me before I can even sit down—one arm flung out, finger pointing, declaring, “Ely Cohen,you didn’t come home last night!”
“Hi yourself,” I tell him.
Ophelia is on the sofa drinking out of the most ornate teacup I’ve ever seen. “The prodigal daughter returns,” she says. “So I’m guessing you had a good time.”
I kind of love that this is the way the two of them are. We’ve only known each other for, like, twenty-four hours, but already it feels like we’ve been best friends for ages. Not that I’d know much about best friends: Ever since Chaya, I’ve erased all my friendships the second they start to get too close.
But Ophelia and Diego aren’t afraid of things like that. They’re brash and open and wear their hearts slathered across their sleeves.
I wish I were a little more like that.
Right now, if I can judge from how hot my face feels, my cheeks have gotta be bright red. “Sorry. Maybe I should have waited for you guys…?”
“We’re your roommates, not your prison wardens,” Diego says, punctuating his words with a rap of his wooden spoon against his skillet. “Hell no. Tell me who it was, you saucy minx.”
Is it too late to pretend I forgot something on campus and leave? Ophelia’s watching me over the rim of her teacup with a devious grin curling around her lips as if she already knows what I’m going to say, which of course she can’t possibly. Hardly anyone knows what Wyatt Cole looks like and certainly not outside photography circles. Which is precisely how I ended up in his bed last night.
I could always lie, of course. But lying reminds me of addiction, and I won’t do that. Not ever again.
“Was it that hot guy I saw you dancing with?” Ophelia asks. “The one who looked like he’d play the rugged but charming Scottish laird in a historical romance?”
“Probably,” I say. “Yes. I mean…yes. Which was fine. But.”
“But?” Diego prods, and he’s even tilting forward slightly, spoon in hand, like I’ve left him on tenterhooks.
Please kill me.“But today I went to class, and it turns out the rugged Scottish laird is my professor.”
I swear it’s like I just told them I found a million dollars lying on the street. Diego crows out loud, and Ophelia puts down the teacup a little too hard before clapping her hands together. I don’t know how they can be so delighted about me ruining my life, but they really, definitely are.
“You absolute fuckup!” Diego cries, and I collapse onto the sofa facedown—which is what I should have done as soon as I walked in the door.
“Please stop talking and let me die,” I mumble against the cushions.
