OK. Sleep tight.

Another pause, and I’m starting to think we’re done, that I should leave the bathroom, go home, and go to bed, when another bubble pops up. Caroline?


Yeah?

Tuesday is cookie day.

Tuesday, back at the bakery. I don’t want to wait that long to see him, but that’s the way it is. Right. See you then.


By the way.

Nothing for several seconds.


You look fucking hot.

No tooth gap in sight.

Those words—what they do to me. My heart is so light, I think it might be made of air. It might float up and escape through the gap between my front teeth.

I take a screenshot and put the phone away.

Still smiling, I climb down and wash my hands, listening to the thumping bass beat from down the hall. My toes move back and forth on the floor, one foot’s tiny acknowledgment of the rhythm.

My eyes are like that, too. Sparkling with their own tiny acknowledgment.

It’s the second time he’s told me that.

When I come out of the bathroom, Bridget is making her way toward me with Quinn.

Or, more specifically, Bridget is weaving down the hall, and Quinn is watching her like a hawk, moving in to steady her every time it looks like Bridget might hit the deck.

The sad thing is, Bridget only had two beers. She has no alcohol tolerance whatsoever.

“Caroline!” she shouts.

“Bridget!” I shout back.

“I saw Nate.”

“So did I.”

“And I kicked Krish in the nuts for taking your picture. I mean, not really, but metaphorically I did.”

“She chewed him out like you wouldn’t believe,” Quinn says.

“Did Nate make you cry?”

“No. I’m okay.”

“Do you want to go home? Or we could get you some more ice cream.”

I consider it. But I recognize the song that’s on, and I don’t want to go back to the room and hide. “No, I want to dance.”

“Really?” Bridget peers at me, blinking blearily.

“Kind of. I mean, mostly I want to kick Nate in the nuts. Or smash his perfect nose in.”

“Your boy already did that,” Bridget says. I widen my eyes at her in the universal signal for oh my God, shut up, you idiot. I am hoping against all hope that Quinn didn’t hear or won’t understand.

“Your boy?” Quinn asks.

She’s got one eyebrow up. That eyebrow knows everything.

“Bridget is a little drunk,” I say apologetically. “And we have this kind of running joke about West—”

“Which is … ?”

I try to think of a diplomatic way of putting it, but Bridget beats me to the punch with: “That she wants to climb into his pants.”

Yes. Those words actually come out of her mouth.

“I am going to kill you,” I whisper.

I can’t look at Quinn. I might possibly never look at Quinn again.

She clears her throat. Taps her foot.

God. I have no choice. I look.

She’s still got that eyebrow up. There is no tiring her eyebrow. It is an endurance athlete.

“Do you?”

I don’t know how to answer the question. I mean, yes. Yes, of course I want to climb into his pants.

And no. No, no, no, I don’t want her to know it, or for West to, or for anyone alive to, basically, up to and including Bridget.

I say something that comes out a lot like Hnnn?

She grins. “I’ll be sure to tell him that.”

“I will hurt you if you do.”

“Man, you are all over the threats. First that guy Nate—oh, shit, is he the one who published your naked pictures?”

She says it straight out, without any sense of shame or the least hint that it’s a thing we’re not supposed to talk about.

It shocks me so much, I just say, “Yeah.”

“No wonder you’re so full of rage. You know what you should do? You should play rugby. Are you fast?”

“Um, no?”

Bridget says, “She is so fast.”

Quinn is smiling. “You can tackle people to the ground. It’s awesome.”

“That sounds awesome.” Bridget again.

“We practice on Sundays at eleven. You want to come, too? We could use a new hooker.”

“Thanks, but I have to save my athletic awesomeness for track.”

“Oh, right. I’ll settle for the blow-job queen here, then.” Quinn says this completely without malice. She rubs her hands together. “Now, are we dancing or are we going to stand out here jerking off for the rest of the night? Because you know if we don’t get back in there inside of two minutes, Krishna’s going to have his tongue down some poor girl’s throat.”

Bridget wrinkles her nose. “He is. And I want him to dance with. He’s so pretty. Like a Christmas decoration.”

