The Play: Chapter 7

I follow Nico into the busy bar. We’re meeting some friends at Malone’s, which is the only bar in Hastings.

Nico and I don’t come here often; if we’re hanging out in town, we usually invite people to Nico’s apartment and chill there. But my boyfriend was in the mood to go out tonight, and I wasn’t about to complain. Malone’s makes the best nachos in town. And the best chicken wings. The best burgers. The best—ugh, okay, the entire menu is stellar.

“Do you see Pippa?” I stand on my tiptoes and scan the crowded main room. “She texted that they’re in a booth near the—oh, there she is.”

Nico follows my gaze. “Who’s she with?”

“Looks like Corinne and Darius and—oh wow, TJ actually showed up.” I invited him to join us, but I hadn’t expected him to come, because TJ’s not particularly social. When we go for lunch or to the movies, it tends to be just the two of us. He’s not big on crowds or groups.

Nico makes a face at the mention of TJ.

“Be nice,” I chide.

“He’s a pendejo, Demi.” My boyfriend always reverts to Spanish when he’s dissing someone.

“He is not. He’s my friend.”

“Friend? C’mon, babe, he’s in love with you.”

It’s not the first time Nico’s voiced that sentiment, but I don’t believe it to be true. “He’s not in love with me.”

“Oh really? Then why’s he always staring at you with moon eyes?”

“You’re imagining it.” I shrug. “And even if he is in love with me—so what? We both know who I’m in love with.”

“Damn right we do.” Nico curls a hand over the back of my head and pulls me in for a kiss.

To my surprise, he slips me some tongue and the next thing I know we’re engaged in a mini make-out session in the middle of the bar. It draws catcalls from a group of guys in hockey jerseys, and I’m blushing as I pull back.

“What was that for?” I smile at my boyfriend.

“Just for being you.” Nico takes my hand and brings it up to his lips. Like the Latin heartthrob he is, he brushes a kiss over my knuckles.

He’s being extra sweet tonight, and in all honesty I love it. He turned down my sex advances last weekend because he was too tired, and then he bailed on me this week because of his car. I deserve to be spoiled a bit.

“Go join the group. I’ll grab us some drinks,” Nico offers before heading for the ridiculously long line at the bar.

As I walk toward my friends’ booth, I glimpse a familiar face through the doorway that separates the main room with the adjoining one.

Hunter Davenport is dancing with a stunning brunette in a tight tank and blood-red lipstick. He’s whispering in her ear. When he lifts his head to look at her, I don’t miss the ruddy flush of his cheekbones and his heavy-lidded eyes. Uh-huh. Someone’s getting laid tonight.

I wonder how his lunch girl feels about that…

The idea of dating multiple people sounds like a nightmare to me. Although, what sounds even worse is being the girl who is dating the guy who’s dating multiple people. I’m a possessive bitch, thank you very much. My man’s not allowed to see other women when he’s with me. And if I ever do wind up having to date again, I’d stake my claim immediately and make sure to have the exclusivity talk before the dude is even allowed to hold my hand.

Like my mom always says, know your worth. Make them work for it.

But to each their own. Hunter clearly has a lot of luck with the ladies. The girl he’s dancing with laughs at whatever he just said, and as he shakes his head in amusement, he catches sight of me in the doorway. He dips his chin in greeting.

I blow him a kiss. He grins and refocuses on his date, while I join my friends.

“Demi!” Pippa squeals, jumping out of the booth to throw her arms around me.

“Heya, chica.” Pippa is my best friend at Briar. We met at freshman orientation, discovered we both grew up in Florida, and were instantly inseparable.

“Hey,” our friend Corinne greets me. “I love that skirt.”

“Thanks, it’s like a million years old.” I smooth my hands over the front of my distressed denim skirt. It’s autumn, and I’m still wearing short skirts and tank tops. I don’t know whether to hate or love global warming.

I lean into the booth to smack a kiss on TJ’s cheek. “I can’t believe you’re here,” I tell him. “I’m so glad you came.”

He blushes slightly and takes a huge gulp of his beer. Beside him is Darius Johnson, a good friend of mine and Nico’s.

“Hi, D,” I say.

“Hi, D,” he mimics, and we both grin. When we first met, there was a bit of competition about who’d get to keep the nickname, but in the end we decided to share it.

“Where’s the rest of the crew?” I ask. Wherever Darius is, there’s usually at least three other basketball players not far behind. But they’re nowhere to be found tonight.

