“Yup. Bitch-slapped by a dude, if you want to get technical.”
“Bet this is a good story.” She giggles, dancing alongside me, her black Chucks hopping on the pavement. “Are you going to tell me about it?”
It’s not a story I’ll likely ever forget. “I was out with a few guys my freshman year, and I had this friend on the team who was gay, right? Well, we went out during orientation week, and he’d been seeing this guy—real theatrical type—who thought Landon was having an affair or cheating on him or whatever because he’d been practicing so much. Spending way too much time with the team, you know?” I pause for dramatic effect. “Landon’s boyfriend finds us out one night playing pool after Landon had told him he was lifting. Dude taps me on the shoulder and slaps me as I turn around. It was one of those limp-armed hits though, not a full-on slap, and he was terrified I’d hit him back.”
“Did he clutch his hand to his chest?”
“Totally. Gasped too.”
“Did they get into a fight after that?”
“Nah, I think they probably went home and screwed.” I palm another brownie from the container, stuffing it into my mouth. “God, these things are like crack.”
“I like to bake.” Scarlett stares straight ahead, pretending to be interested in the scenery, but I catch a glimpse of her smile when I call her brownies crack, see when she bites down on her lower lip.
“Have you ever had pot brownies?” She sounds so scandalized just asking the question that I chuckle.
“No. Have you?”
“No!” comes her indignant reply. “Of course not.”
“Have you ever wanted to?”
“No! Would you want to?”
My lip curls arrogantly. “Have you seen this body Scarlett? This body is a temple—we don’t wear it down, we build it up.” I invite her to ogle, wishing she could see more of my body. “Feel free to worship at the shrine.”
I watch as her gaze flickers down my torso, to my feet, then back up to my face. It’s too dark to tell if she’s blushing, but I bet a few hundo that she is.
Grinning, I change the subject. “Would you rather eat a meal or help cook it?”
“Oh, we’re doing that now? Playing Would You Rather?”
“Are you brave enough? It could get dicey.”
“Dicey—my dad says that.” She giggles. “I’d rather have someone cook me a meal, but I’d rather bake for someone else.”
I ignore the dad comment. “Would you rather not shower for a week or not brush your teeth?”
“That’s gross.”
“No it’s not. I can go a few days without showering, easy.”
She considers this. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. That’s the reason dry shampoo was invented—now they just need to make dry shampoo for my body.”
“Uh, pretty sure that’s called perfume…”
“You can’t spray perfume under your armpits.”
“Uh, pretty sure that’s called deodorant.”
Scarlett makes a tsking sound, clucking her tongue. “Well, aren’t you just full of the answers to everything.”
I roll my eyes, because I usually do have the answers to everything. “If you had to save a reef of coral or a school of clownfish, which would you save and which would you let die?”
Scarlett gasps, a puff of steam escaping from her pursed lips. “What kind of a monster are you? That is such a mean question! Both! I’d save both!”
“You have to choose!” I argue. “Those are the rules of the game, Scarlett.”
“Ugh, fine, you tyrant. Probably the clownfish because it can look me in the eye, but I’d regret the decision forever.” She turns to me, glaring. “Forever.”
We’re quiet a few seconds as she thinks of a new question to ask me.
Then, “Okay, here’s one for you: would you rather have your catching hand broken or break your entire arm?”
What the fuck!
“What the fuck kind of question is that, Scarlett? Neither!”
Jesus, she’s a sadist.
“You have to choose—those are the rules of the game, Sterling,” she mimics, her straight white teeth shining beneath the street lights, the little shithead. “Broken hand or arm?”
“You’re savage, Scarlett…” I have no idea what her last name is so I can’t chastise her properly. “What’s your last name?”
“Ripley.”
Scarlett Ripley.
“Stop avoiding the question.”
“Fine,” I huff. “I’d rather break my throwing arm—no, wait, my catching hand. Dammit! Arm.” I clutch that arm, cradling it tenderly, sweet-talking it with a stage whisper. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. She made me choose because she’s the devil.”
Scarlett’s laughter echoes in the dark, bouncing off the sky and clouds and houses, light and carefree and amused. Then, when I finally focus on our surroundings, I see we’ve stalled in front of a little white house at the end of a block I’ve passed dozens of times, a narrow stone sidewalk leading to a tidy front porch. It has a green awning and a short stoop. A single light glows from what I assume is the living room, but the curtains are drawn, so it’s impossible to tell.
“Why did we stop?”
“This is me.”
We stand on the sidewalk, both of us staring toward the house, me still clutching my poor, hypothetically broken baseball arm as if it actually pains me.
“Do you, um…do you want to come in for a bit? I think I have a few frozen pizzas in the freezer if you’re still hungry.”
Is my hunger even up for discussion? “Why are you always feeding me?”
“Because you’re always hungry?”
I nod. “Fair.” Follow her up a short, narrow sidewalk, staring down at her ass, just below the hem of her coat.
The backs of her calves.
Her slim, bare ankles as they tread along the concrete walkway.
She smiles over her shoulder, unlocking the deadbolt. Pushes through the door, flicking on the light to the right of the entrance. We enter in the kitchen; it’s miniscule, all white and neat as a pin. The outdated appliances are clean, a lone bowl and glass set next to the sink, waiting to be washed.
How the…
“This place is fucking tiny.” I glance around. “How the hell do you all fit in here?”
The kitchen and living room combined are smaller than my bedroom, so I can’t imagine the rest of the place is any bigger.
“How the hell do I fit who in here?”
“You and your roommates. There’s barely any room for anything.”
“I don’t have any roommates.” Scarlett hangs her keys on a hook by the table, glancing over her shoulder. “It’s just me.”
My brows shoot up, surprised. “Wait, what?”
She lives alone? Well, well, well, isn’t this a pleasant new development.
Scarlett laughs and turns toward me, unzipping her jacket, its whirring metal the only sound in the kitchen. She parts it. Shrugs it down her narrow shoulders. Hangs the puffy winter coat on the kitchen chair and kicks off her shoes before moving to the fridge.
As she pulls open the freezer, my eyes trail after her, fastened on her backside, on the tight rear end in her black leggings—the ass I’m seeing for the first time.
It’s round and high, and I bet if I held out my hands, the whole thing would fit perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle.
“I live here alone.” Her arms rise, retrieving two pizzas from the freezer, wielding them like a waitress carrying a tray of drinks, jutting out a hip as she speaks, slamming the freezer closed. “I decided I didn’t want to live with a group of girls my senior year, so I don’t, and it’s been awesome.”
Scarlett turns to face me again, pizzas in her arms, all smiles.
Under the soft lamps in her cozy little kitchen—without the earmuffs and the coat and the warm clothes—I can analyze everything about her as if it’s the first time I’m seeing her.
For the first time in four weeks, I’m seeing what she looks like under all the jackets and scarves and bulky sweaters. The chocolate-colored hair she usually keeps under a knit cap is shining under the kitchen light, wrapped up in two bite-sized buns.