by Lauren Rowe
“Thank you.”
“But I won’t back down from saying your shirt gives the exact opposite impression.”
“Yeah, well, maybe that’s part of my reason for wearing the shirt.” He taps his temple and winks.
“Wow. So you’re saying the douchey shirt is some sort of secret code? Like, it wards off girls looking for a boyfriend?”
“Something like that.”
“And here I thought you thought your shirt was nothing but a simple statement of fact.”
“Oh, I do. Definitely. Plus—bonus points—it’s funny as hell.”
“How can your shirt be a simple statement of fact and funny as hell at the same time? You’re either serious or joking. It can’t be both.”
Tyler smiles. “Sure it can.”
“I don’t see how.”
“If you saw an elephant wearing a T-shirt with the word elephant stamped across it, you’d think that’s pretty damned funny, right?”
I can’t help smiling. Ah, so he’s more clever than I gave him credit for. “That depends.”
“Aw, come on,” he says, flashing me a snarky look. “Don’t argue with me for the sake of arguing.”
“I’m not. An elephant in an elephant T-shirt might be funny and it might not.”
“Tell me one scenario where an elephant wearing an elephant T-shirt wouldn’t be fucking hilarious.”
I slide my legs underneath me in the chair, taking care not to flash Tyler my undies as I do. I say, “Well, if the elephant was harmed or humiliated while being stuffed into his elephant T-shirt, that wouldn’t be funny. Animal cruelty is never a laughing matter, Tyler Caldwell.”
Tyler chuckles. “The elephant wasn’t harmed or humiliated.”
“How can you be sure? Elephants are highly intelligent creatures. It’s well known they experience complex emotions.”
“I know because he’s a cartoon elephant.”
Again, I can’t resist smiling broadly. “Ah, so our elephant is like Babar, is he?”
“Babar? Who’s that?”
“You don’t know Babar?”
Tyler shakes his head. He’s got an adorable, crooked grin on his face. “Is he a cartoon elephant?”
I’m aghast. “How do you not know Babar? Did you grow up under a rock?”
“Lots of different rocks. We moved around a lot when I was a kid.”
“Military?”
“Football. My dad played in the NFL for nine seasons. But he wasn’t a superstar, so he never had job security. A season here. A season there. We moved every time he got picked up by a new team.”
“What position did he play?”
“You know football?”
“I was raised on it. My dad played for the University of Nebraska.”
“Ah, a Cornhusker. What position?”
“Center.”
“Did he go pro?”
“He tried, but he never made it onto a roster. Too small. What was your dad’s position?”
“Defensive tackle.”
“Which teams?”
Tyler tells me a long string of team names, ending with the Dallas Cowboys.
“Your dad must be thrilled you’re following in his footsteps. Did he want you to be a defensive tackle, too?”
“No, he wanted me to be a quarterback, actually. I tried when I was younger, but it turns out my throwing arm is a cannon with zero accuracy. But, hey, consolation prize, the free safety is known as the ‘quarterback of the defense.’”
“Why is that?”
“I make the coverage call and communicate it to the linebackers and other DBs. I disguise the look. Check the defense and make sure everyone adjusts and gets into position.” Tyler taps his temple. “I use my brain as much as my body out there, sweetheart. That’s why I love the position so much.”
My skin is buzzing. Tyler comes alive when he talks about football, and it’s incredibly sexy.
“Hey, you want a water?” Tyler asks.
“Sure. Thanks.”
He gets up and grabs two bottles from a mini-fridge in the corner, hands one to me, and then leans on the edge of his desk a foot away from me, twisting the cap on his bottle. “So tell me about this Babar dude,” Tyler says, his blue eyes blazing. “He’s a cartoon elephant in a T-shirt?”
“No, he’s a cartoon elephant in a snazzy green suit and a yellow crown.”
“Then it sounds like the better choice for our cartoon elephant’s doppelgänger would be Winnie the Pooh.”
I make a face like that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. “Why on earth would our cartoon elephant’s doppelgänger be a cartoon bear?”
“Because Winnie the Pooh wears a T-shirt, not a snazzy green suit and a crown.”
