Chapter Eight
Alex
It’s Wednesday night, and I’m supposed to be editing my essay for my commerce and culture class, but my attention is on the Reds game.
Despite this paper being worth twenty-five percent of my grade, the game is the first series against the Pirates, and I could really use this win to cap off an otherwise mediocre week.
I attempt to focus on my work, but the crack of a ball coming off a bat steals my attention. A base hit by Pittsburgh. I groan and turn down the volume, not needing to see them bring in another run in the fifth.
My phone vibrates with a text from Mason: Date with Sarah tonight.
Do I look okay? A picture follows, one of him dressed in a suit.
A really nice suit, by the looks of it. It’s formfitting and crisp, and I wonder if he had Mom iron it.
He’s shaved, and his hair is neatly combed back and sculpted into a perfect bun.
I crack a smile and type out a quick reply: Did Mom do your hair?
Richard actually. I laugh, but I honestly can’t tell if he’s joking. We have a reservation at a steakhouse in DC. I’m nervous.
My laughter fades, and a pang of sympathy takes its place.
Mason doesn’t date much. Or at all, really.
He’s never said it out loud, but I know it’s because he doesn’t want to become attached.
Or worse, have them become attached. His health has always been a factor in his decision-making, even when he’s been given the all clear to live a relatively normal life.
He’s always remained cautious. Especially with his heart.
He met Sarah a few months ago playing D&D.
I knew things were getting kind of serious when I’d hear him quietly on the phone at all hours of the night.
She’s studying to become a nurse, something my mother loves about her, but with Mason’s part-time job and college classes, they don’t have a lot of free time to see each other.
You look handsome, Mase. Seriously.
Thanks. Don’t get too crazy tonight whatever you’re doing.
Another base hit, another run by Pittsburgh, cutting further into our lead. “Yeah,” I mumble to no one, “don’t get too crazy.”
And turn off the game.
I smile and lean back in my chair, no longer in the mood to pretend to work on my paper.
I play on my phone instead, scrolling through TikTok and Instagram.
I click on Jules’s new story. It’s a photo of six girls squeezed on a sofa, most of them I recognize from field hockey, but a couple aren’t familiar.
I press my thumb on the screen, keeping the story from disappearing, and bring the phone closer.
Jules is on one end of the sofa, smiling at the camera and holding a can of sparkling water.
There’s a girl wedged next to her. I’ve seen her a couple of times on Jules’s social media, dark hair, nose ring, slightly older.
She’s leaning into Jules. But that’s not what makes me frown.
It’s the way she’s gripping Jules’s side, way too high up on her ribs to be friendly.
The longer I stare, the more I realize Jules is leaning into her as well.
Another crack of a ball off a bat and I release my thumb, letting the picture fade into something else just as the Pirates score another run to tie the game.
I shouldn’t let the picture bother me, but it does.
It makes me wonder when Jules started leaning into pretty girls. Why does this one in particular get to hold her like they’re more than just friends? Why does her hand get to linger close to Jules’s breast in a possessive, flirty kind of way?
And why does Jules appear to be so damn into it?
“Congrats on your raise,” I tell my brother when he calls me the next day after my classes end. “Mom told me.”
He shrugs. “It’s not much, but I’ll take it.”
I’m still not exactly sure what it is he does, but it’s something with computers and IT, and he gets to do it remotely in between his classes, so I suppose it can’t be all bad.
“And what are you going to do with all that cash flow? Gonna finally start paying rent?”
“I mean, someone’s gotta pay for all those international trips you take,” he quips.
“Hey,” I say, offended. “I have my own job, thank you.”
He snorts. “Yeah, if you count collecting girls’ numbers when you’re supposed to be collecting membership fees a job.”
I smirk because while he’s stuck at a desk job fixing people’s printers, I get to watch NYU’s finest work out in tight-fitting clothes. “Don’t be jealous.”
“Of you? Never.”
I shake my head because I know he is.
“Speaking of international trips, have you applied to King’s College yet?”
“Not yet.”
He gives me a cheeky smile. “Is it because you think you’ll be rejected?”
I scoff because please. “Not a chance. My grades are amazing, and my résumé is even better.”
He scoffs right back. “Yeah, your résumé of working in the library and then at the front desk of a college gym. Very impressive to universities.”
I narrow my eyes, not at all amused. “You know I meant my transcript. Don’t be an ass.”
He laughs, but it fades into something softer. “Are you sure you want to go somewhere that far? Have you thought about transferring to, oh, I don’t know, VCU?”
“I like London.” And that’s the truth. I always knew I’d probably transfer out of NYU, and I never made that a secret.
At least not with Mom and Mason. As much as I like New York, there’s something about living abroad, learning new cultures and experiencing new things, that I can’t seem to get enough of.
Mason stares at me through the screen like he’s trying to figure something out. I stare back, waiting. Eventually, he backs off. “I’m sure that’s all it is.”
I’m not sure what he means by that, and I don’t ask.
A quick glance at the time reminds me that I need to start getting ready for work.
“When are you going to tell me about your date?” I thought for sure that was the reason he called, except he hasn’t said a word about it. I hope it’s because it went well and not because he blew it.
“It was good. She’s so pretty, Alex. I’m still not sure what she sees in me.”
