“Good, that’s my boy,” she says. I grin at her verbal pat on my head, because I love it when my mother’s proud of me—even if I made up the reason for it today. “Your dad and I are coming in for the game in two weeks. We’ve got the box. Thought it’d be nice to take you boys to dinner. You know, do that parent-spoiling thing a little.”
“Spoiling’s good,” I say, lifting a T-shirt from the floor and sniffing it to make sure it’s clean enough. It isn’t. I toss it back into the closet and try the next one, which smells a little less ripe, so I pull it over my head.
“All right. Well, we have extra tickets, so if you—or your brother—you know…have anyone special you’d like to invite? We’d love to host them. And have them join us for dinner, of course,” she says, her voice in that super syrupy tone that she started to have the first time I went to a junior high dance. My mom loves the idea of her boys meeting the right girls. She’s a romantic. And it’s always driven me nuts, which is why I never take the bait and always show up alone. Every time…except this time. Maybe. I think?
“All right, we’ll see,” I shrug her suggestive questioning off because I haven’t asked Cass yet. And I still might not. I feel like I need to mean it—like Cass would say—if I were going to toss her into the equation with my parents. And I’m going to need to think that through a little more before I plant the seed in Cathy Preeter’s fairytale imagination.
“Nate, too,” she says, adding that last part because she knows how burned Nate was after his breakup with his high school girlfriend, Sadie. She was a bitch, and she proved me right about her when she cheated on my brother with his best friend.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. Sometimes, I think my mom forgets that her offspring are men, and we have a low tolerance for the gushy, mushy shit. “Hey, I gotta go, okay? Send cookies. And by cookies, I mean money. Love you!”
“Love you too, Tyson,” she says, and I hold out hope. “Oh, and bake your own cookies…sweetheart.”
Damn. Worth a try.
Cass
I have that hopeful grin on my face. I wore it all the way back to our room, and as much as I want to straighten out my lips and come across indifferent when I open our dorm-room door, I can’t. I’m just too…happy.
“Looks like someone had a good night,” Paige teases, still primping herself at the mirror. I saw her slip out of Nate and Ty’s room a little before me. I almost left then with her, but it felt too good to be there, warmly tucked under his heavy blanket with my back pressed against his chest. He did that thing where a guy strokes a girl’s hair; at least, I think that’s a thing? I read about it, and I’ve seen it on TV and movies. But I’ve never had a guy do that to me. All of my intimate scenarios have been…less personal.
I don’t answer Paige, but I don’t lose the grin either. Tossing my shoes to the corner, I pull my backpack from the seat of my desk chair, setting it down on my bed with me so I can start sorting through things and getting ready for class this week. I’m keeping my hands busy, and my mind occupied, because I don’t want Paige to ruin this.
“What are you doing, Cass?”
She’s going to ruin this.
I huff. I literally huff, because the pressure boils in me so fast that it has to come out just as quickly. Whooosh, the air blasts through my nose as I shake my head. My sister, the protector—she will never understand. “I like him, Paige,” I say, challenging her with my stare, and waiting for her to tell me about all of his flaws.
“Seriously?” That’s all she can say in return, and the way she’s looking at me makes my stomach sick.
“Paige, unlike you, I don’t rule people out of my life based on superficial physical shit,” I say sternly. I’ve ramped up to pissed off now.
“Oh, fuck you,” she says, surprising me a little that she’s really going to spar with me over this. Raising my eyebrows, I ready myself for one hell of a one-sided debate, but she moves to sit next to me and grabs my ankle, which is folded over my leg in my lap, disarming me.
“I’m not talking about the fact that he’s in a wheelchair, Cass. My god, give me a little credit,” she says. I purse my lips tightly, trying to force myself from launching into all of the reasons I shouldn’t give her credit when it comes to how she sees other people. “I’m talking about his rep—everything I’ve heard about Tyson Preeter…the stories you have heard. What other girls said at that party. What the sororities said when we took the tour our first day.”