Chapter 12
TATUM
Ipress my back into the cool, hard surface of the door while my shallow breaths match the erratic pace of my heart.
Reaching a hand up to my chest, I rub my sternum as if the gesture can somehow ease the stampede beneath my ribs, because holy hell, my best friend just had a boner.
Caused by me. After giving me the best freaking massage of my life.
But what’s more concerning than my friend’s dick is my reaction to it. Because now that the initial shock has worn off, all I can think of is the moment my hand made contact with him and how badly I wanted to touch him. To slide my hand beneath the waistband?
Lalalalala.
I plug my ears as if it can silence my inner thoughts.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Needing to do something to take my mind off what transpired, I push off the door and move to the sink where I turn on the faucet, letting the water grow warm before frantically scrubbing the dried mask from my face.
You have a boyfriend.
You have a boyfriend.
You have a boyfriend.
No matter how many times I remind myself, it’s no use against the image of Brandon dancing in my head?those soulful blue eyes, his rumpled sandy hair, and the more than generous tent in his pants that will forever be seared into my brain.
I close my eyes, willing myself to focus on Ethan. Handsome, smart, driven Ethan.
A charming man who loves you. Who wants you so much, he dropped his plans with his buddies to rescue you on the side of the road, then spent the entire weekend with you.
One who missed you so much, he wants you to transfer to be near him because he can’t stand the thought of going another semester without seeing you every single day.
A man who sees a future with you. One you were intimate with less than forty-eight hours ago.
I gnaw my lower lip as guilt wriggles low in my belly.
I’m acting like a psycho.
My thoughts drift to Brandon?my best friend?and I wonder what he’s thinking about my low-key freak-out. First, I groped him. Then I ran away like a scared middle schooler.
A soft knock on the bathroom door jars me from my racing thoughts. “Tate?” Brandon’s voice is low, hesitant. “You okay in there?”
Am I okay?
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my face still flushed and eyes still wide with panic. What do I even say to him?
“I’m fine,” I call back, my voice a high-pitched squeak. “Just, um, washing my face.”
There’s a long pause before he says, “Look, I’m really sorry about . . . about what happened. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“No, it’s not you,” I blurt out, feeling like a fool at the way my heart gallops as I grip the edges of the bathroom sink. “I’m the one who should apologize.”
God, I’ve made everything so awkward. The last thing I want is Brandon thinking he did something wrong, when I’m the one having inappropriate thoughts about my best friend while I have a boyfriend.
Still, I can’t help but wonder what this means. Is it normal for guys to get turned on like he did, even when it’s with a platonic friend?
Inhaling, I brace myself as I swing the door open to face him. A crease of concern mars his brow, and his hair is slightly disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it the whole time I was in here.
“Hey,” he says softly, his blue eyes assessing as they flicker over my face.
“Hey.” I swallow.
We stand there for a moment in the silence, the air between us charged with something I can’t quite name.
“I’m really sorry about—” he starts again.
“Please stop apologizing,” I say, cutting him off. “It happens to guys all the time, right? Especially during . . . physical contact.” I’m rambling now, trying to normalize what happened even as my mind races with questions.
Was it really just an automatic response? Or could it mean something more? Could Brandon actually be sexually attracted to me?
The thoughts send a thrill down my spine that I immediately try to suppress.
I shouldn’t care if Brandon finds me attractive. It shouldn’t even be a thought in my head. But for some reason—reasons I can’t explain—it matters to me, far more than it should.
“It’s just biology, right?” I wait with bated breath for his answer as his eyes slide over me one last time, an emotion I can’t decipher churning in their depths; one I start to think might mean something more, and as the seconds stretch without an answer, my chest inflates, a small seed of something I can’t name sprouting in my chest.
“Right,” he finally says, and the seed dies. “I’m a guy, and the little man in my pants has a mind of his own.” He offers me a shrug and a lazy smile. “Sorry.”
I fight the urge to scoff at what he just said because there’s nothing little about him.
Not fucking helping, Tate.
