My Best Friend's Ex_A New Adult College Romance Page 8

  “As I was saying-” I pulled my makeup mirror closer and reached for a stick of cream blush. “The amount of attention you get from guys is ridiculous.”

  She pulled her strappy sandals out of the bottom of her closet and sat down on her bed.

  “And yet you’re not into any of them. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Men are pigs,” she said as apathetically as if I’d asked the time.

  “Care to elaborate?” I asked, blending the pink smear into the apples of my cheeks before adding a touch of color to my bottom lip.

  “My ex cheated on me,” she said, lacing up her sandals.

  “One bad egg is no reason to-”

  “As did my ex before him,” she added.

  My expression drooped.

  “Along with the guy before him.”

  “Shit, Nina. I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t want your pity,” she said. “I feel fucking inadequate enough as it is.”

  “You’re the least inadequate woman I know.”

  She offered a shallow smile. “Thanks, but I’m sick of getting hurt. Don’t get me wrong. I love a good flirt. I love male attention.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “I just hate crying myself to sleep at night because I’m a naïve fool who keeps trusting the wrong people.”

  “Understandable.”

  “You’ve never been cheated on, I take it?” She leaned back on straight arms.

  “No.” I was too busy playing third wheel to Logan and Piper to ever get serious about anybody like that. Not that it felt like a lame choice at the time.

  Frankly, it was only uncomfortable when they used to fight, which happened more than they seemed to remember. I don’t know why they were so explosive. I had my theories, of course, perhaps the best being that they weren’t on the same level maturity-wise.

  “Lucky.”

  “Maybe,” I said, grabbing my mascara. “But I know all about wanting the wrong person.”

  Her sandaled feet smacked the floor with a clap, and she stared at them for a moment before raising her eyes.

  “What?”

  “What if there is no right person?” she asked, her eyes on the wall over my bed.

  I furrowed my brow.

  “What if everyone is wrong?” She raised her hands in front of her like she was holding an invisible beach ball. “What if the whole historical tradition of coupling up is wrong?”

  “Uhhh.”

  “What if it’s just a matter of picking the person who’s wrong in the least offensive ways?” She went to her desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out the cheap handle of vodka her cousin had hand delivered earlier that week. “What if we’re all wasting our time and driving ourselves crazy when compromise is actually supposed to start before the coupling?” She pulled two shot glasses down from the shelf over her desk.

  I turned back towards my makeup mirror, determined to apply my mascara before I started taking shots.

  “Well?”

  I looked at her through the glass. “Did you actually expect an answer to that question?”

  “I don’t know.” She crossed her legs. “I figured you’d be more excited about my theory than anyone.”

  “Me?” I glanced over my shoulder. “Why?”

  “Think about it,” she said. “Who’s the most wrong person for you on earth?”

  My voice came out quieter than I expected. “My best friend’s ex, obviously.”

  “Bingo,” she said, pouring two shots. “Now what if I told you there were no wrong people, only wrong feelings.”

  I felt my lips twitch. “I would ask how you’re supposed to know when you can trust your feelings?”

  “Good question,” she said, standing just enough to hand me a shot. “After all, not all feelings can be trusted.”

  “You said that like you know which ones can.”

  “Well the heart’s out,” she said, knocking her shot back and gasping through her next words. “It’s supposed to be a compass, but it’s wrong half the time.”

  “The head’s gotta be out, too, then. My thoughts do absolutely nothing but betray and mislead me.”

  “Me too,” she said, her eyes wide as she pointed to her temples. “There’s nothing but miserable bullshit knocking around up here.”

  “At least it’s consistent.”

  “Consistent isn’t the same as reliable,” she said, nodding towards my drink.

  I downed the vodka and practiced my cowboy face, which still needed work. “What else is there?”

  “That,” she said, pointing at my twisted expression. “Physical sensation.”

  “So gut feelings?”