I make a buzzing sound. “Thanks for playing, but Pooh wears a polo shirt.”
“No. Pooh wears a red T-shirt. I’ve seen it a million times.”
“Pooh’s shirt has a collar on it. That makes it a polo shirt.”
“Jesus God, I’ve brought a madwoman into my bedroom. Please don’t hurt me.” He pulls out his phone. “Prepare to be schooled, Zooey… What’s your last name?”
“Cartwright.”
“Prepare to be schooled, Zooey Cartwright. I’m one hundred percent—” He gasps. “Holy shit! Winnie the Pooh wears a red polo shirt!”
“I guess I should have warned you. I only argue when I’m sure I’m right.”
Tyler looks at his phone again. “I’m deeply traumatized.”
“That’s nothing. If you really want to be traumatized, then consider this: Why the hell isn’t Pooh wearing pants? He’s a bear who lives in a house and sleeps in a bed. He drinks tea out of a cup. And yet he wears no pants with his polo shirt? I mean, is Pooh fully anthropomorphized or not? Because, if he is, then he’s a ‘public lewdness’ charge waiting to happen.”
Tyler throws his head back and laughs heartily…and the sound of his full-throated laughter sends pangs of regret shooting through my chest. Damn it. He’s so freaking adorable. And witty. And hot. He’s so much more than I thought he’d be when I first laid eyes on him. Why’d I have to throw myself at him, dressed like this? Why couldn’t I have met him on campus while looking and acting like myself? Why couldn’t we have struck up a conversation in the book store—the same way Dimitri and Clarissa did? If only I could rewind time and—
Wait.
What on earth is my crazy brain thinking? Wishing I’d met Tyler under different circumstances is a pointless exercise because Tyler doesn’t want a girlfriend. And I most certainly don’t want a boyfriend. To the contrary, now that I’m finally out from under my father’s protective thumb, I’m determined to have nothing but fun, fun, fun throughout my entire freshman year.
Tyler wipes his eyes from laughing. “Wow. Thanks for fucking up Winnie the Pooh for me.”
“Misery loves company.”
Tyler flashes me a smile that sends butterflies shooting into my stomach. “Okay. That was a nice deflection, but it’s time for you to give me your final answer.” He puts his water bottle down and crosses his muscled arms over his chest. “Time’s up, Zooey.”
Chapter Six
I stare at Tyler blankly, not sure what he means. He needs my final answer about what? If I’m willing to have sex with him, after all? Because, if so, my answer would most definitely be…yes.
“Do you admit our cartoon elephant’s T-shirt is funny or not?” Tyler demands. “Assuming, of course, he’s wearing pants.”
Oh. That. “Um…” I begin but trail off. My mind is racing. I think I might have royally screwed up tonight. Tyler’s clearly not the douchebag I thought he was based on initial impressions. Not at all. He’s actually someone I’d love to hang out with and get to know. Which means the fact that I threw myself at him…and then got turned down…is absolutely mortifying. I clear my throat. “I can’t give you my final answer yet,” I say. I lean back in my chair. “There are still too many variables.”
“Variables? Well, this I�
�ve got to hear.” Tyler shifts his backside against the edge of his desk like he’s settling in for the night and flashes me a smile that says Enlighten me.
“Well, for one thing,” I say. “I’d want to know if our cartoon elephant chose his elephant T-shirt out of his cartoon closet the same way a human hipster would choose a T-shirt that says Human.”
Tyler chuckles. “Or…”
“Or, in the alternative, if the word elephant on the elephant’s T-shirt is completely outside the realm of his cartoon reality.”
“Outside the realm of his cartoon reality?” Tyler chuckles, and his stunningly blue eyes twinkle at me.
I clear my throat again. Oh, man, my insides suddenly feel like an ice cream cone left out on a sunny day. “Yeah, you know, like, maybe the word elephant on his T-shirt is actually a label.”
“A label?”
“Placed on his shirt by the illustrator to make sure we can tell he’s an elephant.”
Tyler shakes his head like I’ve given him whiplash. “The elephant is a big gray animal with a trunk and tiny tail. No label necessary.”
“That’s your assumption. But there are lots of reasons why a label might be necessary.”