I straighten my shoulders, telling myself this is for the best. Brandon and I are friends, nothing more. It’s always been this way, and I wouldn’t want to change what we have for the world because it’s perfect already. Our friendship means everything to me. I’d be lost without it.
Besides, I already have the perfect boyfriend, and these strange, ambiguous thoughts I’m having are probably just a byproduct of my missing him.
It’s with this in mind, I offer him a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes and brush off everything that just happened as I say, “Great. Glad we got that cleared up.”
The drive from Brandon’s apartment back to my dormitory is a blur. My mind keeps replaying the moment my hand grazed him, the heat in his eyes, the way his voice dropped to that gravelly timbre that made my stomach flip.
I crank up the radio, trying to drown out my thoughts with some pop song about unrequited love that only makes everything worse.
By the time I reach Oakridge Hall, I’ve convinced myself I just need sleep.
Everything will make sense in the morning.
This weird tension with Brandon is just a fluke, a momentary lapse in judgment brought on by .
. . I don’t even know what . . . sexual dissatisfaction?
Disappointment with my first time? After all, my night with Ethan wasn’t exactly noteworthy.
Once I reach the dorms and unlock the door to my suite, I step inside, feeling a heaviness in my chest.
My roommate, Brit, is perched on the couch with a textbook on her lap. “There she is,” she says, her smile growing. “You must’ve had one hell of a weekend with that boy of yours.”
I cock my head, my brow furrowing in question. For a moment I think she can read my mind before she gestures toward the small bistro table behind her and says, “Those came for you about an hour ago. Three dozen red roses? Had to cost a fucking fortune.”
My chest tightens at the sight of the massive bouquet. Even from here, I can smell their floral perfume beckoning me toward them as I move closer. My fingers tremble slightly as I reach for the small card nestled among the crimson blooms, their petals like velvet.
Thank you for a perfect weekend. I couldn’t have asked for anything more. Here’s to hoping I’m lucky enough to get thousands more. Love, Ethan.
My stomach twists into a tight knot. The roses are stunning, the gesture thoughtful, the words sweet—everything a girl should want. Yet while Ethan was ordering these flowers, thinking of me and our future, my heart was racing over my best friend.
God, I’m awful.
I press the card to my chest and close my eyes, willing myself to focus on the boy who actually wants me. The one who’s made his intentions perfectly clear. Not the one who just explained away his physical response as mere biology.
“All I can say is wow.” Brit appears beside me, staring down at the flowers. “You did something right.”
I smile, thinking about our night together. It may not have been how I imagined my first time to be, but Brit is right; it must’ve been amazing for him to go through the effort and expense of sending me flowers.
Any fears or concerns I may have had over my inexperience and whether it was good for him vanish as I stare down at the note. Because this is proof. For him, it was perfect. And I can find consolation in that among the hope that next time will be even better.
“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “I must have.”
Brit lifts herself onto the table, swinging her legs as she grins. “I need details.”
I tuck the card back among the flowers. “It was nice. Really nice.”
“Nice?” Her mouth drops. “That’s all I get? Come on. Those aren’t ‘nice’ flowers. Those are I’m completely crazy about you and you blew my fucking mind flowers.”
I laugh, feeling a flush rise to my cheeks as I scrunch my nose. “You think?” I ask, because I didn’t feel particularly mind-blowing, so it’s a shock to hear it may have been for him.
“Girl, I don’t think. I know.”
The rest of the week crawls by with excruciating slowness. Between classes, study sessions, and long phone calls with Ethan, I’ve barely had time to process Sunday’s . . . incident. Not that there’s anything to process. It was just biology, a typical male response, like we agreed.
But every time I see Brandon on campus, my stomach does this weird flip-flop thing that makes it hard to breathe. Our conversations have been stilted, punctuated by awkward pauses and averted gazes. Even our texts feel different—shorter, more formal, lacking our usual banter.
By Thursday, I’m a bundle of nerves, wondering if it’s just me.
By Friday, I’m desperate for a distraction, needing someone to talk to about my current situation.
Normally, that person would be Brandon, but for obvious reasons, I can’t go to him.
