listen to his new girlfriend scream that she’s going to ride her private hipster cowboy? Or is it having said girlfriend ask if I have any ‘spare birth control pills’ she can borrow?”
“Sounds dreamy,” I say, oddly charmed by her thick sarcasm.
“Well, if you wanna change places, just let me know.”
“And let you borrow my silver spoon? I think not.”
Our eyes lock, and she tilts her head a little and looks at me. For a second it’s as though she gets me. Like she knows I’m full of shit and my life is one big mess beneath all the luxury brands and trust funds.
Neither one of us has mentioned that weird night at the party. It’s like it never took place, which is ridiculous, because nothing happened. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t think too often about what she felt like against me. About the way she looked at me and saw me.
Jesus, Ethan , I think, rubbing a hand over my neck. You’re a uterus away from turning into a complete chick .
I break eye contact first, before I do something stupid. Like spill my guts to a complete stranger.
Instead I jerk my chin toward her notebook. “So all that movie stuff you’ve been rambling about. You’ve got it all written down there, right? The whiteboard presentation is just an ego boost?”
She fiddles with one of her billion earrings. “You caught me. There’s nothing I like better than having to explain basic story structure to a spoiled brat who’s staring at my boobs.”
“And your ears,” I add, gesturing. “And if you don’t want the ta-tas ogled, maybe you should cover them up.”
Stephanie shrugs, doing fantastic things to the twins in question. “It’s the middle of summer. And I’ve got better things to worry about than horny frat boys.”
I shoot a finger pistol at her. “That you do. Like worrying about horny hipster cowboys whose privates went a-wanderin’ with a girl who now wants to share birth control.”
Without a single change in expression, she closes her notebook and moves to put it in her backpack. “Well, this has been a great session. A good use of my time, and fun.”
“Hey, hold on,” I say, reaching out to grab her wrist. “I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention—I just can’t concentrate in here, ya know? Libraries and summers do not go together.”
“They do when you sign up for a summer elective course. What else would we be doing right now?”
I stare at her, trying to figure out if she’s serious. She totally is.
I shake my head. “You know, for a creative arts student, you have zero imagination. You hungry? Let me feed you in exchange for the riveting discourse on films of the eighties.”
“I could eat,” she says. “But don’t even think about taking me to one of those uppity multi-course, tiny-plate monstrosities.”
I roll my eyes. “No prob. I’ll just cancel all the dozens of reservations I made in hopes that my film partner would want to go to an elaborate ten-course meal at four in the afternoon.”
“You’re very sarcastic.”
“Me?” I ask. “Honey, your sense of humor is drier than astronaut food.”
Her eyes drop to the table, and too late I realize that I’ve been holding her wrist for waaaay too long. Suddenly I’m all too aware of the fact that her skin is really soft, and that she smells kind of good. It still takes me a full ten seconds to finally remove my hand.
I’m annoyed to realize that my fingers feel hot, and the way she snatches her arm back makes me think I’m not the only one getting ridiculously worked up over a little chaste physical contact.
Ten minutes later, the two of us are walking across campus toward the Slaughtered Lamb, which is one of my favorite restaurants near the university. Plus it has a sort of kitschy, zombie-type vibe, so my mini-Morticia buddy will fit right in.
“Ugh, I hate New York in the summer,” Stephanie mutters, plucking at that tiny tank top. I start to suggest that she pluck just a tiny bit harder, to see if
“Sounds dreamy,” I say, oddly charmed by her thick sarcasm.
“Well, if you wanna change places, just let me know.”
“And let you borrow my silver spoon? I think not.”
Our eyes lock, and she tilts her head a little and looks at me. For a second it’s as though she gets me. Like she knows I’m full of shit and my life is one big mess beneath all the luxury brands and trust funds.
Neither one of us has mentioned that weird night at the party. It’s like it never took place, which is ridiculous, because nothing happened. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t think too often about what she felt like against me. About the way she looked at me and saw me.
Jesus, Ethan , I think, rubbing a hand over my neck. You’re a uterus away from turning into a complete chick .
I break eye contact first, before I do something stupid. Like spill my guts to a complete stranger.
Instead I jerk my chin toward her notebook. “So all that movie stuff you’ve been rambling about. You’ve got it all written down there, right? The whiteboard presentation is just an ego boost?”
She fiddles with one of her billion earrings. “You caught me. There’s nothing I like better than having to explain basic story structure to a spoiled brat who’s staring at my boobs.”
“And your ears,” I add, gesturing. “And if you don’t want the ta-tas ogled, maybe you should cover them up.”
Stephanie shrugs, doing fantastic things to the twins in question. “It’s the middle of summer. And I’ve got better things to worry about than horny frat boys.”
I shoot a finger pistol at her. “That you do. Like worrying about horny hipster cowboys whose privates went a-wanderin’ with a girl who now wants to share birth control.”
Without a single change in expression, she closes her notebook and moves to put it in her backpack. “Well, this has been a great session. A good use of my time, and fun.”
“Hey, hold on,” I say, reaching out to grab her wrist. “I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention—I just can’t concentrate in here, ya know? Libraries and summers do not go together.”
“They do when you sign up for a summer elective course. What else would we be doing right now?”
I stare at her, trying to figure out if she’s serious. She totally is.
I shake my head. “You know, for a creative arts student, you have zero imagination. You hungry? Let me feed you in exchange for the riveting discourse on films of the eighties.”
“I could eat,” she says. “But don’t even think about taking me to one of those uppity multi-course, tiny-plate monstrosities.”
I roll my eyes. “No prob. I’ll just cancel all the dozens of reservations I made in hopes that my film partner would want to go to an elaborate ten-course meal at four in the afternoon.”
“You’re very sarcastic.”
“Me?” I ask. “Honey, your sense of humor is drier than astronaut food.”
Her eyes drop to the table, and too late I realize that I’ve been holding her wrist for waaaay too long. Suddenly I’m all too aware of the fact that her skin is really soft, and that she smells kind of good. It still takes me a full ten seconds to finally remove my hand.
I’m annoyed to realize that my fingers feel hot, and the way she snatches her arm back makes me think I’m not the only one getting ridiculously worked up over a little chaste physical contact.
Ten minutes later, the two of us are walking across campus toward the Slaughtered Lamb, which is one of my favorite restaurants near the university. Plus it has a sort of kitschy, zombie-type vibe, so my mini-Morticia buddy will fit right in.
“Ugh, I hate New York in the summer,” Stephanie mutters, plucking at that tiny tank top. I start to suggest that she pluck just a tiny bit harder, to see if
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