The instructor narrows her eyes at me, but then nods and moves on. I ignore my bag for the remainder of the class, and sag in relief when we’re released.
“Thank you,” I whisper, leaning over Corey’s shoulder. “You just saved my butt.”
“It’s a butt worth saving,” he teases, turning his head to look at me. I give him a reproachful look. “I know, and it’s not a butt that’s interested in me at all.”
“And we don’t talk about that, right?” It’s too weird, how Corey brings that up from time to time. I lust after Scott incessantly, painfully, and I almost never bring it up with him.
Okay, maybe I’m being too hard on Corey.
So when he laughs and stands up, I stand up, too. We’re friends.
And when he says, “You can make it up to me by coming to the casual mixer on Friday night,” I say yes, because we’re friends.
I’m not going to sleep with Corey, but I can hang out with him.
I sling my arm around his waist. “We’ll find you a nice girl on Friday night. Okay?”
He shrugs. “Okay.”
If only Scott were this easy to handle.
— —
No more texts from Scott the rest of the week means that come Friday, I’m ready to party—as hard as senior level poli sci nerds go, which isn’t that hard.
I get to McAllister Lounge shortly after eight, armed with bourbon and Coke and a jumbo bag of party mix. The social space on the top floor is unofficially reserved for upper years, and tonight someone has paid for a bouncer who is checking ID.
That’s a problem.
I linger toward the back of the line, waiting for a glimpse of Corey. I might be the only senior who’s not legal yet, and I don’t want to put the bouncer in the awkward position of kicking me out if it can be avoided.
A girl three people ahead of me in line doesn’t have her wallet. “Seriously?” she protests, hands on her hips. Tits out. Not a bad plan. “I walked over from my dorm.” She waved her lanyard at him. “Anyone here can vouch for me. I take Modern International Relations with Saxon. Sax! Bud!”
It totally works. Saxon comes over and flashes his “my daddy’s a senator” smile, and the girl is in. Anabeth? Anabelle? Whatever, she’s in, it worked for her, I’m totally trying it. I shove my wallet deep into a skinny pocket inside my backpack, beneath the package of tampons I keep there, and hope that if Bouncer Guy decides to look inside my bag he doesn’t want to dig past the lady supplies.
Before I get to the head of the line, Corey bounces into my side. “You made it!”
“Of course I did.”
“You usually don’t.”
“But I owed you.” I winked at him.
“You wound me. That’s the only reason you’re here, isn’t it?”
Since I’m hoping Scott might be back tonight…yeah. “I promise, this is as exciting as my social life gets.”
He snickers, slinging his arm around my shoulders. “You didn’t get the party gene that your sister got?”
I stiffen and shrug off his arm. “Leave that alone.”
“Shit. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Just…not funny.”
“Too soon?”
“Yep.” We’re at the head of the line and I give the bouncer my student card. He looks me up and down. “Driver’s license?”
“Don’t have one,” I say with a warm, apologetic shrug. “But I promise I’m in my final year. I’ve got the study lines to prove it.” I point at my eyes and squint.
He snorts and turns to Corey. “ID?”
Corey hands over his license and we’re waved in. I add my drinks to the communal table and rip open the bag of party mix. Anabeth or Anabelle squeals about how much better pretzels are when they’re mixed in with the other stuff—“‘cause they get the powder on them! Ohmygod!”—and I’m reminded why I don’t usually party hard.
Or at all.
I pour a big drink and find a seat in the middle of the room. Trick learned from being raised in a family of extroverts heavily involved in politics: it’s easier to hide in plain sight and let the conversations swirl around you. If you hug the wall, someone well-meaning and totally clueless will try to drag you into a conversation you don’t want to participate in. Or even worse—introduce you to someone they think will be your new bestie.
Always super awkward. Easier to dive right into the middle and just go to the happy place in your head while people talk at you.
I pull out my phone, but Corey snatches it out of my hand. Where did he come from?
“Seriously? Are you doing some reading?”
“No.” I snatch it back. “And don’t touch my stuff.”
“Don’t be antisocial.”
I glance at my messages. The exchange I got busted for in Research Methods is the last communication I’ve had with Scott. I take a deep breath and put the phone on silent. “Fine. I’ve turned it off for the night, are you happy?”
He grins. “I will be once we start dancing.”
I roll my eyes. That is so not happening. I turn to Saxon. “Hey, do you have your summer research project lined up?”
Corey sighs. I ignore him. It’s a casual mixer, not a rave. We can talk about course work. It’s good practice for the rest of our lives.
—fourteen—