Chapter 12
ALFIE
Tara Hawkins is in my bedroom. The thought alone makes my head hurt.
Troy would fucking hate this—his little sister perched on my bed.
Good thing he’s far away at Camp Pinehaven, and Freddie and Ethan won’t be back for hours to pass judgment.
Or worse, tell Troy about it. According to our group chat, they’re both out for the afternoon. Freddie’s working and Ethan…
UMS LADS
Ethan
Guys emergency
I may have accidentally joined a cult
I walked in to say hi, and now im a member for a year
Freddie
It’s CrossFit isn’t it
Ethan
Possibly
Troy
How did you know??
Freddie
He’s already bought the special socks,
He just came into the gym to show me
At least it’s not hot yoga again, that shit was weird. I didn’t like seeing you in leggings bro.
Ethan
THAT WAS ONE TIME
Troy
You passed out and the instructor had to sage the room
Aflie
I second Freds.
I didn’t approve of the leggings.
They were way too tight.
I never have anyone in my room. Not for studying, not for fucking, definitely not for sleeping over.
The guys think I don’t get laid because I’m too focused on my research.
They don’t see the nights I slip out, find release with strangers who don’t expect anything more than a good time. Easier that way. Cleaner.
It’s not because of the house, though the thought of some poor girl running into Ethan in the morning, his red hair sticking up everywhere while he makes some crude joke, is enough to kill anyone’s libido.
It’s about keeping my space mine. Let someone in your room and suddenly they think they’re special. Think they know you. And I learned the hard way that letting people in only ends in shit.
But here’s Tara, cross-legged on my fucking bed wearing a skirt that’s riding up her thighs and a thin white t-shirt that shows she’s not wearing a bra. Her nipples are hard against the fabric and my dick responds immediately. Like I need another reason to not be able to think straight around her.
She showed up at 5pm sharp with homemade cookies, do all Hawkins just make cookies all the time, like this is totally normal.
Before I could stop her, she was taking the stairs two at a time, her skirt bouncing with each step.
Now she’s made herself at home on my bed like she belongs there, and my body’s got some definite opinions about that.
Though, I have no idea what to do about it.
Having her here is intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for. It’s not just because she’s in my personal space, but it’s the way her eyes are soaking everything in, assessing every detail like she’s collecting pieces of me.
“Tara,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Hm?” She’s found my bookshelf now, fingers trailing over the spines. Physics textbooks mixed with astronomy journals. A few novels I’d never admit to reading.
“Are you done checking my room for murder weapons?”
Her eyes crinkle with amusement. “Hm, I don’t think I am.”
She bounces off the bed— Christ, don’t watch her bounce —and moves to my dresser, peering her nose over to take a look. I jump up to shut it immediately. My sketchbook is in there, filled with drawings I’m not ready for anyone to see. Especially not her.
“Private,” I say, maybe too sharply.
But she just grins, undeterred. “Ooh, secrets? Now I’m really curious.”
“Tara.” It comes out like a warning, but she just steps closer.
“Come on,”—she tilts her head, looking up at me through her lashes—“what’s the worst that could be in there? Love letters? Diary entries? Embarrassing photos from your emo phase?”
She’s too close. Dangerously close. I can smell her shampoo—something floral that makes my head spin. Can count the light freckles scattered across her nose, the ones that I don’t think were there in the winter.
“Don’t you think we should be, I don’t know, actually planning for my family visit in two days?”
“We are planning,” she says, but her eyes are still on the drawer. “I’m gathering intelligence. Learning your habits. What you like, what you hide...”
“What I hide is none of your business.”
She finally looks at me properly, and something shifts in her expression. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you? About keeping parts of yourself locked away?”
The question hits too close to home. Because yes, that’s exactly what I do. What I have to do.
“Fine.” She sighs dramatically, but there’s understanding in her eyes. “Keep your secrets, Spencer. For now. I’m going to the bathroom.”
I wait until her footsteps fade before opening the drawer, pulling out my sketchbook.
The latest drawing stares back at me—Tara in the rain the night she showed up on our doorstep, soaked and scared and still somehow radiant.
I’ve drawn her too many times. The way her eyes crinkle when she laughs, how she gestures when she talks, the curve of her neck when she’s lost in thought.
Each drawing feels like a confession I can’t take back.
Yeah, some things definitely need to stay hidden.
