by Jenna Scott
“Text me so I know you’re home safe,” he had said. I was dying for him to kiss me again, but when his hand lifted toward my face, it was only to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I will.” And then I’d ducked into the car and let him shut the door behind me.
The whole ride home, I went back and forth about whether or not I’d just made a huge mistake. Yes, I’d thoroughly enjoyed sucking face with my ex for almost an hour and a half…but let’s be real, it had done nothing to help me ascertain the status of our relationship, or friendship, or friends-with-benefits-ship, or whatever the hell we were (or might be in the future). It only muddied the waters further.
Which was infuriating.
And I knew I was as much to blame for the lack of clarity as Hunter was, because I’d had the chance to confront him about his feelings and his intentions toward me, and instead, I’d let him kiss me silly and then tuck me into a cab at the end of the night. No questions asked.
I should have asked.
My alarm goes off again, and although I want nothing more than to stay in bed and continue to relive every second of my night with Hunter, I make myself get up. Surprisingly, when I go out to the common room, I find Olivia already dressed. She’s cramming textbooks and binders into her bag with a Pop-Tart hanging out of her mouth.
“Oh good, you’re up,” she mumbles, crumbs flying. After she swallows, she adds, “I was afraid I’d have to be the one dragging my roommate out of bed for once.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” I say, stifling a yawn. “God, I need coffee. Like a gallon of it, delivered straight to my veins.”
“Well, at least you had fun last night?” Olivia gestures to my neck. “That’s a very…copious number of hickeys.”
My hand shoots to my neck. “Are they that bad?”
Olivia gives me a knowing smile. “You met someone?”
“Not exactly…it was Hunter.”
Her jaw drops. “Naughty naughty, Milla!”
“I know. Don’t judge me,” I beg. “I can’t even say I was drunk. It’s just like the second he touches me, I forget about everything that’s not him.”
Olivia laughs. “That’s one bad case of dick brain. At least he made the first move. That has to mean something. Possibly just that he’s horny, but…”
That is certainly something to be concerned about. Although Hunter is the kind of guy who can get ass whenever he wants it—and thinking back, he was respectful. He held himself back. He was careful not to cross any major lines with me.
Which is good, because I don’t know if I would have been able to resist.
“In my defense, it’s a great dick,” I joke. “His tongue, too.”
“Yeah, I get it. You love your douchebag ex.” Olivia straps her backpack on and makes for the door. “Anyway, I’m heading out. Alliance is doing an early practice.”
“When do I get to come see your crew dance?” I ask.
“As soon as we’re ready, you’ll be the first to know! Good luck with your guy.”
“Thanks,” I yell after her.
In twenty minutes, I’m ready to go.
To my surprise, Hunter’s waiting out front on the same bench as yesterday, ankles crossed in front of him. My pulse kicks, but I try to act casual.
“Hey,” I say. Totally casual.
“Hey,” he echoes, handing me a cup of coffee. “Brought you some wakey juice.”
I can’t read him at all. He’s being just as casual as I am, except that he probably isn’t faking it. My stomach knots as I take the cup from him.
“Thanks. After last night, I need it.” I raise my brows as I drink, but my ploy to get some kind of reaction out of him fails utterly. He doesn’t even blink.
“Walk you to class?” he asks, as if he couldn’t care less whether I say yes or no.
Damn him. He’s always had such a great poker face. “Sure, why not?”
We start walking, and I try to muster up some bravery. I can’t keep hanging in limbo with him—and it’s inevitable that I’ll be the one to bring up the subject of “us” (another instance of history repeating itself). Still, I’m afraid it’ll just push him away.
Talk to him, Milla. You can’t live like this.
I clear my throat and brace myself for the worst.
“We should talk about what happened at the party,” I start, even as I dread his response.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” His tone is curt, a far cry from the person who had his hands all over me in Zach’s courtyard less than twelve hours ago.
Disappointment hits me like a brick, and then I’m even more disappointed—because I should’ve known this would happen. Not that he’d reject me, even, but that I wouldn’t be able to get any kind of answer out of him.
And you know what? That’s answer enough.
Because if Hunter’s not going to be honest with me about whatever the hell is going on between us, then I’m not going to put my heart on the line again. I’ve let him destroy me time and time again, and at this point, I’ve had enough. This stops now.
“Right. I just wanted to be clear, it was a one-time thing.” I make myself sound indifferent, even as my insides crumble. I can’t even look at his face.
Silence falls, the tension stretching out as he remains quiet on the topic. He’s giving me zilch. As usual. Is there nothing I can say to draw him out? Why won’t he talk to me? He’s always been like this, and it still drives me insane.
I try one last time to get a response as we approach Jordan Hall, the main psychology building in the northwest corner of the quad.
“Things are…not different between us,” I say quietly, searching his eyes.
Everything inside me wants him to argue with me, to tell me things are different, that they’re going to change. That he’s going to change.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” he says. “Have a good class.”
As he walks away, I stand there gripping my coffee, barely holding myself together. There is no hope for us.
There probably never was.