“Don’t do that.” I stop rummaging inside my dresser for my work polo to glare at him through my phone. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re amazing. And a catch and pretty much the nicest guy on the planet.”
“Yeah, but…” He motions to himself. “You know.”
And now I’m mad. Because he’s doing it again. He’s throwing away opportunities of happiness because he’s scared of what may never happen. “Stop, Mason. She knows, and she doesn’t care. Stop sabotaging yourself.”
I keep my voice firm, leaving no room for negotiation, and hope that Mason can tell how serious I am. He doesn’t fight me, so I take it as a win.
I glance at the time. “Oh, shit. I gotta go. Don’t want to be late for my super fun job of collecting girls’ numbers.”
“You haven’t gotten a single one, have you?”
“Not a single one.” My honest response elicits a smile. “Seriously, Mase. Sarah is so lucky to have you.”
“Pretty sure it’s the other way around.” I don’t disagree on that fact, either. In fact, I’m certain they’re lucky to have each other. “Love you.”
“Love you, too. Get back to work before you get fired, you slacker.” I end the call before he can fire off an insult of his own.
My shift today is rather slow, especially for a Thursday afternoon.
Finals are right around the corner, and it’s as if the student body is all locked away in their rooms or in the library, already cramming and freaking out.
Not that I mind. I take advantage of the lack of gym goers to crack open a book to do my own bit of studying.
A few minutes in, however, someone clears their throat. It makes me jump.
My book falls off my lap and on to the ground with an embarrassingly loud thud. “Shit,” I mutter. “Give me a second.” I grab my book and stand, only to drop it again.
Standing on the other side of the counter is a bombshell wearing tight yoga pants and a loose fitted tank over a bright pink sports bra. Her dark hair is tied back into a purposefully messy bun.
And holy fuck, she’s hot.
Quickly, I kick my book under the desk and shove my hands inside my back pockets in attempt to look cooler than I feel. “Sorry. Hi.”
She watches me with what I hope is an amused expression. “You good?”
“Yeah, just, you know…working.” I close my eyes, embarrassed and wishing I could crawl under the counter and hide. I’m usually much smoother than this. I take a deep breath and open my eyes to try again. “Can I help you?”
“Actually, yes.” She places her bag on the floor and leans on the counter. She’s somehow even more attractive up close. “I can’t seem to find my ID, and I have a training session in five minutes.”
“That is a problem,” I tell her. “No ID, no entry.”
She sighs and holds eye contact. “I plan to get a replacement tomorrow, but I really can’t miss this session.”
All faculty, staff, and students need a university issued card in order to use university operated facilities, so she’s either a guest without a pass, or she’s telling the truth and somehow affiliated with the school.
I use this as an opening. “So you go to NYU?”
Her lips tug upward into a small smile, like she knows exactly what I’m doing. “I do.”
That’s lucky for me. “Let’s see what we can do.” I wake up the computer and punch in my credentials and navigate to the members page. “Name?”
“Trinity Young.”
I type it in, and sure enough, her account pops up. From her membership logs, it shows that she usually comes in on Mondays and Wednesdays. Since I work Tuesdays and Thursdays, that would explain why this is the first time I’m seeing her. “Do you have another form of identification on you?”
She taps her driver’s license on the counter, already holding it like she knew I was going to ask, and hands it over.
The first thing I look at is her date of birth. She’s twenty-one. Perfect. I hand her card back, noting the way our fingers brush. “I think we can let you in just this once. Just make sure to get that new card. Peter works tomorrow, and he’s nowhere near as nice as I am.”
“Oh, I know.” She leans closer and makes a point to check out my name tag. “And when do you usually work, Alex?”
“Tuesdays and Thursdays and the first Saturday of the month,” I say automatically. She holds eye contact, then taps her license on the counter again and takes a step back.
“Good to know.” She snags her duffel, flashes me a smirk, and heads toward the locker room. I stand dumbfounded, wondering why the hell someone that hot would flirt with me.
Once she disappears from view, I crawl under the counter to grab my book. Except there’s no way I’m studying now. Not with Trinity Young working out in tight pants and a hot pink sports bra. She may not have given me her number, but she’s clearly interested. And that I can work with.
Jules sends me a series of texts at one in the morning, two days before spring semester ends. The first buzz wakes me up. The second makes me reach for my phone. By the third, I’ve managed to open my eyes wide enough to read the thread.
I miss you!
Can’t wait to see you in a couple of days!
Your mom’s wedding is going to be so much fun!
Save a dance for me?
…
“That’s a lot of exclamation points,” I mumble sleepily.
With my roommate fast asleep, I tap on the link. The Pointer Sisters’ “I’m So Excited” starts to play. It makes me smile.
You drunk?
Just missing you extra. Can’t wait for you to see the dress I bought for the wedding.
Can’t wait, I type back. I bet you’ll look beautiful.
She sends me an emoji. The one of the face smiling with teary eyes. I send her the one that’s winking and let the phone drop to my chest while the song quietly plays.
When I close my eyes and drift back to sleep, I envision Jules in a simple blue sundress. The same one she wore the night we went to get ice cream the summer before I left for Greece.
The one she wore the first time I realized how badly I wanted to kiss her.