“A fake date.”

“A fake date,” I amend. “Well, in return, I want a real one.”

“A real what?

“A real date. You get a fake date, I get a real one.”

“Are you joking?” Her mouth falls open. “You want to go out with me?”

I examine her incredulous expression. “I know, right? It caught me by surprise, too.” I offer a shrug. “But it happened and now here we are. I think you’re hot, and I know you think I’m hot—”

“I think you think you’re hot,” she interjects with a snort.

“I don’t think that. I know that. And I’ve seen the way you check me out, so…” I hold up my hands in a careless motion, before gesturing from me to her. “I think there’s something here—”

“There is nothing here. Nothing.”

“Okay. Cool. I’ll just be on my way.” I lift my ass off the chair.

“Connelly,” Brenna growls. “Sit back down.” She briefly closes her eyes. “You’re saying you’ll come to the dinner party with me, and all I have to do is go out with you for real.”

“Yeah, but don’t make it out like you’re meeting up with a serial killer. At least pretend to sound excited about going out with me.”

“Okay!” She claps her hands. “I get to go on a date with you! Hurray!”

“Much better,” I tell her, and I don’t think I’ve stopped smiling since I learned the reason she’d summoned me. “So. Is that a yes?”

She sighs. Loudly.

13

Brenna

Tuesday brings another storm. Even the meteorologist at the local cable station seems fed up with the weather. When I watched the morning news earlier, he was glaring at the camera the entire time he read the forecast, as if he holds his viewers accountable for the buckets upon buckets of rain that have been dumped over New England this past month.

Luckily, I’m spared the walk home from campus because Summer and I have class around the same time. Mine lets out an hour before hers, so I work on an assignment in the lobby of the Art and Design building. Comfy couches litter the big space, which is surprisingly empty. It’s just a girl with a laptop on a couch near the windows, and me with my laptop on another couch across the room, giving me some semblance of privacy while I wait for Summer.

My assignment is for my least favorite course: Broadcast News Writing. Since I can’t major in All Things Sports, my classes involve all areas of journalism. This particular class requires writing copy for television news as opposed to print news, and my prof decided it would be fun to assign me a political topic. Which means coming up with copy about our president’s latest shenanigans, while worrying whether my professor supports this current administration, or condemns it. He’s never revealed his political leanings, and I’m sure, if questioned, he’d give some spiel about how journalists always remain objective. But come on, let’s be real. At the end of the day, we all have our biases. Period.

I write about five hundred words before taking a break. I scroll through my phone, checking my messages, but there’s nothing new. Jake’s name taunts me from the list, because we exchanged numbers at the coffee shop yesterday so we wouldn’t have to communicate via Insta.

A groan gets stuck in my throat. What, oh what, compelled me to tell Ed Mulder that Jake was my boyfriend? Why did I do that? I regretted the lie about a nanosecond after it slipped out, but it was too late to take it back. Mulder was so overjoyed, you’d think I’d offered to blow him. Though, really, he’d probably be more excited to receive a BJ from Jake. God knows he has a massive hard-on for the guy.

And speaking of Jake, what, oh what, compelled him to ask me out? I’m still baffled, not to mention leery of his intentions. The night of the concert proved that the two of us have some chemistry, but that doesn’t mean we have to act on it. He plays for Harvard, for Pete’s sake. That’s inexcusable.

A message pops up as I’m scrolling, eliciting a rush of unhappiness. It’s from Eric. Again.

ERIC: Please, B. I don’t know why you’re ignoring me.

Technically, I’m not ignoring him. I responded to his previous message on Sunday night when I got home from Malone’s. I told him the next few weeks will be super busy thanks to final exams and life in general, and that I won’t be around at all. Clearly he didn’t like my answer.

Another text comes in: Call me

Crap. I know Eric. If I don’t call, he won’t stop texting. And when I don’t text, he’ll start calling. And calling. And calling.

Fighting a burst of aggravation, I dial his number.

“B, hey!” His relief is palpable, even over the line. “I’m glad you called.”

He’s on something. I can tell from the way he speaks, the breathy tone he uses when there’s toxic shit coursing through his blood. I’m glad I can’t see his eyes right now. That was always the worst part for me, seeing his eyes when he’s high. It was like looking at a completely different person. The Eric Royce I was madly in love with was replaced by a pathetic stranger. And being there for him was—is—exhausting.

Maybe it makes me a terrible person to think that, but I don’t care anymore. He’s not my responsibility. I didn’t sign up to be his mom. That’s a job for his mom.

But Mrs. Royce is, and has always been, an absentee parent. She’s a corporate lawyer, and Eric’s father was a stay-at-home dad before he died. And after he died, Mrs. Royce didn’t cut back on her work hours to spend time with her son. She just kept chugging along without paying a lick of attention to him.

The only effort she made after it became apparent he had a substance-abuse problem was to try to ship him off to Vermont. But Eric refused to go. According to him, he’s not an addict. He simply likes to party “here and there.”

“You don’t sound good,” I tell him. “You’re wheezing.”

“Ah. I have a bit of a cold.”

Is that what we’re calling it these days? “You should try to get some rest, then.” I hear what sounds like a gust of wind. “Are you outside right now?”

“I’m leaving a Dunkin’ Donuts. This rain…it’s crazy, right?”

I stifle a curse. “You didn’t ask me to call you to talk about the rain. What do you need, Eric? What’s going on?”

“I just…” An agonized note enters his voice. “I’m, ah, strapped for cash right now, B. My rent’s due next week and everything in my account is gonna go to cover that, and, you know, that doesn’t leave me much for groceries and, ah, basic shit…”

By “basic shit” I assume he means meth, and anger brews in the pit of my stomach. “You live with your mother,” I remind him. “I’m sure she’ll let you off the hook for this month’s rent.”

“She doesn’t give a fuck,” he mutters. “She said she’ll kick me out if I don’t pay rent.”

“Well, luckily you have enough money to cover the rent,” I remind him. “As for groceries, I’m sure your mom isn’t going to let you starve.”