“Name two,” Tyler says.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my pounding heart. “Well, what if the illustrator is a kindergartner, and the elephant looks like nothing but a big gray blob?”
Tyler chuckles.
“Or what if the illustrator is some old guy who’s recently had a stroke and, sadly, the elephant looks more like a gigantic boulder with eyes?”
Tyler bites his lower lip. “Or maybe a rhino.”
“Exactly. See? Now you get it. Surely, in either of those scenarios, a label on the elephant would be necessary—and not the least bit funny.”
Tyler bites his lip again and then shoots me a smoldering look that hardens my nipples. “The elephant is a hipster, Zooey,” he says evenly, his eyes locked with mine. “He got his elephant T-shirt at a vintage shop, and he drinks old fashioneds at elephant bars while listening to cartoon bands you’ve never heard of.”
“Ah, so our cartoon elephant must not listen to Josie and the Pussycats, then. They’d be way too mainstream for his hipster musical taste.” I snort at my own joke, but the look on Tyler’s face tells me he has no idea what I’m talking about. “Aw, come on, man!” I bellow. “First Babar and now Josie and the Pussycats?”
Tyler shrugs.
“Damn. And that was a clever joke, too. Trust me, if you’d grown up watching Cartoon Network on Saturdays like me, rather than wasting your time and energy playing football all the time, you’d understand that joke absolutely slayed.”
“Oh, I’m sure it did. There’s no doubt in my mind.” His eyes flicker with heat. “Okay, Zooey. Are there any more variables you need to consider or are you finally ready to concede the point?”
“What’s the point again?”
He rolls his eyes. “That the elephant’s T-shirt, and therefore mine, can be both a statement of fact and funny.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Exhale. And finally, begrudgingly, motion to his T-shirt and say, “Fine. I concede. It’s a damned funny shirt.”
Tyler fist-pumps the air, throws his head back, and lets out a laugh that’s so adorable, it makes my crotch flutter. And just like that, another pang of regret shoots through me. I can’t believe I threw myself at this gorgeous guy…and he turned me down. Suddenly, I want to bolt out of this bedroom and never look back.
I rise out of my chair and put my water bottle down. “So, hey, Mr. God’s Gift to Womankind, it’s been great meeting you, but I think I’m going to head downstairs, find my roommate, and go back to the dorms now.”
Tyler’s face falls. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m just tired.” And embarrassed. “Have a great rest of your season and good luck in the draft in May.”
I begin crossing the room, intending to flee, but Tyler beats me to the door and stands in front of it. “Hang on. Something’s obviously wrong.”
“Nope. Nothing’s wrong. I’ve just realized you’re totally right. It was a huge mistake for me to come up here with you.” And now I’m feeling embarrassed and rejected and mortified about it. “Honestly, I’d like to leave and forget tonight ever happened.”
“Shit.” He exhales. “Zooey, listen. All that stuff I said earlier, I’m thinking maybe I jumped the gun and we should—”
“No, no, you were absolutely right. I would have regretted having a one-night stand with you. I might even have turned into a Stage Five Clinger on you, to be honest. You know how freshman girls are—we’re all batshit crazy, especially small-town girls like me with no experience.” I force a smile. “Truthfully, I think we both dodged huge bullets tonight. I dodged giving my V card to some random, drunk-ass dude at a party who didn’t even buy me a freaking cheeseburger first. And you dodged having a potential Stage Five Clinger on your hands.” I force another smile, even though my stomach is suddenly churning. “So let’s both count our lucky stars and call it a night.” I motion for him to step away from the door. “Excuse me, please.”
Tyler sighs and slowly steps aside, a pained expression on his face. “Shit,” he mutters. “Zooey, listen—”
“No, no. Please. There’s nothing more to say. Have fun avoiding ‘emotional distractions’ until the draft.” With that, I swing open Tyler’s bedroom door and bolt down the hallway, praying to God I’ll never see Tyler Caldwell and his savagely blue eyes and heart-stopping smile ever again.
