“You’ll look amazing, even at eighty.”
“True. But I won’t have the energy for threesomes with eighty—or even sixty! I’ll be busy making the world a better place by that time. I'll have had my fill of men, earned all the money, and won’t give a fuck about anyone but my five cats.”
Okay, that does sound like Mia.
“Don’t you have a list like that? Stuff you want to experience before you move on to the NFL, start dating a famous countrysinger, and get criticized by fat old men on their couches for running 0.2 seconds too slow?”
“Actually, right now,making itto the NFL is pretty much the only thing on that list.”
“Aw, you’re so cute when you act all humble and shit.”
I roll my eyes at that, not wanting to argue over my career prospects first thing in the morning. I know I havetalent. People keep telling me that since Dad signed me up for my first 7-on-7 flag football team when I was eight. What everyone conveniently skips over is that talent isn’t enough. Hard work isn’t enough, either. You also need luck. And connections.
I have neither.
“So there’s nothing else on your list?” Mia steers our conversation back on track.
“What else would there be?” I yawn. So far, I have successfully avoided thinking about my last year at college. I could live like this forever, caught somewhere between early mornings on the training field and late nights at the library, always a full house of other people to return to, always someone to watch a show with on the couch, always a party to visit: no agents, no drafts, no contracts. I’m not a fan of bucket lists because the thought of ticking off the final point always gives me anxiety about turning the page and finding the next one empty.
“I dunno? Sex in the locker room showers, maybe? Or sex with two girls?”
I can’t help myself; I have to laugh at that. “Sex with two girls? Sounds stressful. I only have one dick and one tongue,andI’m shockingly bad at multitasking.”
“Men.” She sighs dramatically, rolling her green eyes to the ceiling before they land back on me, a hint of mischief in them. “What if the two girls multitask with each other?”
I raise a brow at that, tilting my head at her curiously. “Could it be we’re talking aboutyourbucket list here?”
“And what if we are?” Mia sticks her tongue out at me before rolling onto her stomach. My shirt gets rumpled in the process, the material bunching up under her stomach so that it’s now just barely covering her ass. We both know she’s putting on a show, but I don’t mind the view.
“Didn’t know that’s something you’d be into,” I hum.
“As I said, college is for experimenting,” she points out, then sighs, her face losing some of that playful cheekiness as she fixates me with her gaze again. “It’s really something I want to experience, and I meant it when I said there won’t be many chances for it once we leave college. My mom always said some things you can only do while you’re still young and—”
“I doubt she thought of a threesome when she said that,” I interject, but she doesn’t pay me any attention.
“—and I think she’s right. I will never get the chance again to experience something like that once I start working for my dad, and everyone suddenly calls meMs. Beaumont. It’s now or never, Micah.”
I can see her point there. We always promise ourselves not to get old and boring, to keep that spark alive, and yet, in the steady flow of life, we lose it. There’s a point in our childhood when most of us sit on a swingset for the last time, not knowing that we will never experience it again. We could, but we don’t, because there’s no time left in our hectic routines, or we suddenly care what others will think of us. And then, one day down the road, we won’t be able to do it anymore. Because it doesn’t feel the same, or because we don’t fit. We’ve outgrown our last chance without noticing it.
“And I’m involved in this, how?” I laugh, although I already know the answer. There’s a reputation Seb and I have cultivated over the past years—and very intentionally so.
“Oh, stop pretending, Micah!” Mia groans, then pouts at me again. It’s more real this time, not as pretentious as before. “Promise me we will repeat that?”
“You know, that’s not just my decision,” I hum.
“Yes, yes, but you will talk to Davenport about it, right? We can plan better next time, go over to his place—” That’s definitely not going to happen, but I don’t have the heart to tell her so. “—or mine. No interruptions from your boring roommates!”
I groan as I rub both hands over my eyes, then sigh. “Fine, I’ll talk to him about it,” I agree. “But I need a coffee first.”
We don’t have coffee first. Instead, we fall asleep again, Mia’s head on my chest, my arm around her. I feel worse after the thirty-minute nap, like it gave the hangover time to fully unfold. My throat is parched, and a dull pain fills my head when we finally climb out of bed and make our way down the narrow, creaking stairs from my attic room to the first floor.
Mia disappears into our bathroom, swatting my ass on her way in, right as Linden steps out of his bedroom. He raises a blond brow at me, and I duck, scratching the back of my head with an apologetic grin.
“Morning,” I offer as I follow him downstairs to the kitchen. “And…uh, sorry again about last night.”
Pink blooms across his pale cheeks. “It’s okay. Actually, I’m sorry for interrupting. It’s just…I had a really shit day, and Ineededthat shower like nothing else,” he explains like he has to justify wanting to use the bathroom in his own home. “I…uhm…hope you still had afunnight?”
The way he awkwardly emphasizes “fun,” as if we’re talking in some sort of secret code, has me laughing for a second before the pain in my head makes me wince.
