Clothes find their way to the floor of the car. And every moment is easy and natural, and so fucking right.
Afterward, we’re pressed against each other in the same seat, boneless and spent. And I get why they make so many cheesy movie scenes that end just like this—because it just doesn’t get more perfect than right here, right now.
Kennedy smiles up at me and I kiss her forehead, and together we watch the sun rise.
? ? ?
The next morning, my parents make me get up early—drop me back at school early—because my father has some meeting to get to back home. They leave a message for the Randolphs at the front desk. It sucks that I don’t get to see Kennedy before we go, but I’m consoled by the thought that I’ll see her at school.
Everything is going to be different now.
When I get to my room, I hop in the shower. My thoughts helplessly drift to last night. The feel of Kennedy’s hands on me. The sounds she made—little moans and greedy whimpers.
Let’s just say it’s convenient that I’m in the shower.
I step out of the bathroom with a towel around my hips and water still trickling down between the grooves of my abs.
“Hey, baby.”
Cashmere is laid out on my bed—wearing my lacrosse jersey and nothing else. She’s all hooded eyes, pouty lips, tan skin, and teased blond hair—ready for a Playboy photo shoot. There was a time my dick would’ve led me straight to her and I would’ve happily followed—all our problems solved.
But not anymore. I’m done letting my dick lead me around—it’s time to start following my heart. And I know how corny that sounds, but I don’t give a shit.
“What are you doing here?” I slip boxer briefs on under the towel—it just doesn’t feel right to let her see me bare-assed anymore.
“Do I need a reason to visit my boyfriend?”
“Not your boyfriend anymore.”
Her eyes roll. “Of course you are.”
“You broke up with me, remember?” I pull my practice jersey over my head.
Cashmere crawls toward the end of the bed. “It was a mistake.” She purrs, “I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.”
I’ve been with this girl for a year. Screwed her every way I know how, and thought that was love—but at his moment, I feel nothing for her. It’s almost scary. No guilt, no tender urge to protect her feelings. I’m not sure she has any. It’s really fucked up.
“If you didn’t, I would’ve broken up with you. We’re done, Cazz.”
Her eyes drop to the bulge in my boxers and she licks her lips. She rises to her knees and moves to wrap her arms around my neck. “You don’t look done to me.”
I catch her wrists and look at her hard.
“Trust me, I’m done.”
Anger flashes in her hazel eyes, sharp and vindictive and oh-so familiar. “I heard you hung out with your little freakazoid friend this weekend.”
My grip on her wrists tightens. “Don’t call her that.”
Her mouth twists into a nasty knot. “Did you fuck her? Is that what this is about?”
I drop her wrists and take a step back. “This has nothing to do with Kennedy.”
“Oh, please. You would never turn me down unless you already had someplace new to stick your dick into. I know you, Brent.” She slides off the bed and trails the tip of her finger slowly up my arm. “And that’s why I know when you’re done with your little trip into Loserville—you’re going to come right back to me. We’re too good together.”
Because she’s the hottest girl in school, I used to get a charge out of hearing her talk like that—a rush of confidence. Now it just makes me think that Cashmere is total bunny-boiling material.
“Take my jersey off. We have a game tomorrow night; it’s bad luck if you wear it. Leave it on the bed.”
And before she even starts to take it off, I’m out the door.
? ? ?
Lacrosse practice runs overtime. One of our starting defenders busted his ankle last week, trying to parkour between two garbage dumpsters. He’s kind of an idiot. The second string taking his place is a freshman—good but nervous—so Coach and I stayed after practice to work with him and to go over the opposing team’s game tapes. It’s dusk by the time I leave the gym.
Walking back to my dorm, my lacrosse bag over my shoulder, I’m in a great mood. I don’t think I’ve stopped smiling all day. I may even whistle a merry tune. My mother had a thing for Gene Kelly when I was a kid, and in my head, I’m totally doing the “Singin’ in the Rain” dance.
Three guys are standing on the dorm building’s steps. And even though I’m not the type who listens to other people’s conversations, two words zoom straight to my eardrums, like a nuclear missile: Kennedy Randolph.
And my mental Gene Kelly is struck by a bolt of lightning and bursts into flames.