  “Holy shit,” she said, shaking her head like we’d just solved a Rubik’s cube in the dark. “That’s it. Your gut.”

  I handed back my glass.

  “Your gut never lies to you,” she said, pouring two more shots.

  “I suppose it is fairly accurate.”

  “Think about it,” she said. “Your gut doesn’t judge its feelings before sharing them with you. It just reports them in real time. It never makes you feel like you’re gassy when you don’t, in fact, have gas, for example.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, but don’t you ever have stomach pains so bad you think you’re going to die, and then it ends up just being gas?”

  “That’s your head getting it wrong, and I’m being serious right now.”

  “I can tell.”

  “Forget gas for a second.” She twisted the lid back on the vodka and returned it to her desk drawer. “What about those flippy butterflies you get when you find someone attractive?”

  My mind flashed back to the way Logan looked when he was changing his shirt, all back muscles and smooth flesh and- “What about them?”

  “You don’t get them unless you genuinely have the hots for somebody.”

  “So?”

  “So,” she said. “That’s because the gut can’t lie. It can only tell the truth.”

  “I thought it was the hips that didn’t lie?”

  She groaned.

  “I’m not saying I don’t like your theory, okay? I’m saying that just because it’s the most trustworthy body part doesn’t mean you should ignore the rest.”

  “Maybe,” she said, passing me a shot. “But I say we try it. Just go with our guts tonight.”

  “Our soon-to-be drunken guts?”

  “As if our fickle hearts will steer us any better.”

  “Touché,” I said, clinking my glass against hers.

  “No,” she said. “To guts.”

  E I G H T E E N

  - Logan -

  The branding iron sizzled against the smoking burger, and as soon as Steve revealed a perfectly singed Beta Crest, whooping cheers erupted from around the grill.

  I looked overhead for any clouds that might spoil the event, but the sun was still beaming down, bathing the park in the perfect amount of late afternoon heat. The wind shifted and a cloud of meat-scented smoke momentarily blurred my vision, but the real vision is what appeared after it dissipated.

  Zoey and Nina were walking down the sidewalk in a tandem strut that almost made it seem like they were moving in slow motion. My eyes fell down Zoey’s loose white top to her little yellow shorts, and by the time they bounced back up from her flower-print boots, I was dying of thirst.

  I drained my beer and went to greet them, raising my arms to my sides to exaggerate the sense of occasion. “Welcome to the 12th Annual Frolf Till You Yolf Competition, ladies.”

  “I assume yolfing is optional?” Zoey asked, eyeing the crowd behind me.

  We invited two other frats and three sororities to participate this year with the goal of raising ten thousand dollars for The Boys and Girls Club, so the number of people milling about the grassy park was likely to double over the next few hours. “Of course.”

  “And the frolfing?” Nina asked.

  “No one’s going to force you to frolf,” I assured her.

&
nbsp; Her bare shoulders relaxed noticeably.

  “Nina’s never thrown a frisbee,” Zoey said, smiling at my T-shirt, which featured a tiny kitten traveling through space on a frisbee.

  It was easily a size too small, and I could really feel the snugness around my chest, but I was glad I bought it for the way it made her eyes crinkle. Just as well I hadn’t buttoned the loose blue flannel I was wearing over it.

  “Ever,” Zoey added.

  Nina elbowed her. “Stop saying it like my parents didn’t love me or something.”

  I caught Zoey’s flinch, but I wasn’t fazed. “There’s a whole course for beginners,” I said, nodding across the field. “First prize is a two-hundred-dollar gift card for CVS.”

  Nina’s face lit up. “And suddenly I wish I’d thrown a damn frisbee before.”

  “That’s a solid prize,” Zoey said, staring past the practice area at the beginners’ section.

  A frisbee landed at my feet, and I picked it up and looked around.

  Carter was staring at me from a distance with a smug look on his face.

  I whipped his frisbee back hard enough to let him know I didn’t appreciate his attention.