“He would make the world’s most beautiful gay boy,” Quinn agrees. “Let’s go reclaim him.”

I’m not really done with the rugby conversation, but Quinn sticks out her elbows, so we link arms and kind of half-run, half-skip down the hallway like drunken Musketeers. We wave our wristbands at the security guy, who is so, so bored with his job and utterly unfazed by us.

By the time we get back on the dance floor, I’ve got another beer in my hand, and I’m laughing, thinking of Quinn and Bridget and Krishna.

Thinking of my phone in my back pocket and that screenshot I took.

I don’t have one thought to spare for Nate.


“I brought you a present.”

West looks up from the floor scale, where he’s dumping big scoops of flour into the largest mixing bowl. “Yeah?”

I shake the white plastic bag I’m holding. “Corn nuts, Mounds bar, two Monsters.”

“You know the way to my heart.”

“I know the way to keep you from turning into a little bitch on Wednesday nights.”

West smiles and takes the bag. He cracks an energy drink right away, closing his eyes as he takes a swig from the can.

He looks tired. Wednesdays are his worst, because he’s got lab in the afternoon. Most days he naps after class, but on Wednesdays he has to get through all his classes on four hours of sleep, then go to lab, work his library shift, and head straight to the bakery again.

“What are you mixing, the French?”

“Yeah. You want to start the dill?”

“Sure.”

I check the clipboard hanging by the sink to see how many loaves Bob needs. West comes right up behind me, flattens one hand against the cabinet where the clipboard is hanging, and rests his cold drink against my neck.

“Aaagh! Don’t!”

He exhales a laugh and moves it away, but he doesn’t stop caging me in.

If I shifted over a few inches. If I pressed into him. His whole body, solid against mine.

“You have a good day?” he murmurs.

Gah. What is he doing to me? I don’t even think West needs to check the clipboard. It’s all in his head already.

He’s wearing this red plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned. The sleeves are turned up, cuffs loose, and they flap when he uses his hands. I think about running my palm up his forearm. Feeling the soft fuzz of hair, the satiny skin underneath.

I think about turning around to face him.

But I just breathe in. Breathe out. Keep my voice normal when I answer, “Yeah, not bad. I ran into Quinn at lunch, and me and Bridget ended up sitting with her and Krish.”

“Second time this week you had company at lunch.”

I get up the nerve to turn around and smile as though I don’t want anything from him, expect anything from him, need anything from him. “I know. I’m practically a social butterfly, right?”

West is sort of almost smiling. I feel like I’m an experiment he’s running. What will she do if I do this? “You get any sleep before you came here?”

“A few hours. And I took a loooooong nap after class, too. See, look.” I turn my cheek to show him the imprint from the throw pillow. “I was trying to read for English, but I fell asleep on the couch and permanently branded corduroy into my face.”

He steps even closer to see the faint lines that remain all these hours later. He lays his fingers lightly along my jaw, using them to tip my face up toward him.

This is how he’d kiss me. Just like this, with a drink in one hand and a casual half smile, competent fingers putting my lips where he wanted them.

I inhale. Don’t get too excited, Caroline. He’s just looking because you told him to.

“Nice,” he says. “I’m jealous.”

“Of my nap?”

“Of your pillow.”

I stand there with heat crawling up my cheeks, breathing through my open mouth, trying to convince myself he didn’t mean it.

Yeast, idiot. Dill and onion flakes and poppy seeds. Focus on the work.

I can’t, though, because it’s impossible to look away from his eyes. They’re gray-blue today, storm clouds and tiny sparkling flashes of lightning.

What do you want from me? Take it. Whatever it is. Please.

He swigs the rest of his Monster drink, and I watch the column of his throat. He’s all stubbly, like he always is on Wednesday nights. No time to shave. With his head tipped back, his eyes closed, I notice how blue and bruised the skin beneath them looks. I notice how the brim of his black ball cap presses into the back of his neck, how his dark hair’s longer than it was last month, curling behind his ears and up into the fabric of his hat. He looks weary and … I don’t know. Precious. I wish I could give him something other than snack food I picked up at the Kum and Go on my way here.