by Elle Kennedy
To Tucker, I manage a quick nod.
“I never took you for a coward.”
“I’m not usually one,” I say gruffly.
Tucker grabs a small blue cloth from the end table and wipes the corner of Jamie’s mouth, where a bit of milk has drizzled out. He gazes at her with so much love that I actually feel a spark of envy. I wonder what it’s like to love somebody that much.
“I don’t know how to handle this, Tuck. Summer wants to talk—about ‘us,’ I’m assuming—and I have no clue what to say to her.”
A crease appears in his forehead. “You don’t know how to let her down, you mean? Are you saying you don’t want to be with her?”
My teeth dig into my cheek. “Not sure about that, either. She’s just… She’s too much, man.”
“Too much,” he repeats. “What does that mean?”
“She’s too everything.” A helpless sensation tightens my throat. “She’s too beautiful. She’s got too much energy. She’s too open.” I let out a groan. “Everybody is drawn to her. Everybody. She walks into a room and all eyes instantly home in on her, and not simply because she’s hot. Summer’s one of those girls, the high-profile ones who attract attention. She can’t help it. It’s her orbit—you get sucked into it.”
“And that’s bad because?”
Because I’ve never been so drawn to anyone and it kind of scares the shit out of me.
“Because I don’t want to be a high-profile guy,” I say instead. Tuck wouldn’t understand this fear I have about Summer. Emotions don’t scare him. He knew he wanted to be with Sabrina from the second he met her, and his certainty that they belonged together and relentless pursuit to win her heart were damn near incomprehensible to me.
“Being with someone like her means putting myself in the spotlight. And there’ll always be some kind of drama. The other night she started a bar fight,” I grumble. “Summer doesn’t know the meaning of the word low-key. Everything she does is over the top, flashy, extravagant. That’s not me.”
“No,” he agrees, before offering a dry smile. “But letting a chick go down on you in the locker room isn’t typical of you either, so… You must like her a helluva lot if you took that kind of risk tonight.”
He’s right. Stifling a groan, I drop my head in my hands for a long, torturous moment. “I’m in her orbit, man,” I mumble into my palms.
He chuckles. “So whatcha gonna do about it?”
I lift my head. “I have no fucking idea.”
21
Summer
So I guess nobody talks about oral sex anymore? We just perform it on each other and hand out orgasms willy-nilly and it never gets discussed again? Is this the world we’re living in? If so, I’m going off the grid. I’ll build a shack in the middle of the woods where there isn’t a penis in sight.
Forest animals have penises, Summer.
“Oh, shut up, Selena,” I mumble. “I love you, but I don’t need this today.”
My row-mate Ben glances at me, sighs, and then returns his gaze to the front of the lecture hall. He’s grown accustomed to my cat-lady ramblings. I’m not certain if that’s a good thing or a bad one.
It’s been two days since the locker room incident, and Fitz has been completely MIA. Gone in the afternoons (holed up in the painting studio, according to Hollis), hasn’t had dinner (or any meals, for that matter) at home, and both nights he’s come back around midnight and proclaimed to be SO TIRED when I tried to talk to him.
You know what I have to say to that?
Fuck you very much, Colin Fitzgerald. That’s the last time his dumb penis goes anywhere near my sacred mouth. A girl’s got to have standards.
Brenna echoes that sentiment when I text her after class with a Fitz update.
ME: Still no mention of the BJ. Last nite he said he had a migraine and locked himself in his room. This morning he left for practice at 5am. Snuck out like a thief in the night
BRENNA: Men are garbage
ME: They’re pure trash
BRENNA: Trash garbage
I send her the poop emoji, because I can’t find a garbage-bag emoji and poop is an adequate alternative.
BRENNA: All seriousness--I’m sorry, GB. Never thought Fitz was trash garbage, but people are full of surprises
ME: So are Dumpsters
BRENNA: lolololololol
I grin to myself as I slide my phone into my tote. The Prada bag smells like delicious new leather, a scent that never fails to cheer me up. It showed up on my doorstep yesterday morning courtesy of UPS and Nana Celeste. I swear that woman can sense whenever her grandbabies are upset. It’s like she possesses internal radar that shouts “Quick! Call Prada!” if one of the grandkids so much as gets a paper cut.
