Instead, I fumble with the straps of my backpack, then the zipper.
“Right. I’ll text you about my…progress?” I instantly cringe. My head is filled with static, barely registering that this means being intimate with someone else. Someone I don’t even know yet. It feels like cheating, and I haven’t even done anything.
Colin laughs. “Oh yes! Just remember to keep the real thing for me.”
The urge to throw myself down the stairs is overwhelming. Instead of doing that, I stop.
“The…the real thing?”
“Duh? I want you to gather some experience, but once you’re sure this isn’t just a phase” —he steps up to me and leans forward, his lips touching the shell of my ear as he speaks— “I want to have the rest all to myself.”
A shudder chases down my back at his possessive undertone. I swallow the reminder that this was his idea, but it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “Uhm…yeah. Yeah, of course. Have fun traveling!” I quickly step back to reestablish some distance between us, then turn around and hurry down the stairs, chased by the echo of Colin’s voice: “See you in fall!”
The deadline burns itself into my memory.
Linden, June 3rd
“Noah’s calloused hands spread across Owen’s back as he pressed him forward until his chest was flush against the smooth wood of the kitchen table. Owen took in a shuddering breath, the familiar smell of pine cleanser and spilled coffee flooding his nostrils. There was another note beneath it now, the musky scent of arousal filling the air.
“Beautiful,” Noah’s dark voice rumbled from behind him, thick with desire. “Now, stay just like that.”
Owen shivered as he felt Noah shift. There was the soft thud of knees hitting the worn floorboards, and then—oh God, oh fuck, fuck,fuck!—the hot touch of Noah’s mouth against his—”
I scramble for the volume control when I turn onto our street, cutting off the audiobook right before the narrator’s moan would fill the interior of my car. The tips of my ears glow bright pink when I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. No matter how often I’ve read that scene, hearing it out loud is a completely new experience. But instead of silence, the soft tunes of a pop song, mixed with bits of chitchat and laughter, reach myears, carried through the open window into my truck by a soft breeze.
Right.
The football party—how could I forget?
My first thought is that hopefully one of the neighbors will call the cops to shut it down, but I already regret it before it can fully form in my head.
I’ve never been one for thoseFriday Night Lights. I never played football or one of the other popular sports that receive all the attention on a free weekend night. During high school, there was always some work that needed to be done. Even on Friday nights—or actually, especially then, when Dad was sending the workers and farmhands home early to spend time with their families. While my friends cheered in the stands for the home team or spun bottles in the dim light of a bonfire, I hauled hay bales and led cows into the milking parlor. Old habits die hard, so when I left for college, I purposefully picked weekend shifts—first in the diner I started at and now at the dog pound. No one wants to work while others party, so those shifts get paid a little better and are usually much quieter.
Not today, though. A heatwave sank its claws into Vermont a few days ago, absolutely refusing to let go. Of course, this was the day the AC broke down, leaving us—and even worse, the dogs—to swelter. My shirt is drenched with sweat, clinging to my back, and I can smell wet dog on my skin.
While I lugged around water containers and tried to fix the air conditioning, I was quietly fantasizing about a night in front of the TV, my feet propped up on the couch table. Micah probably reminded my roommates and me just shy of a hundred times about the party at our place tonight, but I must have successfully pushed that information to the back of my mind. Now, however, it hits me that I’m about to confront a house full of footballplayers celebrating the new captaincy of my roommate with a few too many drinks.
They also took up every inch of available parking space, their expensive-ass vehicles gleaming in the setting sun.
Cool, cool.
I spend ten minutes tracking back from the far end of the street, where I wedged my beat-up truck into a space gap that technically doesn’t qualify as a parking slot. By the time I reach the front door, I feel even worse. My head is pounding, the inside of my mouth feels like I swallowed a glass of sand, and my feet are killing me. I just want to get into the shower and then into bed without anyone noticing, which shouldn’t be so hard since people tend to look right past me.
The party is mostly contained in the backyard of the Nook, as we call our little townhouse with its sloped roof, allowing me to sneak in without encountering anyone. The only evidence of their presence, other than the music and hooting outside, is a few hoodies and sweaters thrown over the back of our couch, crested with Bonham Tech’s mascot—a badger—and all sized for actual giants.
I linger a moment, the blast of the AC a welcome blessing on my clammy skin, then head straight to the stairs.Then the kitchen tempts me. I watched Micah prepare a truckload of food yesterday, including some delicious-looking pasta salads, and my stomach is gurgling loudly at the memory. I still approach with caution, not sure the encounter with our party guests will be worth an appeased stomach. To my delight, the kitchen is empty.
I force myself to down a glass of water first. The cool liquid runs soothingly down my scratchy throat, making me feel a bit more human while I eye the goods on the counter. The salads must all be outside, together with most of the snacks. I spot a few abandoned bowls with chip crumbs at the bottom—and ahuge tray of brownies. I know Micah will tell his buddies he just bought a cake mix, but the rich chocolatey smell betrays the lie. Also, I’ve seen him gather the ingredients around the kitchen when I left for work.
Would anyone notice if I took a teeny-tiny piece?
Probably.
But there are enough other suspects around to blame. I quickly wash my hands in the sink, half-heartedly drying them on a dishtowel before grabbing a corner piece. It’s definitely not the smallest, but I gobble it down in ten seconds flat, sighing with bliss when the flavors unfold on my tongue. It’s gooey and sweet and reminds me of my mother’s recipe.
Not for the first time, I wonder when and where Micah learned to cook and bake. Since he moved in last year, we have ordered way less food, which is wonderful, but it always makes me feel bad for contributing so little to the cooking. Between his football training and course load, Micah must be just as busy as the rest of us, yet he still manages to whip up dinner for everyone on most nights. To ease our consciences, the rest of us compensate by buying groceries instead. And I at least wash the dishes.
I feel halfway human again when I climb the stairs to the first floor that I occupy with Nicko and Olli. Both their doors are firmly closed and probably locked to avoid any unwanted visitors. I think I heard Olli’s voice outside but suspect Nicko has fled the scene together with his boyfriend, Xander—which I’m not mad about.