Chapter Eighteen
Camilla
I have a long day of classes and then another session of TA duties at the Green Library. A few more students drop by for help, and I find myself really enjoying our interactions. There’s something so amazing about being on the same book-nerdy wavelength with other people my age. It almost makes me seriously wonder if I should switch my major so I can be an English professor.
By the time I roll out of the Bing Wing around seven p.m., I’m totally exhausted.
Hunter’s waiting for me outside.
“You again?” I try to joke, but I’m honestly still feeling hurt and guarded after our failed conversation this morning.
“Do you want to go hang out somewhere in Palo Alto? Just us?”
His face is impossible to read, and two conflicting emotions immediately jolt through me: unease and hope.
Is this him asking me to hang out as friends? Or something that resembles an actual date? Did my failed conversational efforts this morning have an effect on him after all? Maybe he’s ready to talk now, and this outing is just so he can clear the air between us… But what if it’s not?
I can’t make up my mind whether to run away or let his gravity pull me in.
“It’s called Delilah’s Creamery. I figured you could use some ice cream.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, increasingly suspicious about his motives.
He shrugs. “You’re the kind of girl who can always use some ice cream.”
Smiling despite my reservations, I concede, “That’s a fair point.”
“Plus, I knew you wouldn’t say no if dessert was involved,” Hunter adds.
“Fine. But I can’t be out too late. I have a Psych test tomorrow.”
“Deal,” he says. “Let me carry your bag.”
It’s heavier than a load of bricks, so I let him.
When we get into his BMW, everything feels so familiar tha
t my heart squeezes in my chest a little. The OCD-cleanliness of the car, the scent of pine air freshener and the leather interior, Tamino spilling softly from the speakers.
As we pull out of the parking lot, I turn the music up and roll down my window so I can surf my hand in the night air. I’m trying to calm myself as best I can. Plus, there’s no point trying to talk to Hunter in the car when it’s going to be just the two of us at the ice cream parlor in a few minutes.
I see Delilah’s from down the street—it’s hard to miss the chrome diner-like exterior and the big neon sign with the cute cow on it.
“This must be it,” Hunter says as we pull up.
“I never would have guessed,” I tease.
He parks close to the entrance, and we head in. I let Hunter hold the door open for me, but I make sure I’m the one to ask the hostess for a table. I don’t want him steering this entire date or whatever it is. We’re equals, and I plan to act like it.
Sliding into the teal vinyl booth, I say, “Wow. This place doesn’t seem like your style. I’m impressed you went out of your comfort zone.”
There are cartoon cows and bright neon everywhere, black and white floor tiles, and the wait staff are all wearing these adorable checkered bow ties. There’s nothing romantic about it, which puts me instantly more at ease.
“To be honest, I’ve never been here before. I Yelped it,” he admits. “It has the best rating of any ice cream place in a twenty-mile radius. Did not expect it to be so bright in here, though. Should have brought my sunglasses.”
“Well, I like it,” I say, sticking my tongue out.
A waiter comes up with a few glasses of water and asks if he can take our order.
“Oh, I didn’t even look at the menu yet,” I tell him.
“I can come back?”
“Actually,” Hunter cuts in, “we’ll both have the Delilah’s Free-For-All.”
“Great. Bowls are over at the station, and I’ll bring you out some spoons,” the waiter says, heading away. I grab the menu and flip it open, my jaw dropping when I see exactly what the Free-For-All is.
“What did you just do?” I ask Hunter in mock horror. “All you can eat ice cream and toppings? We are going to literally die of a sugar overdose.”
“It’ll be a sweet death, then,” Hunter says. “Let’s go.”
On our way over to the self-serve buffet, I see a kid who’s maybe six years old strolling down the line with a bowl that’s already loaded up with what looks like vanilla ice cream, cherry pie filling, bacon strips, and Cheetos.
Elbowing Hunter, I whisper, “Look at that! Ugh!”
“To each his own,” Hunter whispers back. Then he walks up to the kid and says, “Strong choices, my friend.”
The kid nods, grinning hugely. “The Cheetos on top are the best.” With that, he takes off back to his table.
Hunter turns and gestures at the overwhelming array of ice cream and toppings laid out before us, chilling in troughs of ice that have glass guards hanging over them. It is, in a word, mind-boggling.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I say, grabbing a bowl for myself and then handing one to Hunter. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Start with the ice cream,” he says. “The toppings need something to stick to.”
“I mean, obviously.”
With that, it’s game on. I cover my ice cream bases by going half and half with both dark chocolate and French vanilla. Hunter sticks with salted caramel, which, kudos to him for staying focused. The toppings prove to be a lot harder to choose.
My eyes are darting between slices of banana and mango and kiwi and blueberries, but I’m also a sucker for crushed peanut butter cups and candied pecans. And then there are marshmallows, gummy bears, mochi, and even potato chips.
“Too many choices,” I groan. “What’s a girl to do?”
“I’m surprised you aren’t just doing chocolate-chocolate-chocolate,” Hunter says. “With more chocolate on top.”
I reach for the shredded coconut but then pull my hand back, second-guessing myself. “I’m trying to be adventurous…but also not end up with a cherry pie-Cheeto sundae like that kid.”