Not that I’m complaining about my gorgeous new tote. I’m not a crazy person.
I descend the steps toward Laurie’s lecture podium. It’s not his office hours, but he agreed to see me after the lecture so I could start writing my midterm today instead of waiting till Wednesday for him to approve my thesis.
And the good thing about Erik Laurie teaching History of Fashion as well as serving as my independent-study advisor is that I’m able to kill two birds with one stone—I can get my thesis green-lit and give him an update on my swimwear line in one shot.
I still can’t quite explain it, but the man continues to creep me out. Everyone else adores him, especially the girls. They laugh at all his jokes. They tolerate his winking disorder.
And then there’s me, who leaves every encounter with him feeling like I need a shower. He reminds me of that intolerable character from Harry Potter—Gilderoy Lockhart, only the film version of him that Kenneth Branagh knocked out of the park. Laurie isn’t as flamboyant, but, like Lockhart, he comes off as a vain egomaniac who wants everyone to love him.
Or rather, who assumes they already do.
I know it’s a harsh assessment, and I try to push it out of my mind as I approach my professor.
“Winter!” he teases. “I enjoyed your thoughts in class today.”
“Thanks.”
He shuffles a few papers, then glances beyond my shoulder and nods at someone. I turn and realize Nora is waiting a discreet distance away.
“There’s another student I need a progress report from, so this will be quick,” he informs me.
Thank God. The quicker, the better.
He reads over my thesis for the midterm, suggests two minor tweaks, and signs off on it. Once that’s out of the way, I fill him in on the fabric order I placed. The Fashion department has a decent selection of free fabrics for students to use, but we’re also able to buy our own if we choose to do so. Since several of my bikini tops are crochet, I had to order a more lightweight yarn that doesn’t stretch or shrink if it gets wet. Laurie approves of the choice, nodding in agreement when I explain the reasoning behind it. I conclude by giving him an update on the models I plan to recruit.
He throws his head back in laughter when I mention I’d like to ask some football players to model the men’s line. “That’s a great idea, Summer. That’ll definitely sell some tickets. And for the women’s pieces?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
He winks. “So you haven’t changed your mind about modeling one of the swimsuits yourself?”
Ugh.
Why.
Just why, Gilderoy.
I force a laugh. “Nope, still not interested.”
“What a shame. All right, let’s touch base at the end of the week.” He rests his hand on my shoulder before giving it a light squeeze.
And either I imagine it, or his fingertips graze the nape of my neck when I turn to walk away.
Disgust crawls up my spine. It takes a serious effort not to Usain Bolt out of the lecture hall. Instead, I move at a normal pace and act as if I’m not completely repulsed by the potential neck graze.
“Nora, I’ll be with you in a minute,” Laurie tells her, stepping away to answer a call on his cell.
“H
e’s all yours,” I murmur to Nora.
She makes a sardonic noise under her breath. “Doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing.”
I turn to frown at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She checks to make sure Laurie is still on the phone, before sniping, “Don’t you get tired of using your looks to get ahead?”
“What are you talking about? I’m not using anything.”
“You’ve got Laurie wrapped around your little finger. He drools every time you walk in the room. He acts like every word you say is worthy of a Pulitzer. I swear, if he wasn’t already on his feet, he’d give you a standing ovation every time you opened your mouth.”
I clench my jaw so tight my teeth start to hurt. “It’s not like I’m asking him to do that. I’m actually interested in the material we’re discussing.”
“I’m sure you are.” She rolls her eyes, tucking a strand of pink-streaked hair behind her ear. “Maybe if you spent less time flirting and more time learning, you wouldn’t have gotten kicked out of your last school.”
“Uh-huh. Have a good day, Nora.”
