Him: In changing your mind. I’m trying to butter u up here.
Me: Ew. Go butter up someone else. PS—I’m posting that pic on my-bri.
I’m referring, of course, to MyBriar, our school’s equivalent of Facebook, which ninety-five percent of the student body is on.
Him: Go for it. Lots of chicks will be happy to have it in their spank banks.
Me: Lose this number, dude. I mean it.
I don’t wait for a response. I just toss my phone on the bed and go take a shower.
4
Hannah
Briar University is five miles from the town of Hastings, Massachusetts, which has one main street and only about two-dozen shops and restaurants. The town is so miniscule it’s a miracle I managed to land a part-time job there, and I thank my lucky stars for it every day because most students are forced to make the hour-long drive to Boston if they want to work during the school year. For me, it’s either a ten-minute bus ride or a five-minute drive, and then I’m at Della’s, the diner I’ve been waitressing at since freshman year.
Tonight I’m lucky and get to drive over. I have an arrangement with Tracy, one of the girls who lives on my floor. She lets me use her car whenever she doesn’t need it as long as I return it with a full tank of gas. It’s a sweet deal, especially in the winter when the whole area turns into a snow-covered skating rink.
I don’t particularly like my job, but I don’t hate it either. It pays well and it’s close to campus, so really, I can’t complain.
Scratch that—tonight I’m definitely allowed to complain. Because thirty minutes before my shift ends, I find Garrett Graham in one of my booths.
Seriously.
Does this guy ever give up?
I have no desire to go over there and serve him, but I don’t have much of a choice. Lisa, the other waitress on duty, is busy tending to a group of faculty members at a table across the room, and my boss Della is behind the baby-blue Formica counter dishing out slices of pecan pie to three freshman girls sitting on the tall swivel stools.
I set my jaw and march up to Garrett, making my displeasure obvious as I meet his twinkling gray eyes. He runs a hand through his cropped dark hair and flashes a lopsided grin.
“Hey there, Hannah. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yeah, fancy,” I mutter, yanking my order pad out of my apron pocket. “What can I get you?”
“A tutor.”
“Sorry, that’s not on the menu.” I smile sweetly. “We serve really good pecan pie, though.”
“You know what I did last night?” he says, without acknowledging the sarcasm.
“Yep. You were text stalking me.”
He rolls his eyes. “Before that, I mean.”
I pretend to think it over. “Um…you hooked up with a cheerleader? No, you hooked up with the girls’ hockey team. No, wait, they’re probably not ditzy enough for you. I stick with my original guess—cheerleader.”
“Sorority sister, actually,” he says smugly. “But I’m talking about what I did before that.” He raises one dark eyebrow. “But I’m very intrigued by your interest in my sex life. I can give you details about that another time if you want.”
“I don’t.”
“Another time,” he echoes in a dismissive tone, folding his hands on the blue-and-white-checkered tablecloth.
He’s got big hands with long fingers, short nails, and knuckles that are slightly red and cracked. I wonder if he’s been in a fight recently, but then I realize the busted-up knuckles are probably a hockey player thing.