“Quite the conundrum,” Hunter says, topping his ice cream with crushed waffle cone pieces, mini M&Ms, and—respectably enough—apple slices.
“Conundrum. That’s a big word, Hunter.” I pat his bicep. “I see my tutoring paid off after all.”
“Believe it or not, I do remember the things I learned from you, Milla.” He smiles and takes a bite of apple slice. “Maybe you should start tutoring me again.”
He’s back to his old tricks, making excuses to spend time with me instead of just saying he wants to see me. It’s cute, but also exasperating.
“I’m not sure I have time for private tutoring this semester,” I say curtly.
“Too bad. But anyway,” Hunter goes on, seemingly trying to smooth things over, “I think I have the answer to your conundrum.”
“Oh really.” I give him a slow blink. “Do tell.”
“I’ll pick them out for you.”
“Show me what you got.” I hand him my bowl and take his.
Hunter eyes all the toppings and then shoos me away. “Go back to the table. No peeking.”
Scoffing in mock-annoyance, I head back to our booth as instructed. Soon enough, Hunter’s sliding into the seat across from me with my bowl.
“What do we have here?” I say.
“Slivered almonds and chocolate covered espresso beans on the chocolate,” he says, “and cheesecake pieces, whipped cream, and maraschino cherries on the vanilla. There’s also a puddle of hot fudge at the bottom of the bowl, because hot fudge.”
“Impeccable choices. Touché.” I raise a brow, pointing at the very obvious Cheeto sticking out of the chocolate ice cream mountain. “But what is this?”
“That’s for me, actually,” he says, grabbing it and dipping it in his ice cream before popping it into his mouth.
I watch him chew, waiting for a grimace. “Well? How bad is it?”
He tilts his head back and forth. “It’s not bad. That kid might’ve been onto something.”
“He kind of reminded me of Harry,” I say wistfully. “I miss that kid like crazy. How is he?”
“Eh. He’s okay,” Hunter says.
“Bullshit. How is he, really?” I ask again.
“The separation has been hard on him,” he admits. “But he’s keeping his spirits up. I think he’s so used to our dad not being around that things are…not all that different from before. The big change is spending all that time with his mom, you know?”
I nod. “And how’s Karleigh handling all of it? She up to the challenge?”
“Actually, she is,” Hunter says. “She’s kind of having a meltdown inside but at the same time, she’s keeping it together for Harrison. They’re staying at one of my dad’s properties, so at least they’re still in La Jolla. I went over there to hang out, and Karleigh and I kinda…talked some things out.”
I almost spit out my ice cream. “You did what?”
“Yeah. I know. Crazy, right? But I don’t know. We reached kind of a mutual understanding, I guess. The main thing for both of us is that Harry is okay. That’s her main focus. I feel like everyone’s going to end up better off when all’s said and done.”
“Wow. I can’t believe you guys called a truce.” I’m totally blown away. The Hunter I thought I knew would never extend the olive branch to his stepmother. “That’s actually…really cool.”
He nods. Then he reaches over to grab one of the cherries off my pile of whipped cream and pops it into his mouth, stem and all.
“You thief!” I yell, laughing. Then I swipe one of his apple slices, scooping up a decent amount of caramel ice cream with it. God, is it good. “Delicious,” I declare.
Hunter’s still chewing on the cherry he stole. There’s a look of concentration on his face as he shifts his jaw around, and then he pulls the cherry stem out
of his mouth. It’s tied in a perfect knot.
“For you,” he says, extending his palm. “Something to remember me by.”
Gingerly, I take the bright red stem from him and set it on my white napkin. Instantly, I can feel heat building in my core. That stem reminds me of what Hunter’s tongue is capable of…and that there isn’t a part of my body it hasn’t touched.
And the fact that I want him to do more things with that tongue of his.
Avoiding his eyes, I say, “I already have plenty to remember you by.”
My face gets so hot that it’s a marvel of nature the ice cream in my bowl doesn’t melt. I bite the questions poised on the tip of my tongue—why has he been walking me everywhere on campus, why did he kiss me at the party, why did he take me out tonight? And the biggest one of all: did he come to Stanford because of me?
“So tell me more about Harrison,” I say, trying to push the conversation in a safer direction. “What’s he been up to?”
The contents of our bowls disappear spoon by spoon as Hunter talks, but the whole time I’m listening, I can’t stop thinking about that cherry stem.
Chapter Nineteen
Camilla
“So…should I take you back to the dorms now?”
We’re back in Hunter’s car, and as he pulls out of the parking spot, I take in the planes of his face, those eyes, that perfect, sensual mouth. When he glances over at me, I realize he’s still waiting for my answer.
You know what? Fuck it.
I’m done playing coy, done waiting on certainty, done denying myself what I want.
“I mean…we could go back to your place,” I say softly.
Tension stiffens his shoulders, the muscle in his jaw flexing. There’s no confusion on his part about what I’m suggesting.
“Camilla—”
“I want to,” I say, more confidently this time. And then I start to worry that I’ve misread the whole situation. “Unless you don’t want to. Which is fine—”
“No.” He reaches over and takes my hand. “I just thought you had to get home early. You have that test tomorrow or whatever. I don’t want to get in the way.”