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“It wouldn’t work.”
“Because he’s a hockey player?”
“Among other things. He’s a player, isn’t he? There was drama with a girl in Kappa Pi last semester.”
“And a girl from his hometown. Possibly at the same time. I have heard the rumors.” She tilts her head. “So don’t date him.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Problem solved.”
“It isn’t that simple.”
“Why not?”
Because the actual man is Callum Fox. Because his face is on billboards and lock screens and the phones of girls who hunt him across campus.
“His life is hockey,” I say instead. “Games. Travel. Parties. Women throwing themselves at him. My life doesn’t fit with that.”
Gianna tilts her head. “Why would your life need to fit around his?”
The question catches beneath my ribs and stays there.
“It would eventually.”
“You kissed him once. You are not selecting a joint mortgage.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you? Because you’re talking about a party hookup like someone has asked you to relocate to Canada and spend the next ten years washing hockey jerseys.”
“It never stays uncomplicated.”
“Maybe not.” She reaches for another dress and checks the tag. “But complicated isn’t always the same thing as bad.”
“That sounds like dangerous advice from someone currently shopping for a rebound outfit.”
“I am reborn a new woman! I am rebranding.”
She disappears behind the curtain again, and I stare at my reflection in the opposite mirror. My cheeks are redder than they should be. I blame the lighting.
From behind the curtain, Gianna adds, “You know Mark was the safe option, right? Nice, stable, sensible. No secret girlfriends, no professional sports career, no concerning cheekbones. My point is, I chose the person who made sense. I did everything carefully, and I still ended up crying into emergency mozzarella sticks.”
“That is not a compelling endorsement of romance.”
“No. But what I’m saying is even careful choices come with no guarantees.”
The curtain opens.
This dress is dark green, fitted through the waist, softer than the black one. She looks less like she’s preparing to take revenge on the male population and more like herself.
She looks at me in the mirror.
“You don’t have to date Brad,” she says. “You don’t have to trust him with your life. You can just admit you want to kiss him again.”
“And if I end up liking him?”
“Then you like him.”
