I could make your bed.”
“Okay, fine.” I dig through a box and toss him some yellow sheets.
I should be concentrating on placing pens and shit around my desk, but instead I watch him out of the corner of my eye. His shirt sleeves taper off about an inch above his elbow, and as he splashes the sheets over the bed, his arms tense. He’s tall enough that he hardly needs to bend over to each corner in order to firmly put things in place. Whereas I have to move around the bed, flopping over the sheets and trying the indelicate move of pulling them over their designated corner while my body is still on them.
His way works much better. The view is really nice when he bends over. But, more importantly, of course, the sheets are smooth, flat.
“I think I could flip a quarter off of that,” I say, as he runs his hand along the fabric and gives it a pat.
He smiles at me, proud. “I’m pretty good at quarters.”
“Oh really?” I reach for my purse and pull one out. I toss it to him and he has to snap his arm out in order to catch it.
He grins. He takes my Learning Disorders Association mug and steadies himself, his hands stretching over the corner of my desk.
He aims.
He shoots.
He misses.
“I’ll show you how it’s done,” I say. Most of the kids at Annie’s public school actually preferred quarters to beer pong. Not sure why. But I’ve gone to enough T.C. Williams parties to be good at the game.
He steps back, puts his hands on his hips, and stares down at me. His smile is too much, the kind of smile that clinks against my insides. He motions for me to go. “Anytime now, Squib.”
I shake my head and focus.
“Don’t let me distract you,” he says playfully.
“Oh, I won’t.” I hold the quarter carefully between my pointer finger and thumb and think about the cup, a lot. I zone out the rap music wafting in from down the hall and the delightful, soft sound Dylan’s shirt makes as he crosses his arms. I click the quarter on the desk and it deliciously clinks and clanks against the sides of the mug.
I step back, triumphant.
“Beginner’s luck,” he says.
“No, it’s not beginner’s luck. I’ve played—”
“Are you trying to tell me that you’ve played quarters before? What, with water?”
Even his grin is stern. It’s annoying. He’s not much older than me. He’d be a senior at Yale if he hadn’t taken two semesters off to work on the campaign.
I bite my lip. “Yeah, beginner’s luck.”
He takes the coin and gives it back to me, pressing it into my palm with one hand and holding the back of my hand with the other. The skin on my neck feels light, funny.
“Okay, beginner, try again.”
I smile and bend down, feeling the quarter. “I’m better at this when I’ve had a lot of...water.”
“I’m sure,” he says.
I laugh and concentrate on the rim.
“Peyton!” someone booms from the hallway.
I clasp the coin in my hand and hold it behind my back, as though I’m hiding something. But what would I be hiding?
And, anyway, it’s Tristan. He strides toward me and gives me a hug because he’s very huggy. I wrap my arms around his neck as his arms come around the rest of me. He smacks a moist kiss on my cheek and I pull back, but we’re still holding each other.
“Wow, Peyton Arthur, a college girl. Call the authorities ’cause it’s hot in here,” he says, his evil, wonderful grin on full display.
I finally let go of him. “Oh, hush.”
Now that the hug is over, he can concentrate on other interesting, sparkly things. He turns to Dylan. “And who is this?” Tristan’s eyes are wide. It almost makes me laugh. Almost.
Dylan crosses his arms. All his muscles are tense, ready to spring.
“Tristan, this is Dylan. He’s going to make sure I don’t screw anything up before the election,” I say. The elephant in the room is that me kissing Tristan had been a screwup. So, yes, in some ways, Dylan is here to ensure I don’t kiss Tristan. “Dylan, this is
“Okay, fine.” I dig through a box and toss him some yellow sheets.
I should be concentrating on placing pens and shit around my desk, but instead I watch him out of the corner of my eye. His shirt sleeves taper off about an inch above his elbow, and as he splashes the sheets over the bed, his arms tense. He’s tall enough that he hardly needs to bend over to each corner in order to firmly put things in place. Whereas I have to move around the bed, flopping over the sheets and trying the indelicate move of pulling them over their designated corner while my body is still on them.
His way works much better. The view is really nice when he bends over. But, more importantly, of course, the sheets are smooth, flat.
“I think I could flip a quarter off of that,” I say, as he runs his hand along the fabric and gives it a pat.
He smiles at me, proud. “I’m pretty good at quarters.”
“Oh really?” I reach for my purse and pull one out. I toss it to him and he has to snap his arm out in order to catch it.
He grins. He takes my Learning Disorders Association mug and steadies himself, his hands stretching over the corner of my desk.
He aims.
He shoots.
He misses.
“I’ll show you how it’s done,” I say. Most of the kids at Annie’s public school actually preferred quarters to beer pong. Not sure why. But I’ve gone to enough T.C. Williams parties to be good at the game.
He steps back, puts his hands on his hips, and stares down at me. His smile is too much, the kind of smile that clinks against my insides. He motions for me to go. “Anytime now, Squib.”
I shake my head and focus.
“Don’t let me distract you,” he says playfully.
“Oh, I won’t.” I hold the quarter carefully between my pointer finger and thumb and think about the cup, a lot. I zone out the rap music wafting in from down the hall and the delightful, soft sound Dylan’s shirt makes as he crosses his arms. I click the quarter on the desk and it deliciously clinks and clanks against the sides of the mug.
I step back, triumphant.
“Beginner’s luck,” he says.
“No, it’s not beginner’s luck. I’ve played—”
“Are you trying to tell me that you’ve played quarters before? What, with water?”
Even his grin is stern. It’s annoying. He’s not much older than me. He’d be a senior at Yale if he hadn’t taken two semesters off to work on the campaign.
I bite my lip. “Yeah, beginner’s luck.”
He takes the coin and gives it back to me, pressing it into my palm with one hand and holding the back of my hand with the other. The skin on my neck feels light, funny.
“Okay, beginner, try again.”
I smile and bend down, feeling the quarter. “I’m better at this when I’ve had a lot of...water.”
“I’m sure,” he says.
I laugh and concentrate on the rim.
“Peyton!” someone booms from the hallway.
I clasp the coin in my hand and hold it behind my back, as though I’m hiding something. But what would I be hiding?
And, anyway, it’s Tristan. He strides toward me and gives me a hug because he’s very huggy. I wrap my arms around his neck as his arms come around the rest of me. He smacks a moist kiss on my cheek and I pull back, but we’re still holding each other.
“Wow, Peyton Arthur, a college girl. Call the authorities ’cause it’s hot in here,” he says, his evil, wonderful grin on full display.
I finally let go of him. “Oh, hush.”
Now that the hug is over, he can concentrate on other interesting, sparkly things. He turns to Dylan. “And who is this?” Tristan’s eyes are wide. It almost makes me laugh. Almost.
Dylan crosses his arms. All his muscles are tense, ready to spring.
“Tristan, this is Dylan. He’s going to make sure I don’t screw anything up before the election,” I say. The elephant in the room is that me kissing Tristan had been a screwup. So, yes, in some ways, Dylan is here to ensure I don’t kiss Tristan. “Dylan, this is
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