Bring Down the Stars

“I can. I’ve seen it. And now it makes sense why he wants to take me to the Dickinson Museum this Saturday after Weston’s track meet.”

Ruby shrugged and got to her feet, brushing grass off her jeans. “Well, I’m happy for you. Sounds like you landed the perfect guy—hot, rich, and deep.”

I nodded, rising too.

“Hey,” she said, taking me by the shoulders. “Don’t apologize for who you are. You’re a slut for poetry. Own it.”

I burst out laughing. “Is that what I am?”

“But seriously. Hai una bella anima.”

“Bella anima?”

“You’re a beautiful soul,” Ruby said and shrugged. “It sounds better in Italian. Fact: most things sound better in Italian. And if Connor doesn’t treat you right, prendilo a calci in culo. I’ll kick his ass.”

I smiled and hugged my friend, even as my unease deepened. Connor treated me perfectly. He’d done and said everything right. But Weston…

I didn’t know how or why it was important, but if I was going to feel good about my relationship with Connor, I needed to fix things with Weston. I gave myself a solid list of reasons: they were best friends. I wouldn’t feel comfortable spending the night at their place if Weston kept giving me the cold shoulder. I didn’t want my boyfriend’s best friend to hate me…

Not to mention putting on Weston’s shirt turned you on.

I stopped short and glanced around, mortified.

“Jesus, that is not what happened.” I walked faster toward the library, head down and muttering into my books, “I thought it was Connor’s.”

I hurried up the steps of the library, hoping Wes would be there. Determined to meet this head on and kill these ridiculous thoughts. But he wasn’t. Since Connor and I began dating, I never saw Weston here anymore.

My phone buzzed a text from Connor.

Hey you.

I smiled, butterflies taking off in my stomach.

Hi, I texted back. What’s up?

I just got wind of a party at Delta Psi this Friday. Want to go?

I sank down into a chair at one of the library’s long tables. Sounds fun, but I have to study.

Bummer. You care if I go?

No, of course not, I replied. Are we still on for the museum after W’s races on Sat?

Definitely. :)

Okay, I wrote. Great.

Call you later.

But he didn’t call me later, and aside from a few checking in texts, I didn’t hear from him for the rest of the week.

Friday, working my morning shift at the Panache Blanc, it dawned on me that Weston usually ate here the night before a track meet. After classes, I killed time in the library, then headed back to the bakery, hoping he hadn’t changed that routine.

He sat at a corner table. Dark and sharp in a black shirt and jeans, his long legs stretched out and his nose buried in an econ book. A half-eaten sprout and cucumber sandwich sat on a plate in front of him. Edmond de Guiche was singing in the back room.

Heart stuttering, I went to stand by his table. “Hi.”

He lowered his book, and his eyes widened for a second, before his expression reverted to hard neutral. “Hey.”