  “If that’s the kind of accuracy required to compete,” Zoey said as Carter caught my throw without having to move his feet. “I might have to join Nina on the beginner course.”

  “Nice try,” I said. “But you’re no beginner. Besides, you have to play the regular course with me so I can make sure you don’t cheat.”

  Her mouth fell open at the accusation. “When have I ever cheated at anything?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said, enjoying the combative look on her face. “You’ve always gotten away with it.”

  “Oh relax,” Nina said, pushing Zoey’s shoulder. “He just wants you on his team ‘cause you’re good.” She shot me a look like she was up to something. “Unless all that smack you talked about your mad frisbee skills on the walk over was a load of crap.”

  Zoey blushed.

  A smile pricked my cheeks. “Did you talk smack all the way over here?”

  Zoey shrugged. “A girl’s gotta psych herself up.”

  “Of course,” I said, disappointed I’d missed that. “If you need more time to get pumped, you can grab a bite before you play.”

  “I’m ready now,” Zoey said, rubbing her hands together like she was itching to go.

  I squinted at them. “You guys had dinner at the Barnacle Club, didn’t you?”

  “Maybe a tiny one,” Nina said, lifting two close fingers so I could see just how tiny. “But a free meal is probably the only prize I’m getting today, so count me in.”

  “What’s the prize for the regular course?” Zoey asked.

  “Bragging rights and two grand in CVS vouchers and campus dollars.”

  Zoey scrunched her nose. “What the heck is a campus dollar?”

  “You can use them at restaurants on the main strip,” I said. “And at any registered bookstore.”

  Zoey nodded as she considered all there was to play for.

  “I’m going to go claim my prize at the barbeque,” Nina said, pointing towards the smoke show in the distance. “But go team ZoLo. Totally with you guys all the way.” She shook a fist in the air before turning around.

  “The frisbees don’t bite,” Zoey called after her. “I’ll be pissed if you don’t try for that gift card!”

  Nina flicked her wrist in the air to indicate that she’d heard, but didn’t turn around.

  “We do need a name,” I said, checking Zoey out while her focus was elsewhere. “If you like ZoLo.”

  “Only if you think Team Asskickers lacks humility,” she said. “Which, based on that shirt, is obviously a major priority for you.”

  “What’s wrong with my shirt?” I looked down and stretched the bottom away from my hips to get a better look.

  “Kinda cheap, don’t you think?”

  I furrowed my brow. “Cheap how?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, come on. I can handle it,” I said, daring her with my eyes. “We have to be honest it we’re going to be a team.”

  “You want honesty?”

  I could tell the shots she’d taken had made her bold, but I was dying to get a sense of exactly how feisty she was feeling. “Always.”

  “Well, for one thing, it’s really tight on your muscles.”

  I struggled to suppress a smile.

  “Too tight.” She tore her eyes away for a second as if my shirt were giving off a bright light. “And it screams fall for this kitten instantly and associate it with my bulging pecs.”

  I nodded. “What I’m hearing you say is, Logan, that shirt was worth every penny you paid for it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Since when are you comedy shirt guy?”

  “Since when are you bothered by my muscles?”

  The flush of her cheeks deepened. “ZoLo’s fine with me,” she said, as if she’d never mentioned my clothes.

  “Cool.” I tilted my head towards the registration table. “Let’s get throwing before those shots kick in.”

  “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said, falling in step beside me. “About your shirt.”

  I laughed. “You and I clearly differ on what we consider rude.”

  “It’s a fine shirt,” she added. “Really. I didn’t mean-”

  I put a hand on her shoulder. “Zoey.”

  “What?”

  “Forget about the shirt.”

  She blinked at me. “Okay.”

  I leaned towards her ear and dropped my voice to a whisper. “You can keep thinking about my muscles if you want to, though.”

  She pushed me away with a groan. “Love yourself a little more, why don’t you?”

