I set the two coffees down on the table and slide my backpack off my shoulder. I’ve been to The Purple Kettle a bunch of times, mostly to see if I can catch a few moments of conversation with Bex, and I figured out that she likes her coffee iced with two pumps of caramel syrup, so I got that along with a black iced coffee for myself. On impulse, I went ahead and bought her a pumpkin muffin, too. Something tells me she’s the sort of girl who gets excited about all the pumpkin-related products that pop up during the fall.
The class starts to filter in. A bunch of girls stare at me, but they always do, so I ignore them. They’ve been straight up glaring at Bex—I guess the news of our “relationship” is making the rounds—but she doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe if this was real, I’d want her to be more possessive, but as it stands, I’m relieved. If anything, I’m more worried about this snowballing into something I’m not ready for emotionally for me than for her.
She walks in with just a couple minutes to go, and she’s on the phone with someone. Her mouth is taut as she whispers into the phone. She gives our professor an apologetic look as she slips past him to her seat.
“Yeah,” she’s saying. “Just tell him I’ll figure out a way to pay for it later. I’ll move some money around.”
Her eyes widen adorably as she takes in the surprise I left on her side of the table. Thank you, she mouths as she sits down. I hide my smile as I sip my coffee.
“Got you. Yep. Thanks.” She slides her phone into her bag, then takes a sip of coffee.
“You know my coffee order?”
I shrug. “I just picked up on it.”
She leans in and smacks my cheek with a kiss. “Thank you. I haven’t had breakfast yet, so this is perfect.”
“Everything okay?”
She groans as she takes out her laptop. “It’s just the diner. Something happened with an appliance, and I need to move money around to pay for the part the repair guy needs.”
“That sucks.”
She breaks off some of the muffin and offers it to me, but I shake my head regretfully. “No thanks. Unfortunately, pumpkin muffins don’t fit in with the football diet.”
“That’s tragic,” she says around a bite of muffin. “Sucks even worse than a broken refrigerator.”
I want to reply, but the professor starts class, so I open a blank document for notes and take another sip of my coffee. Not for the first time, I’m left wondering why Bex is the one who handles all the headaches of her mother’s business when she’s supposed to be in college. Not to say she’s not capable, because she clearly is, but why does she have to? Doesn’t her mother own it? It doesn’t sound like her dad is in the picture, but good luck talking to her about that. I asked her about her family a few days ago while we were at the campus library for a tutoring session, and she shut down in a way I absolutely hated to see.
I’m attempting to type some notes as the professor drones on when Bex pokes my arm. I look over; she’s pointing to her notebook, where she wrote down something in sparkly blue ink.
We should plan that date.
We were going to make an appearance at a party together last weekend, but Bex was hit with an unexpected assignment for one of her classes, so that didn’t happen. But she’s right, we should have a proper date. Even though we’ve met up for tutoring in public places so people see us, it’s not the same as going out like a couple would.
Bowling? I write back.
She makes a face and writes back, No way.
Arcade? Mini golf?
“Are all your suggestions this boyish?” she whispers.
“Hey, don’t let my sister hear you say that. She’s the mini golf queen,” I reply just as quietly, keeping my eyes on the front of the room. “What were you thinking?”
“Antiquing?”
“Hell no.”
“Bookstore?”
“Maybe.”
She huffs out a breath. “Fine. The arcade isn’t a bad idea, there’s one right in town.”
“Really?” I can’t keep the hopeful note out of my voice.
“Are you free tonight?”
The basketball in my hands feels way different from the curves of a football, but when I lay up, it lands in the net without hitting the rim. I grin, bumping my hip against Bex’s side. “And that’s how a master does it.”
She rolls her eyes as she picks up a basketball. We’ve been wandering around the arcade for half an hour, trying out the different games. On a weeknight, it’s not too crowded here, which is how I prefer it. According to Bex, this arcade, Galactic Games, is a popular destination for teenagers and college students alike, so sometimes it can get overwhelming. So far, she beat me at Pac-Man, which was surprisingly satisfying to see—she’s a little trash talker when she’s doing well at a game, something that reminds me of my sister—and I cleaned up in our game of air hockey. Hoops aren’t my favorite, but she seems into it, so I let her drag me over. It’s fun to see her relaxed like this. When we arrived, I bought her a blue raspberry slushy, and I’ve been stealing sips even though my nutritionist wouldn’t be pleased. I haven’t had one since a memorable weekend at a state fair with my brothers and sister a couple years ago, and the taste reminds me of sunshine and my siblings’ laughter.
I take another slurp as she sets up. With her hips popped forward, her ass sticks out adorably, and the dark skinny jeans she’s wearing make it look extra fantastic. I want to palm the curve, slip my hand into her back pocket, but that’d make her stomp on my foot for sure. Real boyfriends can get away with stuff like that, and that’s not me. I need to remember that, however much fun I’m having.
Her shot goes straight into the net. She bounces on the tips of her toes, her grin wide and infectious. I slap her palm with a high-five. “Atta girl. Want to do a speed race?”
“I’m gonna wipe the floor with you when we’re done,” she says, a glint in her eyes that lets me know she’s serious. I love it. I wasn’t expecting this side of her, but as an athlete in a family of athletes, a competitive spirit is sexy as hell. Anyone looking over right now probably sees the desire in the way I’m looking at her, and I don’t give a damn.
It’s good for the image we’re trying to promote, right?
She sets the buzzer for one minute, and the second it starts counting down, we’re off to the races. I’m grabbing basketballs and putting them through the hoop as fast as I can, but she’s almost as fast, biting her lip in concentration. When the buzzer goes off, I’ve beaten her by only five points, which is way less than I was expecting.
“Aw, nice try, princess.”
She scrunches up her nose as she takes a sip of the slushy. “Let’s go again.”
I steal the slushy from her. “You know how many completed passes I made today during practice alone?”
This time, she goes for the same basketballs I do, bumping into me and trying to mess up my stance. What a little sabotager. I still beat her, but only by two points this time, and we’re both laughing by the end. She leans into me, and I wrap my arm around her automatically, squeezing her hip.
“Let’s bet this time,” she says. “If I win, you cash in your tickets and get me one of those stuffed animals.”