“What’s an Ethan?”
“My new tutor. He’s got in my head, that’s all.”
She waggles her eyebrows. “Sounds like you want him to get in your pants.”
I throw a chip at her. “Ew! No. Ethan Prescott thinks everything needs a story. Like data isn’t enough.”
“Ethan Prescott?” Riya sits up so fast she nearly launches her laptop. “Wait. Tall guy? Strawberry blond hair?”
“That’s weirdly specific. Do you know him?”
She’s practically vibrating. “Do you know who he hangs out with?”
“His emotional support plant?”
She ignores me. “Freddie Donavon, Troy Hawkins, Alfie freakin’ Spencer?” She says it like she’s announcing the second coming. I blank. I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Only the hottest guys on campus. They throw those legendary house parties. I’ve been trying to get an invite all year.”
“How do you even know this?”
“Because I have eyes? And Instagram? And a functioning libido?” She pulls up her phone, scrolling rapidly. “Look. Freddie—geology major, arms like Thor, dating that environmental girl Alex. Troy—engineering, cheekbones that could cut glass, has this mysterious girlfriend who dresses like she murders people professionally. In a hot way. And Alfie, oh my god, he’s so hot. Declan agreed we could have a threesome with him someday.”
“Oh!” I say, remembering hot guy Freddie from freshman year. He broke my roommate Alex’s heart before hastily repairing it. I never forgave him though. “Yeah, I know who Freddie is.”
She shoves the phone at me. A group picture of four very different but equally attractive guys fills the screen. They’re all grinning with their arms around each other, solo cups raised.
“Your tutor lives in the Cool Guy House,” Riya announces. “And you didn’t think to mention this?”
“Because it’s not relevant? He’s just helping me pass Creative Writing.”
“Helping you pass while looking like that?” She gestures at the photo where Ethan’s laughing at something off-camera. “Girl. The cosmos is trying to give you a gift. Take it.”
“He’s a football player, Riya.”
“How do you know? He doesn’t have any photos of him playing, which they all usually do.”
“The way he sits, the way he talks to other athletes, the stupid ESPN-ready jaw.” I close my laptop harder than necessary. “Trust me, I’ve had eighteen years of Jackson and his friends. I can spot them a mile away.”
“Maybe he’s different—” Riya starts.
“They’re never different.” I think about Jackson’s high school friends, how they’d corner me at my locker to ask if I could do their homework. How they’d laugh when I said no, call me uptight, ask if I even knew how to have fun. “Trust me. Under all that plant-dad aesthetic, Ethan’s just another guy who peaked in college.”
“Okay, but counterpoint,” Riya says. “You’re lonely and need to be shown a good time. Look—here’s your good time!” She points enthusiastically at the photo and accidentally double-taps.
My face goes hot. “Riya!”
“Oops.”
“How old is that photo?”
She checks. “A year.”
Oh god. At least it’s on her account, not mine.
“I need to finish this before dinner,” I mutter, reopening my laptop. “If I’m going to survive watching Mom fawn over Meredith-who-won’t-last-till-Christmas, I need at least one thing in my life that makes sense.”
“Of course. But please, please, please let me know if we can go to one of their parties. Seriously, it would make my entire college experience. Promise?”
“Yes, alright, I promise.”