Chapter Seven
I stop walking and look down at the campus map on my phone, trying in vain to figure out how to get to Randolph Hall. This is my first time down here in South Campus, the land of future scientists, and this map isn’t helping me at all. Thank God I came down south with so much extra time before the start of my Social Psychology class, or I’d be totally stressed right now. I look up from my phone, trying to orient myself, and immediately notice Dimitri walking about twenty yards away.
“Dimitri!” I call out.
Dimitri stops and looks straight at me, not a hint of recognition on his face, and then continues on his merry way as if I’ve said nothing at all.
“Dimitri!” I shout again, bounding toward him. I wave at him like a dork. “It’s Zooey from the football party!”
Dimitri’s eyes widen with astonishment. “Holy crap, I didn’t even recognize you!” He embraces me, laughing. “You look so different with your hair curly like this. I love it.”
I touch my crazy hair. “Yeah, Clarissa gave me quite the makeover the other night.” I motion to my tank top, shorts, and sneakers. “The real Zooey is more Farm Girl from Nebraska than Kendall Jenner.”
“You look awesome either way.” He shifts his backpack on his shoulder. “So how’s Clarissa? We’re meeting tomorrow for coffee. Got any pro tips for me?”
“Pro tips?”
“Inside info I can use to make her fall desperately in love with me.”
I make an “aw” face. “Just be your sweet and charming self, Dimitri. After the party, Clarissa said some really nice things about you.”
“‘Nice’ as in ‘he’s totally in my friend zone,’ or…?” Dimitri looks at me expectantly, obviously hoping I’ll spill the beans. But I’ve got nothing for him. After the party, Clarissa and I stayed up talking for hours and hours, at which time she told me she likes Dimitri a lot, but she’s on the fence about whether she could see herself sleeping with him. “He’s definitely cute,” she said that night. “But he didn’t even try to kiss me, even though I kept giving him green-light signals. If a guy doesn’t make a move on me early on, the window for romance slams shut. It’s just the way I’m wired. I need to feel desirable right away.”
I look into Dimitri’s earnest, expectant face, and my heart pangs for him. “Okay, Dimitri, I’ve got one pro tip for you. You’ve got to cowboy up and make your move early with Clarissa. If you don’t make her feel like she’s completely i
rresistible to you, she’ll put you in the friend zone, and that will be that. No second chances.”
Dimitri looks distressed.
“Just go for it,” I urge. “Better to make a move and get rejected than wonder ‘what if’ later on.”
Dimitri takes a deep breath. “Wow, thanks, Zooey. Okay, I’ll go for it.”
“Good luck.”
“So enough about me and my whopping crush on your unbelievably gorgeous roommate who totally rocked my world the other night,” Dimitri says. “How’s your first day of classes treating you so far, college girl?”
“So far, so good. I had History of Theater this morning up in my neck of the woods. And now I’m down south to take my required science class. Shudder.”
“What class?”
“Social Psychology. Thankfully, I’ll be heading back up north immediately afterwards for Modernizing Shakespeare.”
“Oh, I took that class last quarter for my creative writing minor. It was cool.”
“Awesome. So would you mind giving me directions to Randolph? I’m terrible at reading maps, and I don’t want to be late for class.”
“It’s not you, it’s the map. The first time I tried to find Randolph my freshman year, I got lost for four days. If I hadn’t had a granola bar and a Red Bull in my backpack, I would have starved to death while waiting for the search party.” He grins adorably. “I’ll walk you there. It’ll give me a chance to tell you about an interesting text I got from a certain someone right after the party.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. “Who?”
“Tyler Caldwell.”
Oh, jeez. If Tyler told Dimitri what happened between us—and the secrets I told him—I’ll freaking kill him. “A text from Tyler Caldwell?” I choke out. “About what?”
“He wanted to know if I happened to have Clarissa’s phone number so he could get—”
“Dimitri!” a male voice booms a few feet to our right, and we both look toward the sound.
Oh, for the love of all things embarrassing and mortifying! No. It’s none other than God’s Gift to Womankind loping toward us! Where’s a girl’s invisibility cloak when she needs one? But there’s nowhere to hide. Tyler is jogging straight toward Dimitri, his stunningly perfect body poetry in motion, the phrase You’re Welcome! plastered in white letters across his black T-shirt.
