by Sara Ney
I take a long drag of my own to occupy myself, chugging down half the bottle in one gulp. Wipe my mouth, leaning against the house, letting the silence fill the space.
“So.” I smack my lips.
“So.” She smacks hers.
“Do you think this is boring?” I muse after a few long seconds of silence. “We’ve only been out here twenty minutes.”
“We could play a game if you want.” Scarlett studies me, mimicking my pose as she takes a position against the porch balustrade. Crosses her legs at the ankles, ass balanced on the rails. “Want to play Never Have I Ever?”
“Isn’t that a drinking game?”
“I think so?”
“But we’re not drinking.”
“Do you want to play the game or sit here, bored out of your mind?”
“Fine, but you start.”
“You have to take a drink if you have done the thing, even though we’re not drinking alcohol.”
“Thanks, wise ass—I know how to play Never Have I Ever. Can I just point out one fatal flaw with this whole thing? Pretty soon you’re going to have to take a piss, and it’ll have to be in the yard.”
She nibbles her bottom lip, squinting down at the overgrown bushes. “Damn, good point. I guess if I have to pee, I’ll deal with it.” She cranes her neck, staring off into the dark. “It’s not like I’ve never had to pee outside before.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’ve seen guys peeing off this very porch, so it wouldn’t be a big deal.”
I get the party started. “Never have I ever peed outside.”
We both sip from our bottles.
She clears her throat. “Never have I ever gone skinny dipping.”
Neither of us drink.
“Really?” Scarlett is clearly astonished by this revelation. “You’ve never gone in the water buck naked? Why does that surprise me?”
The answer seems obvious, but I enlighten her anyway. “Not a fan of public shrinkage.”
Her laugh fills the yard, head tipped back, mouth smiling. “Fair enough.”
I stare at her dimple, long and hard, before blowing a puff of air into the night sky. “Never have I ever made out with a stranger.”
I take a drink. Scarlett does not. “You’ve never kissed a stranger? Not even drunk-at-the-bar making out? I thought everyone has done that.”
“Negative ghost rider.” She thinks for a few seconds. “Never have I ever wet the bed.”
I groan out loud.
Take a chug of my water bottle as my stomach growls.
Scarlett laughs, the sound echoing in the cold night air. “Do not tell me you were a bed wetter.”
“No! Jesus, keep your voice down!” I glance around to make sure the few stragglers aren’t listening. “I mean, I might have had a few accidents as a kid.”
“Just as a kid?”
“Fine.” My lips purses. “I may or may not have gotten too hammered once or twice and pissed myself in recent years, but that’s hardly the same thing.”
She laughs again, hitting her head against the support beam holding up the porch with a wince.
“Ouch!” She giggles, rubbing the spot through her hat with a few fingers.
“You okay?” I stop myself from reaching out…touching her leg.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Her mouth is still grinning. “Your turn.”
“Hmm,” I hum. “Never have I ever…” I tap on the floorboard. “Never have I ever gone commando.”
Surprisingly, we both drink.
Huh. “Now you’re telling me you walk around with no underwear on?”
Her shoulders rise and fall within her jacket. “Sure, all the time.”
That’s a fun tidbit of information I latch onto, filing it away in my spank bank under Cute Shit Scarlett Does.
“Never have I ever caught my parents having sex.”
We both laugh, drinking, and Scarlett cringes at a thought, musing. “I don’t even want to visualize it. I was twelve, and I had friends over and everyone heard them doing it. Can you imagine the horror? It was so loud and so terrible, hearing my father grunting—like, couldn’t they have waited?” She physically shudders. “My friend Nicole still brings it up to this day.”
“I walked in on mine once on a Sunday morning. I’ll never fucking forget it. I think I was fourteen and wanted pancakes—now my parents refer to having sex as making breakfast.” I shudder too, dramatically, at the visual of my father pounding my mother doggy style. “Can we please change the subject?”
“Okay, okay—never have I ever ridden a mechanical bull.”
