: Chapter 11

I don’t know how this could get any more mortifying, but the addition of a small crowd of basketball players to witness it all definitely doesn’t help.

My hand is still wrapped around Vincent’s wrist, which is too big for me to touch my thumb to my middle finger. Belatedly, I realize how this must look, so I try to play it off like I’m brushing away an imaginary piece of lint that’s caught in the fine, downy-soft hair on his arm. This, unfortunately, means I end up stroking the back of his forearm in a way that is a hundred times more incriminating.

Vincent arches an eyebrow.

I press my hands together and sandwich them between my thighs. “You had some—never mind. Sorry. Continue.”

“I’m definitely paying you,” he insists, still watching me warily. “You earned your money, Holiday. You’re good at what you do. And I made you wait half an hour for me to come, so I’m paying you for an extra hour. Don’t fight me.”

I really hope his friends are out of earshot, because paired with my semierotic arm touching, everything that just came out of his mouth could be dramatically misinterpreted.

“I don’t care about the money. This was good practice for me.” Yes, that’ll definitely clear up what we’re talking about. “I love teaching poetry,” I add a little too loudly. “And free coffee. And this was—this was fun.”

Vincent laughs, more in disbelief than anything else.

“You know,” he says, “sometimes you’re harder to interpret than Shakespeare.”

“I fucking hate Shakespeare,” I admit.

Vincent smiles. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

The words wrap me up tight like a weighted blanket. For one pristine moment, there’s no professor three tables over shuffling through papers. There’s no girl at the counter asking the barista to please make sure they’re giving her oat milk, because her lactose intolerance will not forgive her for a transgression. There’s no group of basketball players cataloguing my every move so they can break it down later like postgame ESPN broadcasters. It’s just me, my pounding heart, and Vincent’s soft, easy smile.

A distant laugh shatters the illusion.

It’s Jabari. We lock eyes again. Not for the first time in my life, I feel like an animal in a zoo—or maybe the punch line of a joke that I haven’t even heard the setup to. It seems like Vincent’s teammates knew exactly where to find us, which leads me to wonder if Vincent told them to come here and watch . . . whatever this is.

To come watch him play with the girl who kissed him in the library, during her shift, while there were people in the building. To come see if she’ll do it again.

Jabari, biting back a grin, nudges the boy next to him with his elbow. That boy lifts his phone and not-so-surreptitiously angles it in our direction—and this is my breaking point, because now I know I’m not just overthinking things.

I’m definitely being laughed at.

Vincent’s eyes go wide as I lurch up out of my chair, bumping the table between us so that the legs make a high-pitched scraping noise on the tile floor. I yank down the rolled hems of my jean shorts, wipe my palms on the front of my shirt, and then bend down to collect all my things—books, backpack, first empty coffee cup, second (larger, mostly empty) coffee cup. Maybe if I hadn’t chugged so much cold brew, I wouldn’t be this shivery and anxious.

There’s a telltale stinging in my eyes. I fight it. I will not start crying in a Starbucks. That is a rock bottom I will not let myself hit.

“I should get going,” I say, the words coming out in a rush as I loop the straps of my backpack over my shoulders. “Seriously, though. We’re even. Thanks for the coffee.”

I make it two steps before Vincent catches my hand. He doesn’t have to pull on me. Just the feel of his skin—his fingertips against the back of my hand, his thumb pressing into my palm—is enough to make me stop. I’m anchored by his side, torn between my desperation to get the fuck out of here and the desire to stay and bask in the warmth of his attention. Because he’s looking up at me through those thick lashes, and the curve of his mouth is so pink and plush and—

“My birthday’s on Thursday,” Vincent says.

I blink, unsure what to do with this revelation. “Happy birthday?”

“We’re having a party at the house. You should come. You can bring your roommates.”

“I—we—Thursdays are—”

“Movie night,” Vincent finishes for me. “I know. But you’re invited, if you want to come.”

I hate that he remembers the things I mentioned in passing three Fridays ago. I hate that it sparks a silly, stubborn hope in me. Hope that he’s just as sentimental as I am. That maybe he can’t stop thinking about how I tasted and how I laughed and how it felt when we were pressed up against the bookshelves.

“I’m not going to make out with you in public again,” I blurt, fear overwhelming my better judgment.

Vincent rears back. There’s genuine hurt in the startled look he gives me.

“I wasn’t asking you to,” he says.

“Sorry,” I add, my voice breathless and watery. “I know that’s not what—obviously, you didn’t—I don’t know why I said that. It’s not your fault. I’m just—I’m out of my element. Not with the tutoring stuff but with the rest of it. The flirting. The innuendos. I’m not good at this game, and I don’t know the rules, and I don’t think I want to play.”

He lets my hand drop. I miss his touch immediately.

“There’s no game,” Vincent insists, twisting in his chair so he’s facing me straight on. “Look, I’m not great at this either. You don’t have to come to the party if I’ve made you uncomfortable, but I—I’d like to have you there, and your roommates might have fun, and there’s gonna be a ton of free alcohol, and I’m sure we could get a poetry reading going once everyone’s played a few rounds of beer pong.”

I want to laugh. I do.

Instead, I say, “I’ll think about it.”

Vincent opens his mouth like he’s going to argue. “Okay.”

“I really do have to go.”

“Thank you. For helping me with the poetry. I mean it, Kendall.”

I nod, turn on my heel, and start toward the door.

But I can’t help myself from adding one last comment over my shoulder.

“I think your friends are here for you.”

