Far be it from me to point out the obvious, but, “That shit is going to taste terrible together.”
I get an eye roll—like I’m the moron here. “Duh,” Rodrigo draws out. “That’s why we bought sherbet. It’s orange and it’s a palate cleanser.”
If they say the word orange one more time, I will lose my damn mind.
“How do you know that?”
“I used to bus tables at a fancy-ass restaurant in high school for a hot minute. They served these tiny cones in between courses.”
That does sound fancy as fuck.
“You’re going to eat all this? Tonight?”
Rodrigo stares me down like I’ve done lost my mind. “It’s a pumpkin party.”
Jesus Christ with these guys.
At the counter, back to arranging the seeds on the cookie sheet, Charlie laughs, her back shaking with every idiotic word coming out of my friends’ mouths. She moves to preheat the oven, setting it at three-fifty, then opens the cabinet next to the stove.
“Whatcha looking for?” McMillan asks.
“Salt?”
He shoots me a sly look before easing up behind her and pulling open a different door—the one directly above the stove and about six feet off the ground—high up for most people, but not for us.
Not for a household of giants.
“Here you go, darlin’.” The asshole is mimicking my accent, my words, and—
Well, she’s not my girlfriend, and I have no claim on her.
But you did just kiss her, I argue. So? I volley back at myself. You were fucking terrible at it and she’s never gonna want to see you again or put her mouth on yours, you out-of-practice, virgin piece of shit.
I have no right to be jealous of his flirting, especially since Charlie isn’t reciprocating.
“Thanks.” Charlie takes the salt from my roommate, her gaze darting to me, a hesitant smile on her lips directed at McMillan, as if she knows what’s going on and doesn’t intend to encourage it.
She’s being polite but not returning his over-the-top flirtation.
Any other girl would be playing us against each other. I’m sure of it.
But Charlie isn’t any other girl.
She held out—wouldn’t go out with me when I hinted at it, thinks I’m kind of an asshole.
Right?
Seventh Friday 3.0
Charlie
“Thanks for tonight. I had a lot of fun.” I glance at Jackson out of the corner of my eye, studying his profile in the dim cab of his truck. His strong jaw is set in a stubborn position, as if his teeth are clenched, tense. As if he no longer knows what to do with me now that we kissed in his kitchen.
That kiss.
I press two fingers to my lips, the heat from his mouth still fresh on my pout. It wasn’t anything particularly sensual, just the meeting of our mouths, but the sensation lingers just the same.
My lips are soft—I exfoliated them tonight before applying gloss—so I imagine he must have liked it, green as he is.
What’s it like for a guy like that to have no experience?
I could tell by the way he hesitated, nature taking over but still uneasy in his movements. Unsure.
Halting.
Refreshing.
I haven’t made out with tons of people myself, but I can’t imagine never having done it at my age. What is that like for someone in their twenties and living with a houseful of guys who screw and have casual relationships on a regular basis?
No wonder he was embarrassed and turned bright red.
Still.
I liked it, and I’m glad he doesn’t have a mile-long list of conquests like most athletes; that would turn me off.
Beside me, Jackson taps on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the song softly playing on the radio—some old-school country ballad about politics, religion, and a dog named Blue—as we back out of the driveway and into the main street.
Jock Row… Jock Road. At least, that’s the unofficial name for it. Stanley Drive is what it’s actually called, after the alumna who donated a few million bucks to build the residences situated along the street with the sole purpose of housing athletes.
They’re nice digs, way more grand than the shithole I’m shacked up in with my friends on the other side of campus. I was embarrassed the other night showing Jackson where I live knowing he’s set up in the football house. The floors were disgusting, but the rest of it wasn’t terrible.
At least the door wasn’t falling off its hinges.
I make a mental note to send my landlord yet another message about my front door and gaze into the backseat of Jackson’s truck. My date’s truck.
Yup, it’s official—we’re on a date.
Butterflies flutter within my stomach, waking from their slumber. It’s been a long time since a boy has made me nervous.
Jackson turns a corner, and the small collection of gourds in the backseat rolls from one side of the seat to the other. We didn’t bring the pumpkin we carved, the guys collectively deciding they wanted to put them all out on their porch—but I have the unmarked gourds and the scarecrow, Biff, and plan on putting them on my porch as soon as I get home.