Chapter Six
Bella
I wake up to the sound of Seattle rain hammering against my bedroom window and the immediate, crushing realization that I kissed Ryan O'Sullivan last night.
Not just kissed him—practically devoured him in front of half the campus while Tanner Williams watched like he was taking notes for his doctoral thesis in romantic manipulation.
I bury my face in my pillow and let out a muffled scream that would probably concern my neighbors if they weren't all college students who've made similar sounds for entirely different reasons.
My phone buzzes from somewhere in the depths of my sheets, and I fumble around until I find it, squinting at the screen through sleep-crusted eyes. Three text messages, two missed calls, and approximately fourteen social media notifications that I'm definitely not ready to process.
Riley: BITCH. Call me immediately. Sarah McKenzie's Instagram story is ICONIC.
Riley: Also I may have told your mom about Ryan when she called last night. Sorry not sorry.
Riley: Seriously though, that kiss. I have QUESTIONS.
I sit up so fast that I give myself a minor head rush.
My mother knows about Ryan? My mother, who still asks if I'm eating enough vegetables and whether I've found a nice boy with good career prospects?
The same mother who spent my entire senior year of high school dropping not-so-subtle hints about the benefits of dating within one's academic peer group?
Before I can spiral completely into panic mode, my phone rings. Riley's name flashes across the screen, and I know I have exactly two choices: answer now or deal with her showing up at my apartment with coffee and determination.
"Please tell me you didn't give my mother specific details," I say instead of hello.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine." Riley's voice is disgustingly cheerful for someone who was drinking just as much as I was last night. "And no, I didn't give her details. I just mentioned that you were seeing someone new and that he's very tall and plays hockey."
"Riley."
"What? She seemed happy! She said something about being glad you're finally dating someone who doesn't spend their free time discussing economic theory."
I drop back onto my pillows with a groan. "This is a disaster."
"This is the best thing that's happened to you since you figured out how to make those cookies that don't fall apart.
" Riley pauses, and I can practically hear her grinning through the phone.
"Speaking of which, care to explain why you and Ryan looked like you were about to tear each other's clothes off in the middle of Jason's kitchen? "
The memory of the kiss hits me like a slap shot to the chest. Ryan's hands on my waist, the way he tasted like beer and possibility, the moment when I completely forgot that we had an audience and kissed him like I meant it.
Which I did. Which is the problem.
"It was just part of the act," I say, but the words sound unconvincing even to me.
"Bella. I've seen you act. You were in the school play junior year, remember? You played Tree Number Two and somehow managed to overact being a plant." Riley's voice turns serious. "That wasn't acting last night. That was a woman kissing a man she's falling for."
"I'm not falling for Ryan O'Sullivan."
"Then explain why you haven't asked me a single question about Tanner, who, by the way, spent the rest of the party looking like someone had stolen his favorite calculator."
I sit up again, this time more carefully. "What do you mean?"
"I mean your plan worked. Tanner Williams definitely noticed you last night."
This should be good news. This should be exactly what I wanted—proof that our fake dating arrangement accomplished its goal.
Tanner Williams, who's barely acknowledged my existence for the better part of a year, finally sees me as more than just a study partner.
So why does the idea of him calling make my stomach clench with something that feels suspiciously like dread?
"That's great," I manage. "That's exactly what I wanted."
"Uh-huh." Riley doesn't sound convinced. "So why do you sound like I just told you that you failed your economics midterm?"
Before I can come up with a convincing lie, someone knocks on my apartment door. Three sharp raps that sound official and slightly impatient.
"I have to go," I tell Riley. "Someone's at my door."
"At ten AM on a Saturday? Who even does that?"
I'm already shuffling toward the front door in my pajamas and yesterday's makeup, hoping it's just the mailman or maybe my neighbor looking asking to borrow some sugar. But when I peer through the peephole, my heart does something acrobatic.
Ryan O'Sullivan is standing in my hallway, holding two coffee cups and looking like he slept about as well as I did.
"Oh my god," I whisper.
"What?" Riley demands. "Who is it?"
"It's Ryan."
"RYAN? At your apartment? At ten AM?" Riley's voice reaches a pitch that could probably summon dolphins. "What is he doing there?"
"I don't know. I haven't opened the door yet."
"Well open it! And put me on speaker. I need to hear this conversation."
"Absolutely not." I hang up on her, immediately feel guilty about it, then remember that she told my mother about Ryan without asking and decide she deserves it.
Ryan knocks again, and I realize I can't keep hiding behind my door like a teenager avoiding her parents after missing curfew. I run my hands through my hair, check my reflection in the hallway mirror, and decide that this is as good as it's going to get. I open the door.
Ryan looks like he's been awake for hours, despite the fact that we didn't leave the party until after midnight.
His hair is damp from the rain, and he's wearing jeans and a gray hoodie that makes his eyes look impossibly green.
He's holding two cups from Victrola, and I can smell something that might be cinnamon and definitely involves caffeine.
"Morning," he says, offering me one of the cups. "Thought you might need this."
I take the coffee, and our fingers brush for just a moment. The contact sends a little shiver up my arm that has nothing to do with the Seattle chill.
"Thank you," I say. "How did you know I'd be awake?"
"Lucky guess. Plus, you seem like the type who stress-cleans after social events."
I glance back at my apartment, where I did, in fact, spend an hour this morning reorganizing my bookshelf and doing dishes that were already clean. "That's disturbingly accurate."
"Can I come in? We should probably talk about last night."
The words send another flutter through my chest, but I step aside and let him into my apartment. Ryan takes in my living space the same way he did on Tuesday—carefully, like he's trying to understand something about me through my choice in throw pillows and wall art.