My hands are trembling as I stalk off. She is such a nasty person. I can’t believe Fitz liked her enough to go out with her.
I wonder if she gave him a blowjob and he ignored her afterward too.
The reminder floods my belly with the heat of embarrassment. Sexual acts don’t generally embarrass me, not even the ones in high school that occurred when I wasn’t quite sober. But Fitz has made it this way for me. By not even acknowledging that it happened, he’s caused me to feel like there’s something shameful about what we did.
I try to push the negative thoughts from my mind as I exit the building. Once again, it’s cold outside. I swear, February’s even chillier than January. But at least it’s shorter.
Still, I don’t know how much longer I can take this. I might skip out for a week and fly to our place in St. Bart’s, write my essay while lying on a beach chair and sipping pina coladas. Hmmm. Actually not a bad idea.
On the walk to my car, I scroll through my phone contacts. I really do need to secure my models. I require twelve bodies. Six males, six females. Brenna would laugh in my face if I asked her to put on a bikini and strut down a runway. But I do know some girls who might say yes. My Kappa sisters. Or rather, former sisters, but that’s semantics.
Sorority girls crave attention, and most of them have no issue with skimpy clothing. Besides, I have a feeling Bianca might agree out of guilt alone. I think she genuinely felt bad about the way Kaya handled the whole living situation last month.
I don’t have Bianca’s number, so I pull up my profile on MyBri, the college social network. She’s not on my friends list, but you don’t have to be friends with someone to message them. I send a quick note explaining what I need, then close the app.
For the men, I hadn’t been kidding about the football player angle. Nobody wants to see Speedos and swim trunks on scrawny guys with their ribs and hipbones jutting out. Gotta have the abs, baby.
I call my brother, who actually answers despite it being the middle of the school day. “Hey,” I greet Dean. “You’re not teaching a class?”
“Snow day,” he replies.
“Aw, it’s snowing over there? We got a few flurries this morning, but it’s cleared up.” I pray that whatever blizzard has hit New York doesn’t decide to pop over to Massachusetts.
“Yeah, the weather’s shit here. What’s up, Boogers? What do you need?”
“Are you still friends with any of the Briar football players, or did they all graduate?”
“I still talk to a few.”
There’s a skip to my step as I reach my Audi. “Perfect. Can you get me an introduction?”
“What for?” he asks suspiciously.
“I need models for my fashion show. I was hoping to recruit some hard bodies.”
He snorts in my ear. “If even one of them says yes, I expect a front-row ticket to the show so I can get my heckle on.”
“Deal. Most of them live on the same street in Hastings, right? Elmway? Elmhurst?” I remember Brenna pointing it out when we passed the neighborhood on the way home from a Briar game.
“Elmhurst,” he confirms. “Rex’s house is your best bet. He lives with a bunch of clowns who like to show off their muscles.”
“Perfect. I’ve got some time now, so I figured I’d drive over. Can you give me one of their numbers?”
“There’s no fucking way you’re going to a football house alone.” Horror drips from his every word. “Let me call one of my boys and ask them to meet you there. I was just texting with Hunter, so I know he’s around.”
His overprotectiveness makes me roll my eyes. But I suppose it’s sweet. “Fine. Tell him I’ll see him in thirty.”
But it’s not Hunter’s Range Rover that pulls up behind my Audi thirty minutes later. It’s Fitz’s beat-up sedan.
My brother sent Fitz to meet me?
Ha.
If Dean had so much as an inkling of what Fitz and I did in the locker room this weekend, he never would’ve dispatched him to Elmhurst Avenue.
I don’t know which one of us looks more uncomfortable as we approach each other. Fitz’s hands are shoved in his coat pockets, and his eyes don’t quite meet mine as he says, “Hey. Dean sent me.”
“I figured.” My tone is probably harsher than necessary, but—
It is absolutely necessary! Selena assures me.
True. He did come in my mouth and run away.
“You, ah, had class this morning? History of Fashion?” he says awkwardly.