“Briar won the hockey game,” Darius explains. “They didn’t want to deal with all the hockey fans. Those guys are nuts.”

As if to prove that point, a trio of dudes choose that moment to drunkenly lumber past our booth screaming, “Bri-ar! Bri-ar!” One of them is waving his black-and-silver jersey in the air, which means he’s stumbling through the bar shirtless. Classy.

Nico returns with a pink daiquiri for me, and a bottle of beer for himself. It’s a Cuban brand that you can rarely find in the States and yet somehow Malone’s actually serves it. It makes me smile, because I’m pretty sure my mom is the one who introduced Nico to that beer. I remember she let him taste hers at my fifteenth birthday party. He’s been drinking it exclusively ever since.

“What have you been up to this week?” I ask Corinne as I slide in across from her. “You never answered my text about unpacking. Did you still want help?”

“I know, I’m sorry. I was dealing with furniture shit. Moving is the worst,” she complains.

Corinne just moved into a one-bedroom apartment in Hastings, only a few blocks from Malone’s, in fact. It’s rare to find housing in town, but Corinne knew the previous tenant, a fellow Econ major at Briar who abruptly decided to drop out. Corinne had an application in with the landlord of the small building before anyone else even knew the apartment was available.

“Moving isn’t that bad,” Nico teases her. “I mean, especially when you have three strapping young men helping you out.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

I snort. Nico and two of his co-workers from the moving company helped Corinne last Sunday, hauling all her boxes and furniture from the house she used to share with five other girls.

“Did the strapping young men take off their shirts and flex their muscles for you?” I ask a blushing Corinne.

She bursts out laughing. “I wish. All they did was drink my beer and get my new carpet all dirty from their boot prints.”

“She’s lying!” Nico declares good-naturedly. “We wore booties over our shoes.”

“And to answer your question,” she says to me, running a hand through her mop of dark curls, “yes. I totally need help organizing everything. Maybe one night this week?”

“Sure. Just let me know when.” I met Corinne through Pippa, and although we’ve never been as close, I like hanging out with her. She’s a bit guarded, but when she relaxes she’s actually pretty hilarious.

Nico takes a swig of beer before setting down the bottle and slinging his arm around me. He’s so handsy tonight. He leans in and plants soft kisses on my neck until Pippa releases a loud groan.

“Come on, guys, enough with the PDA. You just got here. At this rate you’ll be banging on the table by the end of the night.”

“Sounds hot,” Nico says, winking at me.

Lord, he is so good-looking. Originally from Cuba, Nico and his family came to Miami when Nico was eight. They moved in next door, and all it took was one look at Nico’s soulful eyes and big dimples, and eight-year-old Demi was in love. Luckily, he felt the same way about me.

We talk about our classes for a bit, but I don’t contribute much to the conversation. Truth be told, I hate all my courses this semester, except for Psych. Today in Organic Chemistry, we discussed organometallic compounds in such detail that my brain almost melted. I didn’t mind my science classes in high school, but since I started college I’m slowly beginning to hate the sciences.

As I sip my drink, I absently listen to Nico and Darius chat about the basketball team. D is trying to convince Nico to be their equipment manager because their current one just bailed, but Nico’s too busy with his work and class schedule. TJ remains quiet for most of the conversation, only speaking when I draw him out of his shell.

I don’t care what Nico says. TJ’s a sweetie. He’s such a great listener, and he usually dispenses really solid advice. I wish he’d find a girlfriend, but he’s so shy and it’s hard for him to open up. I tried setting him up with one of my sorority sisters once, and she said he barely spoke a single word during their entire date.

“I’ll be your equipment manager,” Pippa tells D. “But only if I get to watch you guys shower. I feel like that’s a reasonable requirement for—oh my God.” She stops midsentence, gaping at the tall guy who saunters past our booth. “Forget it. I want to watch him shower.”

I only manage to catch a glimpse before he passes. Shoulder-length blond hair, a red T-shirt. I twist around but can’t see his face. His body is banging, though.

“Eyes up here,” Nico chides, lifting two fingers up to his face.

I grin. “Oh, come on. Look at his butt. It’s something else.”

My boyfriend peeks out the booth just as the guy disappears through the corridor to the restrooms. “It’s a’ight,” he relents. “But that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to check him out.”

“What are you gonna do, spank me?”

His chocolate-brown eyes narrow seductively. “Don’t tempt me, mami.”