My tone is just bitter enough that I’m sure Vincent will connect the dots between my departure and the arrival of his teammates. But I don’t stick around to hear him try to explain why half of the basketball team is posted up at a table across the coffee shop.

Outside, it’s hot and bright. I’m immediately miserable. The whole walk home, birds chirp and sunlight winks through the trees and students laugh as they breeze past me toward campus, and it’s all so cheerful and picturesque that it makes me want to throw my head back and scream into the cloudless sky. Because honestly? How dare everyone have such a delightful day while I’m trying not to think about what’s being said about me in the team group chat.

I get the Venmo notification when I’m crossing the street in front of my building.

Vincent Knight paid you $100.

The subject line is a lone tiger emoji.

And somehow, this is the final slap in the face. The cherry on top of the shit sundae. I’m grateful I’m already bounding up the front steps of my building. I don’t need any of the students walking by to see me fighting back tears.

• • •

Harper is sprawled across a yoga mat on the living room floor, her bare feet in the air and her legs all twisted together like a soft pretzel. She always stretches after her swims. When I shoulder through the front door of the apartment, her head pops up, corkscrew curls tumbling everywhere as they slip loose from her topknot.

“She’s back!” Harper hollers.

There’s a distant sound of scrambling, and then Nina’s bedroom door flies open. “Already?” She marches out into the living room with her reading glasses on. This just goes to show how concerned she is about the events of my morning—she never lets us see her with her reading glasses on. “How did it go? Did you guys hook up in the bathroom?”

“That’s so fucking unsanitary,” Harper says.

“I’m gonna second that,” I grumble.

Nina, in true empath fashion, frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“He paid me a hundred bucks,” I announce with a laugh that is not at all funny. “For the tutoring. I got the notification on my way back here.”

“Why are you saying that like it’s a bad thing?” Harper asks.

Nina sighs. “Because that’s not what she wanted.”

I drop my backpack, collapse onto the couch, and recount it all—the late arrival of Vincent, the gifted cold brew I absolutely should not have chugged, the poetry analysis that somehow turned into what I can only describe as foreplay . . . and, finally, the way it all came crashing down.

“Are you sure they weren’t just grabbing coffee?” Nina asks.

“They didn’t even go up to the counter. And I saw one of them take out his phone and point it at us like he was taking a picture. Vincent definitely tipped them off.”

She sighs and scrubs her hands over her face. “What did he say when you left?”

“He”—I scoff because it seems so absurd now—“invited me to his birthday party.”

“He what?”

“I shit you not. Just when I thought I understood men.”

“He invited you to his birthday party?” Nina repeats, stunned.

“It’s on Thursday, apparently. So, unfortunately, we won’t be attending, since we’ve already got plans. Harper, I’m pretty sure it’s your turn to pick the movie.”

But Nina isn’t ready to have our bimonthly argument about the objective ranking of Sandra Bullock’s filmography. “Kenny, please tell me you didn’t tell him you’re not coming.”

“I said I’d think about it.”

“You—” Nina has to stop and collect herself. “Kendall, what the fuck?”

“The whole thing had bad vibes once the team arrived. I panicked and booked it out of there.”

I sprawl backward across the length of the couch. It creaks unflatteringly under my weight. I try not to take it personally. Nina walks over, her hands balled in fists on her hips, and looms above me in a menacingly maternal way.

“What’s our most hated trope?”

I frown. “Our what?”

“Answer the question. What do we always bitch about in books?”

“Slut-shaming?”

“No—I mean, yes, obviously, but I’m talking about a trope.”

“Surprise pregnancy?”

“Oh, God—” There’s fire in Nina’s eyes like she’s prepared to rant. “Yes, all right, we hate a lot of tropes. But I was talking about miscommunication, Kendall. We both hate when two stupid characters could solve all their problems by saying one honest thing. So, instead of assuming you know why a bunch of basketball players came into Starbucks—when you know for a fact that you and Harper once put on hoodies and fake moustaches to spy on me when I had that date with that girl from improv—why didn’t you ask Vincent what was up with them?”

Admittedly, Nina has a very good point.

So, yes. I fucked up. I fumbled. I goofed my first ever not-a-date Starbucks trip with a boy.

But if I trace out all that’s happened between Vincent and me, this feels like it could be the midpoint: that spot in the story where it all goes wrong and some sort of twist or plot device is needed to push the main characters back together again so they can fall in love properly. Maybe Vincent’s birthday party is our plot device. Maybe there’s still hope for me.

If nothing else, I know I want to kiss him again. Even if it all ends badly. I’m young—like he said. I can do casual. I can have fun. I can be okay with the idea of not getting a happy ever after if it means I get another shot at kissing Vincent.

Because more than anything, I want one last chance to feel that way again.

So, my choice is clear.

“All right,” I say with a nod. “What do we do?”

“We’re going to go to his birthday party,” Nina tells me, “and you’re going to get him alone, and you’re going to talk to him. You need to tell him, to his face, that you refuse to tutor him ever again and that you want to fuck him six ways to Sunday. Okay? Because he deserves to know where you really stand.”

I keep nodding. “Cool, cool, cool.”

“You look pale as fuck,” Harper says.

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna throw up,” I croak. “We’ll pregame the party, though, right?”

Nina claps me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, champ. Keep up that nervous wreck energy. All my best going-out stories start with some anxiety and too many tequila shots. I have a good feeling about this.”

Weirdly enough—despite the knot in my stomach—I do too.