Which gets me thinking. Maybe Ethan was right when he said I need to expand my friend group and get closer girl friends.
I can see now how valuable it would be to get their opinion, to have someone to validate my feelings or tell me I’m wrong.
So, when Liz’s text pops up on my phone, inviting me to hang out with them over the weekend, I consider it a sign and jump at the opportunity.
It’s Saturday night when I push through the door of Bradd’s, the bass thumping so loud, I can feel it in my chest. The club is packed with students celebrating the weekend, their bodies pressed together on the dance floor, drinks sloshing in plastic cups.
I scan the crowd with zero fear of running into Brandon since the Griffins are gone for an away game.
The only nerves I have are a direct result of pushing myself out of my comfort zone.
Every time I’ve hung out with the girls in the past, it’s been with Brandon as a buffer.
Socializing without him feels a little scary, which makes me wonder how often over the years I’ve used Brandon as a crutch.
I walk deeper into the bar, passing the dance floor when I spot them—Charlotte, Avery, Liz, Samantha, and Brynn?all huddled around a high-top table in the back corner.
A grin tips my mouth as I catch Liz’s eye, and she waves, her smile wide beneath the strobing lights as I approach.
“You made it!” Brynn squeals, pulling me in for a hug. Her blonde hair smells like coconut, and her smile is warm and genuine when she says, “We were just talking about you.”
“Should I be worried?” I laugh, unsure of myself as I settle into the empty chair they’ve saved.
“Of course not.” Charlotte waves me off before sliding a blush-colored beverage toward me. “Here, we got you a Sex on the Beach. Brandon said you like sweet drinks.”
I take the cup, trying to ignore the way my stomach squeezes at the mention of my best friend. “Brandon? They’re not here, are they?” I glance around us, worried I’d gotten the schedule wrong. “I thought they were traveling today?”
“Oh, they are.” Avery grins at me from across the table, her long blonde curls bouncing when she shakes her head.
“But the bar is packed tonight, and we knew you were running a little late, so I texted Damon,” she says, referring to her boyfriend, the Griffins’ quarterback, “who then asked Brandon. Is it okay?”
I take a sip of the frothy drink, pushing down the little voice in my head asking whether Ethan would know what drink to order for me.
“It’s perfect. Thanks,” I say with a shy smile. “Though don’t be offended if I stick to just this one. After last weekend, I think I’m good on booze for the next century.”
Liz groans and scrunches her nose. “Rough night?”
I shrug. “You could say that. I didn’t get sick, but the next day, I had one hell of a hangover.”
“Well, I for one, will drink for the both of us,” Samantha says as she tops off her cup from the pitcher of beer in front of her. “Getting wasted sounds like a dream right now.”
“See that bartender?” Brynn nudges my arm and whispers into my ear, “That’s James. Samantha’s boyfriend.”
I follow her gaze to where a bleach-blond bartender with tattooed sleeves leans across the counter, his face inches from a redhead who’s twirling her hair around her finger.
Behind her, two other girls hover close, laughing at something he says as he pours their shots with a theatrical flourish, noticing the way his hands linger as he passes their drinks.
Um . . . I swallow, unsure of what to say when I slide my gaze toward Samantha who’s watching me closely, waiting for my reaction. And whatever she sees on my face must confirm her feelings because she takes another swallow of beer, then waves her cup in the direction of the bar.
“He used to flirt with me like that,” she says, her tone flat.
“In the beginning, anyway. But lately . . .” She worries her lower lip with her teeth, then waves a hand out in front of her.
“Anyway, I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about my problems tonight, and you never come out with us, so we’re not going to waste this night on psychoanalyzing my relationship. ”
“True.” Brynn turns to me with a wide smile. “I think this is the first time you’ve hung out with us when the boys aren’t around.”
Charlotte rests her chin on her hand, dark eyes sparkling as she says, “Which means we finally get to pick your brain.”
“Uh oh. Should I be scared?” I ask, suddenly intimidated.
“Very.” Liz nods, her expression solemn.
“Now spill.” Charlotte grins. “Because we wanna know all about Brandon Lambert and how you became besties.”