Corinne gives a slight cough, while Pippa and Darius sigh dramatically.

“Sorry,” I tell everyone. “We’ll be good now, I swear.”

“I don’t want to be good,” Pippa announces. “I want to be bad with that hottie. Who was that?”

TJ speaks up. “Hockey player, I think. He came from the hockey booth, at least.”

“The hockey booth?” she echoes.

He nods toward the other room, where Hunter Davenport and his friends are piled into two huge booths. All I see are gorgeous girls, big athlete types, and a lot of food.

Speaking of food…

“Who wants nachos?” I ask as I grab the menu in front of Darius. “I’m ordering some for me, but I’m also thinking—ooh, there’s a new app on here. Deep-fried spinach and mozzarella balls. Oh my fuck, yes. I’m in. I’ll get an order of those, and then we’re looking at the nachos, and maybe…the boneless wings?”

“Who is she even talking to?” Pippa asks my boyfriend.

He sighs. “Just let it happen, Pips. You know the drill.”

I peer up from the menu. “Am I being judged right now?”

“Yes,” Pippa tells me.

“One hundred percent, yes,” Darius concurs.

“How do you eat so much and never gain weight?” Corinne demands.

“I’d never judge you,” TJ assures me, grinning mischievously.

“Thank you, Thomas Joseph. The rest of you, guess what? You don’t get to taste my spinach balls. You can sit here in envy while—”

“He’s coming back,” hisses Pippa.

Sure enough, the hockey player in the red shirt strides by again. This time I do see his face, and promptly understand why Pippa is drooling all over the table. He’s got vivid gray eyes, and a beautiful smile that curves his mouth when he catches Pippa’s gaze on him. He keeps walking, though.

“Oh my,” I murmur, and Nico pokes me in the ribs.

“Definitely a hockey guy,” TJ confirms with a nod. “But I can’t remember his name.”

“Hold on, I’ll find out.” I slide my phone out of my purse.

“What do you mean, you’ll find out?” Pippa squawks.

I pull up Hunter’s name in my contacts list. We exchanged numbers at my house on Monday night.

ME: Hey, hockey man. Who’s the dude in the red t-shirt with the fuck-me face and tight ass?

Although I crane my neck toward the other room, I can’t pick out Hunter amidst the sea of jocks. But on my phone screen three gray bubbles pop up to indicate a response is being typed.

“Who are you texting?” Nico demands.

“Hunter Davenport.”

TJ looks up sharply. “You’re texting Davenport?”

“Yeah, we’re working on that project, remember? I have his number.”

“Who’s Hunter Davenport?” Corinne asks.

“Just a hockey player who thinks he’s God’s gift to the world,” TJ tells her, smiling wryly.

“You don’t even know him,” I tease.

“I had a tutorial with him last year, remember? He treated the library like his own personal motel?”

I don’t answer because Hunter’s message just appeared.

HUNTER: Conor Edwards. Right-winger, #62. Why? You want his number?? Are we cheating on the boyfriend??? Tsk tsk.

Nobody’s cheating on anyone, I type back, and when I sense Nico reading over my shoulder, I hammer the point home by adding, I love my boyfriend very VERY much.

Nico relaxes and drops a kiss atop my head.

ME: A friend of mine is eyeing him. Is he single?

HUNTER: Ya but I think he’s already picked his flavor for the night. I’ll come over and introduce them if you want?

I glance at Pippa. “You want an intro?”

Her jaw falls open again. “What! No. He’s way too good-looking.”

“You sure?” I wave my phone enticingly at her. “I got you an in.”

“Am I sure? I’ve got a zit on my forehead and haven’t washed my hair in four days, because I wasn’t planning on meeting Adonis tonight. Come on, Demi, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

I snicker and text Hunter back.

ME: Maybe another night.

He responds with, Okey dokey, and the gray dots disappear.

“Coward,” I tease Pippa.

“Whatever. You can’t throw something like that on me at the last second. I’m not mentally prepared to hook up tonight.”

I hadn’t realized mental preparation was required for casual hook-ups, but I suppose I’m clueless when it comes to modern dating. And I’m perfectly okay with that. Look at what’s happening around me—Hunter juggling different girls, Pippa squirming nervously at the notion of being introduced to a hot guy. Dating seems insanely stressful.

Relationships, meanwhile, are nice and secure. The world of relationships is where I belong.

I link my fingers through Nico’s and thank my lucky stars that I’m not part of that other, terrifying world.