Ten minutes later, I give a cry of frustration when my spoon hits the bottom of his mug. “Is that all there is?”
Nathan laughs. “Told you. Although I have to admit, panda is delicious.”
“It’s pan-DAN. We’re not eating the animal. It’s a plant.”
“OH! This whole time I thought we were eating, like, a secretion from pandas’ glands or something.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. Seriously, this guy. “You are such a dork. Oh my god, I can’t believe—which gland?”
“Obviously anal.”
“Gross.”
He gives that grin, the one that makes his eyes almost fully close. The one that makes me want to throw up. Just to be clear, it makes me want to throw up because it’s so cute it does weird things to my stomach, not because it disgusts me. When I told Selena about the nauseating grin, she said, “Well, you either have stomach flu or you’re in love. Either way, stay away from me. I can’t afford to get sick.”
In love. I watch as Nathan gets up and heads to the fridge to make another hot dog and kimchi mug cake for me, and I know, of course I know, that I’m stupidly, annoyingly check-my-phone-every-half-minute in love with him. Ever since we got to know each other during freshers week, Nathan and I have become fast friends. It feels meant to be. We’ve even got the same last name: Chan. What are the chances of that? Okay, so it’s the most common surname in Hong Kong, which is where his dad’s from, and one of the most popular surnames in China, which is where my granddad’s from, but it feels like fate. We hang out almost every day and do lots of random stuff. We’ve located the best spots to nap in the library, we’ve found the best ice cream sandwich combo at Diddy Riese （white chocolate macadamia nut cookie with butter pecan）， and today, he came over to my dorm’s common room to make mug cakes. It’s like my friendship with Selena, except with stomach-turning attraction on my part. On his part—
Well, I don’t know. Sometimes I think he’s attracted to me too. Sometimes I catch him watching me with his eyes all soft, which makes my stomach lurch （thank you, stomach）。 But then he’ll do stuff like rest his elbow on the top of my head when we’re waiting for the red light to change, and then I’m pretty sure he sees me as just a friend. Which I’m totally cool with. I’m down for platonic friendship, yeah. I’m chill. Totes chillax.
Nathan places a hand on my shoulder and I practically leap out of the chair. “Whoa, you okay?”
I snort. “Duh, of course, why wouldn’t I be?” It’s not as if I was interrupted mid-daydream about his abs, which I swear are visible through his UCLA hoodie.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“What?”
“About the party at Phi Kappa?”
A grimace takes over my face. “A frat party? What about it?”
“Um, do you wanna go? My friend’s a member, and he says their parties are great. I don’t know, could be fun.”
“You do realize a frat party is where every bad thing happens? Alcohol poisoning, date rape, hazing . . .”
“Okay, okay.” Nathan laughs. “I get it, you don’t have to go.”
Argh, why do I have to be such a killjoy? I do want to go. I just—I don’t know, I guess I’m deathly afraid that Nathan might realize I’m into him, and that would be massively embarrassing.
Thankfully, the microwave dings then. Nathan busies himself with taking out the mug cake. He moves so effortlessly around the shared kitchen, always with this liquid grace that reminds me of some feline creature. Like a lion, or a lynx. He sprinkles freshly cut chives over the mug cake and slides it over to me. I thank him even though I’ve lost my appetite.
“Anyway, I gotta go. I promised Matt I’d hit the gym with him.”
“Thanks for the cake,” I say in the world’s most casual voice. “Have a good workout,” I call out at the last minute, and then immediately regret it. That sounded like nagging.
He flashes me that grin again, and is gone. I slump back to my room. Selena barely looks up from her calculus textbook when I flop dramatically onto my bed. “Blue balls?” she says, scribbling in her notebook.
“The bluest balls,” I groan into my pillow.
“Pretty sure the book’s called The Bluest Eye.”
I turn my head and glare at her. “You’re not very empathetic.”
“Did he ask you to go to the Phi Kappa party?”
“How did you know about that?”