  “Join me, why don’t you?” I said, flashing my eyebrows at her before continuing towards registration.

  She stayed quiet while I wrote our names down and waited for a number, but she was re-energized when one of the guys working the table handed her an official match frisbee.

  “There’s a nice weight to this,” she said, gripping the edges and stepping aside to practice her form.

  “Here,” I said, handing her the large printout numbers for our backs. “Hold these.”

  “Do we really have to wear these?” she asked. “It’s not like we’re running a marathon.”

  “I don’t make the rules,” I said, turning around so she could pin my number on. “I just know we can’t win if we don’t follow them.”

  “Okay,” she said, smoothing her hand across my back after she secured mine. “My turn.”

  She spun around, and my chest tightened when she pulled her dirty-blonde hair up out of the way. I don’t know what set me off. It wasn’t like I’d never seen the back of someone’s neck before. I guess it just struck me that I’d never really noticed hers. It was so delicate, so pale. And the way her necklace clasp was strung across it made me wonder what her head might look like resting on a pillow.

  “Are you done?”

  “No, sorry. Zoned out for a second… Thinking about our strategy.” I pinched two safety pins between my lips.

  “Isn’t everyone’s strategy the same?” she asked. “Complete the course using the fewest strokes possible?”

  I was grateful for the pins in my mouth.

  “Do we have time for some practice throws?” she asked. “I could use a warm-up.”

  “Sure do,” I said, sliding the second pin through the thin fabric of her shirt. “Glad you said that actually because I haven’t played much since last year.”

  “Now you tell me,” she said, spinning around. “I could’ve used a warning.”

  “Don’t you worry. This is not an area where I make a habit of embarrassing myself.”

  “Better not be,” she said, shaking the frisbee at me. “I came to win.”

  I laughed and started towards the practice area.

  “Who was your teammate last year?” she asked, looking up at me.

  “Can’
t remember.”

  “You can’t remember?!”

  I shrugged. “One of the guys. D-rock, maybe? I know it wasn’t Carter because we usually split up at these events so it’s competitive for everyone else.”

  “Nice humblebrag,” she said, elbowing me.

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, hopefully we can be competitive today so you don’t forget about Team ZoLo so easily.”

  I scoffed. “Not a chance. People will be talking about Team ZoLo for years to come.”

  “That’s the spirit,” she said with an enthusiastic fist pump. “Okay.” She set her chunky boots in a wide stance and raised the frisbee in front of her chest. “Let’s start close and move farther apart.”

  Funny, I thought. I was thinking the opposite.

  N I N E T E E N

  - Zoey -

  Logan was really good. I mean, I held my own, but when he had the frisbee, it acted like a well-trained dog that was determined to please its master. He played with his typical nonchalance, though, never making a fuss when he made a good shot.

  He was the same about all his accomplishments. His scholarship, for example, and the fact that he could build a chair with his bare hands. It was impressive really, what a man he already was. I guess it was even more obvious when he was surrounded by boys.

  The thing that surprised me most, though, was how thrilled he was every time I made a great shot. He wasn’t patronizing about it, but he never missed a chance to celebrate my small victories, which meant more to me than he knew.

  My parents did their best to make a fuss over me, of course, but their attention was rightfully divided, so I was used to sharing the spotlight. Logan’s support, on the other hand, was totally focused on me, and for better or worse, the more attention I got from him, the more I craved.

  In fact, I got so swept up in it that when I made my final shot under par, I ran over to him with my hands in the air and jumped up his arms.

  He caught me like I was weightless, and it was only when I felt how solid his body was against mine that I realized I’d lost the run of myself.

  I slid down his chest, my shirt riding up a little before my feet found the ground, and for the briefest moment, I didn’t unhook my hands from behind his neck. For the briefest moment, I just stared up at him, not like he was someone I had a tumultuous personal history with, but as if he were simply a handsome stranger who made me feel good all afternoon.