I shove it back into the drawer just before she comes in.
“We should probably figure some stuff out. You know, for authenticity.” she says.
I make the mistake of watching her settle back on my bed, legs crossed, skirt riding up her thighs. She pats the space next to her like this is totally normal. Like we sit on my bed together all the time.
“Twenty questions?” she suggests. “Things couples would know about each other?”
I sit at my desk chair instead of next to her. Safer this way. “Fine.”
“Favorite color?”
“Really? That’s what you’re going with?”
She shrugs. “Gotta start somewhere. Mine’s pink.”
“Blue.” I run a hand through my hair. “Dark blue.”
“Like the ocean at night?” Her eyes light up. “Or like space? Oh! Is it because of your astronomy thing?”
“Next question.”
“How did we start dating?” she asks. “We need our story straight.”
“We can stick close to the truth. We met through Troy.”
“Boring!” She flops back on my bed. “What if you saw me in the library and were so captivated by my intense study face that you just had to know me?”
“Or we tell them Troy set us up because he was tired of me being antisocial.”
“And then you walked over and said, “Hey beautiful, I just have to know your name? Even if it’s the last words I ever hear.”
I blink.
“Or, we say I am friends with your brother, and he set us up.”
“Uh fine! I guess it works. Simple, believable.” She sits up, eyes bright. “Oh! And we resisted at first because, you know, brother’s best friend and all that. But then you fell helplessly in love with my charm and wit.” She flutters her lashes and grins at me.
“More like you wouldn’t stop talking about fossils until I agreed to get coffee.”
She throws a pillow at me. “Fine. We can make it boring if you really want. But I’m telling everyone we’re getting a cat named Peppermint when we move in together.”
“We’re not getting a cat.”
“Every good couple needs future plans! So yes, we’re getting a cat. And naming it Peppermint. This is non-negotiable.”
She looks so serious I am actually sort-of worried she might pull out if I don’t agree. Plus, I realize we are arguing about a fictional future, so I give in. “Fine. The hypothetical cat can be called Peppermint. But she’s got to be black.”
Tara beams at me.
We go over a few more details, things that are likely to come up.
I explain my research to her in some more detail and she tells me about her family life, her parents, her time in high school.
I nod, enjoying hearing every detail about her more than I should be.
Her plump lips keep distracting me, I keep remembering how it felt to kiss her.
I told her I barely remember but that’s a lie.
I remember. And I keep replaying that torturous memory in my mind. Over and over again.
Tara pulls her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. There’s something nervous in her posture now, a hesitation that wasn’t there a second ago.
“Just say it, Tara.”
She exhales sharply, like she’s debating whether to back out. Then she bites her lip. “What are we going to do about, um, physical contact?”
I blink. That’s what she’s nervous about?
I shift slightly, suddenly hyperaware of the space between us. Or lack of it.
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes drop to my comforter like it holds all the answers in the universe. “Well, couples touch, right? Hold hands and stuff. We should probably... practice? So it looks natural?”
Jesus Christ.
“We don’t need to practice.” My voice is rougher than I intend.
Her head snaps up. “But what if it looks awkward? What if your brother can tell we’re faking because I flinch when you touch me or—”
“Would you flinch when I touch you?”
Her cheeks flush pink so fast I feel it like a victory. “No! I mean, I wouldn’t. I just... after the hallway, I thought maybe...”
The hallway.
The memory slams into me—her pressed against the display case, my hands in her hair, her mouth soft and reckless against mine.
I shut my eyes, counting to ten. Do not think about that right now.
“Tara,” I manage, forcing my voice to stay even. “It’s not... We can hold hands if we need to. Put my arm around you. Whatever. But we don’t need to practice. Because it’ll look forced if we choreograph every touch. We can just... touch like normal.”
I open my eyes.
She’s watching me.
And then—her entire demeanor shifts.
It’s subtle. A shift of weight, a change in her breathing. Her earlier uncertainty morphs into something slower, more dangerous.
“Yeah?” Her voice is softer now. Too soft. She leans in slightly. “How do you usually touch me?”
A spark flares in my chest, dangerous and uninvited.
“I don’t,” I reply, voice low.
Her lips curve. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
“That’s going to be a problem then, isn’t it?”
I should shut this down. Right now.
Instead, I exhale sharply, dragging a hand through my hair. “Stop flirting with me, Tara.”