She laughs. Loudly. “Do you honestly think I’m going to kiss you goodnight?”
“I mean . . . I bought you a milkshake . . . so . . .”
“You forced me to get a milkshake. And I was forced to accept a ride from you. This was not a date.”
“Should I ask Siri what the definition of a date is?”
“Why do you even care? You didn’t want to be set up by your mom, unless . . .” I stop at a red light and catch the large grin that stretches over her face. “Oh my God, you’re crushing on me.”
“What?” I say, louder than expected. “I’m not crushing on you.”
“Oh, you are soooooo crushing on me.” She points at my face. “You’re blushing.”
“It’s dark. You can’t even tell.”
“This all makes sense,” she says, starting to run with her absurd idea. “The relentless need to keep challenging me, the disappearance of our moms. You probably sent them a secret text, giving them a thumbs up to leave. And then you just so happened to want a milkshake, and now you’re puckering your lips, looking for a goodnight kiss. Oh yeah . . . you’re crushing.”
“Ha, you wish,” I reply lamely.
“I really don’t. It would be quite a nuisance if you crushed on me, actually. Because then you would follow me around campus, puppy-dog eyes begging me to pay you some attention. Knowing what little I know about you, you’re going to need attention. You seem very needy.”
“I’m not fucking needy.”
“Hmm.” I can feel her studying me and if I wasn’t driving right now, I’d study her right back. Return the same sass she’s shooting my way. “I’d like to believe you aren’t needy, but I did attend one of your parties, and I mean only one. And yes, I might have had too much jungle juice that night, but I distinctively remember you standing on the kitchen counter, shouting to everyone in the house that you were amazing.”
I chuckle. “Did I flex my muscles?”
“In fact . . . you did.”
I nod. “Sounds like something I’d do.”
“And you said you’re not a douchebag. Okay,” she scoffs.
I rub my jaw while I turn right, down a residential road. “When alcohol is involved, we all have our douchebag moments.”
“I’m glad you can admit that.” She points to a house on the right. “The house with the red Mazda 3 in the driveway, that’s me.”
“I’m going to take a wild guess here and assume that’s your car.”
“Why would you guess that?” she asks, as I pull in next to it.
“Because, it has sass written all over it, just like you.”
She removes her seatbelt and opens the car door. “That’s Rita, and yes, she’s mine.” Once out of the car, she turns to face me. “Thanks for the ride.”
I pucker up my lips. “Ready for you.”
“Get a life.” She shuts the door, but I roll down the window and call out to her.
“So, this is how the night’s going to end? It’s so anticlimactic.”
Walking backwards, she says, “If you were expecting more, you clearly didn’t learn anything about me tonight. See you around, Castle.”
And then she takes off toward her door, leaving me with far too many unanswered questions and thoughts about her.
The scariest thought? I think I like that girl.
“Tell him.”
“Tell me what?” Hartley asks, pulling me into a quick hug as he meets up with us in the kitchen of our house.
Freshman year, Hartley and I were roommates in the athletic dorm. We shared a suite with four other guys. Four football players, two baseball players. When I got my rooming assignment, I remember thinking Hartley’s last name was familiar and then my mama made the connection. Hartley Dashel is the son of the soon-to-be Football Hall of Famer, Mason Dashel. We, of course, went to our good friend the Internet to confirm, and sure enough, my new roommate was a prince of football royalty.
I had to play it cool, but when Mason Dashel showed up in our dorm room, carrying a minifridge, I nearly had a heart attack. Hartley let me have my fangirl moment, but after that, I was told I had to be cool. And I have been ever since.
We’ve also been inseparable since freshman year. When we had the chance to move off campus last year, we took it. We found a great six-bedroom house three blocks from Frankie Donuts and the boardwalk. We brought all the guys from our dorm and made it our own.
The four rules are simple:
Don’t be a slob.
Don’t be a bitch.
Pitch in for groceries.
Knock before entering any bedroom—for obvious reasons.
And we haven’t had any problems.
Most of the baseball guys my age moved into the baseball loft, which I frequent, but when given the choice, I stuck with my boy, Hartley.
Mom pokes me in the arm and coos, “Tell him about the girl.”
Yeah, you can imagine how the last few days have been. When I got home from the “date,” I tried to slip in through the back door, but before I could even lock up, my mom was on my heels, asking me how it was, and if I could smell marriage in the air.
I gave her a pat on the head and walked up the stairs. She trailed after me, asking a million questions, but I didn’t answer any of them. Instead, I kissed her cheek, told her I loved her, and then I went to bed, with thoughts of Indie’s jiggling tits running around in my head.
The next morning, I received knowing looks. Mama made waffles with blueberries, my favorite, and when I sat down, there was a piece of paper next to my fork with a phone number on it.
Mom just smiled and said, “In case you wanted to call her.”
I rolled my eyes and ate my waffles. When I got up, I shoved the stupid piece of paper in my shorts and went to take a shower. That night, I stared at the number for what felt like hours. I considered texting her but remembered how the night went. Yeah, she was teasing and joking a lot of the time, but I also got the sense that she honestly didn’t have any interest in me. It felt like she was forced to stay and hang out with me, and that didn’t sit well.
So, I tossed my phone aside, picked up a book, and started reading.
“There’s a girl?” Hartley asks, excited. “No way, man. Your mom finally made a match?”
“I did.” Mom twiddles her fingers together. “And they’re so cute together.”
Mama unloads groceries, not paying attention to the conversation, probably still mentally applauding herself for figuring out the butt-plug debacle. Rest assured, people can search for butt plugs on that site now. Thank the high heavens.
“Mrs. Castle, what an accomplishment. I know how hard you’ve worked this summer.” Hartley is such a kiss-ass.
“Countless hours,” Mom says, playing up to Hartley’s praise.
Interrupting their minor celebration, I say, “She did not find me a girl. She thinks she did, but she didn’t.”
Hartley’s brow creases and he crosses his arms over his chest while leaning against the counter. “Mrs. Castle, were you just lying?” He shakes his head. “Do we need to go over the rules of the house again?”
Oh yeah. No lying. That’s another rule, one Hartley strongly holds everyone accountable to.