He’s making small talk?
Is he for real?
“Yes, Fitz, I had class,” I say. I shift my tote to my other shoulder and march toward the driveway of the detached Victorian we’ve parked in front of. According to Dean, there are, like, eight football dudes living here.
“How’s the essay going?”
I stop in the middle of the paved drive. “You mean the one you agreed to help me with?” I can’t help but snipe.
Unhappiness clouds his expression. “I’m sorry. I know I dropped the ball. I’ve been…”
“Busy?” I supply.
“Yeah.”
“And don’t forget about the headaches,” I say sarcastically. “All those terrible, terrible headaches you’ve been suffering from.”
Fitz lets out a quick breath. He lifts his hand to run it through his hair, then halts when he remembers he’s wearing a Red Sox cap.
“Don’t worry,” I mutter, gulping down the bitter taste in my mouth. “I’ve got the essay covered.”
We resume our walk up the driveway. His legs are longer than mine, so he shortens his strides to match my pace. “Are you sure? Did your prof approve the thesis? Give you any notes?”
At the mention of Laurie, I momentarily forget that I’m pissed off at Fitz. “He made a few suggestions, but I was so eager to leave, I didn’t fully listen to what he said. I’ll read over what he wrote in the margins when I get home.”
Fitz studies my face. His own expression is inscrutable. “Why were you eager to leave?”
“Honestly? He makes me uncomfortable.”
A frown tightens the corners of his mouth. “In what way?”
“I don’t know. He’s very friendly.” I pause. “A little too friendly.”
“Has he tried anything?” Fitz demands.
“No. Oh no, he hasn’t,” I assure him. “I… I don’t know. Maybe I’m being overly sensitive. I get a weird vibe from him, that’s all.”
“Always trust your gut, Summer. If something feels off, it usually is.”
“My gut isn’t exactly the most accurate barometer,” I say flatly. “I mean, it told me to track you down in the locker room this weekend, and look how that turned out.”
At the mention of what went down this weekend (me. I went down this weekend. On him), Fitz’s expression fills with regret. “I’m…” He clears his throat. “I’m really sorry ab
out that.”
I don’t know how to respond, because I can’t figure out what he’s apologizing for—that he disappeared after I blew him, or that it happened in the first place.
“You’re sorry,” is what I finally say.
“Yes.”
I wait for him to expand on that. When he doesn’t, my anger returns in full force, spurring me to brush past him and stomp to the front porch.
The door flings open before I can even ring the bell, and a huge black guy with a shaved head appears in front of me. In a split second, the excitement in his eyes transforms into grave disappointment. “It’s not the pizza!” he shouts over his shoulder.
“Motherfucker,” someone curses from inside.
The big guy peers past me. “Fitzgerald? That you?”
Fitz reaches the porch. “Hey, Rex. How’s it going?”
“Shitty. I thought your girl was the pizza guy, but she ain’t got pizza.”
“Sorry.” I’m trying hard not to laugh.
Fitz seems to be doing the same. “You realize it’s barely noon, right?”
“You saying you can’t eat pizza at noon? Boy, you can eat pizza whenever you want to eat pizza. Noon, midnight. Dinner time. Breakfast time. It’s fuckin’ pizza.”
“It’s fuckin’ pizza,” I echo solemnly. Then I stick out my hand. “I’m Summer Di Laurentis. I forced Fitz to bring me here because I need a favor.”
“I’m intrigued. You’re forgiven for the pizza snafu.” Rex holds the door open for us. “Come inside. I’m cold.” We enter the house, and he gestures to the scary amount of coat hooks and shoe racks in the front hall. “Ditch your gear. We’re playing Madden. You want next round, Fitz?”
“Naah, I don’t think we’re staying that long. Are we?” he asks me.
I shake my head. “I’ll be quick. I need to get home and work on my paper.”
We follow Rex into a massive living room with a U-shaped sectional that is currently bearing the weight of four football players. I estimate about eight or nine hundred pounds of muscle.
