“I don’t know how, or why, but I did everything you said and he…” She shook her head, laughing a bit as she buried her face before peeking up at me. “I think if you wouldn’t have showed up, he would have kissed me.”
I laughed despite the way those words made anger flare in my gut. That was a side effect I hadn’t been prepared for when we’d entered into this fake relationship, how kissing and touching Giana would blur that line and make me feel like she was actually mine. I didn’t have a right to feel any sort of possessiveness over her, so I shoved it down and remembered why we did this in the first place.
For her to get Shawn.
For me to get Maliyah back.
“Let me guess — he said something along the lines of you deserving better than me?”
“Basically,” she said. “I’m just… in awe. He went from not even knowing I’m alive to… I don’t know… wanting to save me from you.” She barked out a laugh at the audacity.
I, on the other hand, swallowed against the vitality of his concern.
“So, what’s next?” she asked.
When she looked up at me, the tears had dried on her face, and her smile was just as bright and genuine as the one she’d given me when we walked into the party at the beginning of the night. Just like that, she’d bounced back. And even though I’d crossed the line, she watched me with the same unwavering trust in her eyes, looking to me for guidance like I wasn’t the devil himself.
“So eager,” I teased, smiling as I pulled her under my arm and rubbed my knuckle against her skull.
She shoved me off with a laugh, fixing her hair before launching into other things she’d seen at the party, including a couple hippy kids making mushroom tea, and the garden in the back which I agreed with her was completely bizarre and didn’t fit the scene.
I just listened to her, nodding along, and kept my hands in my pockets.
Mostly to keep from reaching for her again.
Giana
“I want you all to be thinking about your case study,” Professor Schneider said on Wednesday morning, a click of her mouse pulling up the requirements on the screen at the head of the class. “It feels like the end of the semester is far away now, but it will sneak up on you, and I will tell you now that I’ll know if you procrastinated, and your grade will reflect it.”
My tired eyes bounced over the text on the screen, though I didn’t register much. Social Media as a Mass Communication was the furthest thing from my mind, especially after a late night working on the upcoming team auction.
Charlotte had me cold-calling everyone in the community she could think of who might be willing to sponsor or provide date itineraries for the auction. And as if that wasn’t draining enough, she then told me I needed to select the charity for the proceeds to benefit and have it on her desk by morning.
It could have been an easy task, if I was lazy and didn’t care about every tiny aspect of my job. I could have Googled charities in Boston and selected the first one that popped up. But since I was addicted to knowledge and detail, I not only searched charities in the area, but also how much of their funding went toward their goal, how many other national sponsors they had, what their output of help in the local community was, and how their ideals matched up with that of NBU and the team.
I hadn’t landed on a decision until well after midnight, and though I passed out as soon as I got home from the stadium, my alarm went off only six hours later.
Early classes were a bitch.
“The quiz on chapters one through five is now live in your online portal. You’ll have until Friday to complete it. See you all next week.”
With that, textbooks and laptops snapped closed, the shuffling of bags the first sound that filled the room before soft talking followed it. I packed up my own things in silence, glancing at my watch that read ten AM and thinking it would be a two-coffee kind of day.
With my messenger bag lugged over one shoulder, I dragged myself out of the classroom and the College of Communications building, the warm morning defrosting my limbs frozen from the air-conditioning. I was on auto-pilot as I shuffled toward Rum & Roasters, pushing through the door just as a yawn stretched my mouth open.
I stood in line like a zombie, ordering a caffè Americano with an extra shot of espresso. I had the life-giver cupped between my palms as I walked toward my usual table.
Only to find it occupied.
Shawn sat bent in my usual chair, one ankle balanced on the opposite knee, guitar in his arms and brow furrowed as he thumbed the strings quietly. His dark hair fell into his eyes slightly, and the way the morning light was streaming through the windows washed him in gold. He looked like the cover of a soft rock album, and when he flicked his hair out of the way and looked up to find me standing in front of him, the sexiest, smoothest smile spread on his dusty pink lips.