“You never do dishes.”
“I’ll strongly consider doing dishes.”
I roll my eyes at her.
“It’s Saturday, anyway. Isn't that when Dec is coming?”
She frowns.
“Shit, yeah. Oh well, you have to go for the both of us then.”
Another text buzzes through.
Ethan
Hey Pip. Can we meet Thursday afternoon instead of the morning?
“Pip?” Riya reads over my shoulder because privacy is dead. “He has a nickname for you? That’s actually adorable.” She grabs my shoulders. “Piper. Listen to me. A hot guy just texted you. About rescheduling. This is basically a marriage proposal.”
“It’s literally administrative?—”
“He could have emailed. He texted. With anickname.” She’s building a whole conspiracy theory, I can see it happening. “What does he smell like?”
“What? I don’t—” But I do. Cedar and coffee and something that makes my brain fuzzy. “Why would I notice that?”
“Because you’re human? With functioning hormones? Despite your best efforts?”
I close my laptop harder than necessary. “I need food. And silence. And possibly a new roommate.”
“You need to text him back,” she corrects. “And say yes to Thursday. And ask if his hot friends are single.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Get me a surprise, please! Something sweet!” she calls as I grab my jacket.
“Fine,” I mutter, but I’m already typing back.
Thursday works.
Good, see you then Pip.
“You’re smiling at your phone,” Riya observes from the couch. “That’s new and concerning and exciting.”
“I’m leaving for real now.”
11
ETHAN
“Your form is shit,” Troy tells Freddie, who's doing pushups while we sprawl across the quad pretending to study.
“Your face is shit,” Freddie pants back, not missing a rep.
“Both of you are shit,” Alfie says without looking up from his quantum physics textbook. He's somehow reading while juggling a soccer ball with his feet, which should be physically impossible, but here we are.
I'm lying on my back, tossing a football up and catching it one-handed—muscle memory from years of drills. The sun's warm, the grass smells like spring, and for once, I'm not thinking about my game or my dad or?—
Holy fuck.