I join him on the couch, leaving what I hope is a respectable amount of space between us. The coffee is perfect—not too hot, not too sweet, exactly the way I like it. "You remembered my order."
"I pay attention."
We sit in silence for a moment, both of us apparently fascinated by our respective coffee cups. The rain continues its assault on my windows, and I can hear my upstairs neighbors moving around like they're rearranging furniture or possibly training for the Olympics.
"So," Ryan says finally. "That was some kiss."
Heat creeps up my neck and settles in my cheeks. "It was very convincing."
"Convincing." He repeats the word like he's testing how it tastes. "Is that what we're calling it?"
I look at him, trying to read his expression. Ryan's face gives away nothing, which is probably a useful skill when you're facing down opposing teams on the ice, but it's incredibly frustrating when you're trying to figure out if someone regrets kissing you in front of half the campus.
"What would you call it?" I ask.
"Honest."
The word hangs between us like a challenge. I take a sip of my coffee and try to process what he means by that, but my brain feels like it's operating through molasses.
"Honest how?"
Ryan sets down his coffee and turns to face me fully. "Bella, I meant what I said last night. About this not feeling fake anymore."
"Ryan—"
"Let me finish." He holds up a hand. "I know what we agreed to. I know this was supposed to be a business arrangement. But somewhere between supply and demand curves and watching you face down Tanner Williams like you were ready to eviscerate him with economic theory, I stopped pretending."
My heart is doing something that feels suspiciously like gymnastics. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I want to date you. For real this time. No fake anything."
The words hit me like a freight train made of possibility and terror. This is what I wanted—isn't it? Someone who sees me as more than just a study partner or a safe choice. Someone who looks at me like I'm worth taking risks for. But it's also the complete opposite of what I planned.
"What about Tanner?" I ask, and immediately hate myself for the question.
Ryan's expression shifts slightly, something that might be disappointment flickering across his features. "What about him?"
"Riley said he noticed me last night."
"And?"
"And that was the whole point of this arrangement. To get his attention."
Ryan nods slowly, and I can see him retreating into himself the same way he did when his teammates were asking about our relationship status. "Right. Mission accomplished, then."
"Ryan, that's not what I meant—"
"No, it's fine." He stands up, suddenly seeming too large for my small living room. "You got what you wanted. Tanner Williams finally sees you as dating material instead of just study buddy material."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Ryan turns to face me, and there's something raw in his expression that makes my chest ache. "You approached me because you wanted to make another guy jealous. I agreed because I needed help with economics. But somewhere along the way, I forgot that this was temporary for you."
I stand up too, because having this conversation while he towers over me feels like a tactical disadvantage. "It doesn't have to be temporary."
"Doesn't it? You got Tanner's attention. That was always the endgame."
"Maybe the endgame changed."
"Maybe." Ryan moves toward the door, and I feel something like panic rising in my chest. "Or maybe you're just confused because we're good at pretending to like each other."
"I wasn't pretending last night when I kissed you."
The words come out before I can stop them, raw and honest and completely terrifying. Ryan freezes with his hand on my doorknob, and for a moment I think he might turn around and tell me that he wasn't pretending either.
Instead, he says, "Your phone's ringing."
I look down and realize he's right. Tanner Williams' name is flashing across my screen, and the irony of the timing is so perfect that it feels like the universe is playing an elaborate practical joke.
“It’s Tanner.”
"Answer it," Ryan says quietly. "See what he wants."
"Ryan—"
"Answer it, Bella. Figure out what you actually want."
He leaves before I can argue, closing the door behind him with the kind of careful quiet that's somehow worse than slamming. I stare at my phone, watching Tanner's name flash on and off like a neon sign advertising everything I thought I wanted.
On the fourth ring, I answer.
"Bella? It's Tanner."
"Hi, Tanner."
"I hope I'm not calling too early. I wanted to talk to you about last night."
I sink back onto my couch, pulling my knees up to my chest. "What about it?"
"I owe you an apology. I was out of line, questioning your relationship like that. It wasn't my place."
"No, it wasn't."
"I think I was just surprised. You've never mentioned dating anyone seriously before, and then suddenly you're with someone like Ryan O'Sullivan."
"Someone like Ryan?"
Tanner pauses, and I can practically hear him recalibrating his approach. "I just meant someone so different from your usual type. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. Maybe different is good for you."
The condescension in his voice makes me want to throw my phone across the room. "How generous of you to approve."
"Bella, I'm trying to apologize here."
"Are you? Because it sounds more like you're trying to convince me that dating Ryan was some kind of temporary lapse in judgment."
Another pause. Then: "Was it?"
The question hits me like a slap. Because the honest answer is that I don't know anymore.
Twenty-four hours ago, I would have said yes—that Ryan was just a means to an end, a way to get Tanner's attention.
But sitting here in my empty apartment, still tasting coffee that Ryan remembered exactly how I like it, I'm not sure of anything.
"I should go," I tell Tanner.
"Bella, wait. I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner sometime. Just the two of us. I feel like we have a lot to catch up on."
And there it is. The thing I've been wanting for months—Tanner Williams asking me out on an actual date. No study groups, no academic pretenses, just him and me and the possibility of something more.
I should say yes. This is what I wanted. This is what I paid Ryan fifty dollars and risked my academic reputation to achieve.
"Can I think about it?" I hear myself say.
"Of course. Take all the time you need."
After I hang up, I sit in my apartment listening to the rain and trying to figure out when everything got so complicated.
This morning I woke up with a clear goal and a straightforward plan.
Now I have two guys who want to date me, and I have no idea which one I actually want.
Actually, that's not true. I know exactly which one I want.
The question is whether I'm brave enough to admit it.