I pause, bottle poised at my mouth. “That is so random.”
“But have you done it?”
“Have you?” My brows rise when Scarlett takes a drink from her cup, wiggling her brows. “Really? When?” My tone tells her to prove it.
“At the county fair. My friends bet me twenty bucks I couldn’t ride it for eight seconds. They had the carnival guy crank up the dials on that stupid thing—I thought I was going to die.” She pretends to flip her hair. “Piece of cake.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded and a little bit turned on. “I’m having a hard time picturing you riding the mechanical bull at the county fair.”
“Why?”
“I just am.” My stomach grumbles again, loud enough that Scarlett overhears it complaining. “Goddammit I’m getting hungry.”
“Do you always complain about it?”
“Yes.” I shoot her my most menacing hangry look. “I have to consume a shit ton of calories per day to maintain this physique.”
I realize how conceited I sound, but it’s true. This body takes a ton of work, and it’s not always a walk in the park sustaining it.
“Want to hand me my bag?” Scarlett points to the black bag she dumped on the ground earlier, lying limply on the porch near the door.
I give it a shove in her direction with my foot.
She ignores the rudeness of my gesture, losing an entire arm as she digs through it. “Lucky for you, I happen to have a few snacks with me.”
This perks my stomach up considerably as I pat it with the palm of my hand. “There, there, it’s going to be okay pal—the nice lady brought snacks.”
“What are you hungry for? I have granola, protein bars, a bag of pretzels, and those hazelnut dipping stick things.” Scarlett continues rooting around. “And one pack of fruit snacks shaped like Scooby Doo.”
My eyes get wide. “You’re turning me on.”
“My preparedness is turning you on? You’re so weird.”
She produces the promised protein bars, extending two in my direction, giving them an appealing little shake. Enticing. “Chocolate chip or oatmeal raisin, take your pick.”
“Both?” I extend a palm and wiggle my fingers like I’m about to pick up a baby, because she brought the good shit—bars with actual protein. “Come to daddy.”
We both bend forward far enough to meet halfway, far enough that Scarlett can slap the bars in my open palm then rifle through her bag again.
“I think that’s all I have for protein bars.”
“No, don’t worry about it—these are awesome. Thank you.”
“Tha—” She stops. Laughs. “Oh my god, I almost just thanked you for staying outside with me.”
As I’m tearing open the silver wrapper on protein bar number one, I glance over. “For the record, this isn’t ruining my night, Scarlett—these parties are so fucking played out.”
Jamming half the oatmeal raisin bar in my mouth, I bite down. Chew. Swallow. “Why did you come tonight if you thought you’d be sitting outside?”
“I didn’t have anything going on and thought maybe…” Her bottom lip juts out. “Thought maybe I’d wear you down with my sparkling personality and charm.”
Little does she fucking know we’re outside because I think she’s pretty and it’s too hard to talk inside with all the noise.
“So you keep saying.” I shoot her a cursory
glance, eyes on her mid-length puffy coat. Knit winter hat. Mittens. “No offense—you don’t really look like you came dressed for a party.”
She rips open a pack of fruit snacks, package crinkling, popping a red one in her mouth. “I’m also a realist, Rowdy. I didn’t want to freeze my ass off if the answer was no bueno.”
Silently, we chew in tandem, legs extended in front of us. Her head rests against the house, eyes sliding closed when she swallows her first bite. “I love these stupid things. They’re so bad for you.”
In goes an orange one.
“Never have I ever taken food out of a trash can and eaten it,” I announce, taking a chug out of my water bottle like the total badass I am.
“Stop it right now! You have not!”
“I have,” I boast proudly. “I was starving and I was with a few buddies, and we were walking past a really nice restaurant. Technically we were walking in an alley past their dumpsters…”
“That is so gross—your mouth has been in the trash. What the hell did you eat?”
“Pasta with meatballs from inside a doggy bag.” I chuckle. “We were in the city and it had just been thrown out, so I figured it was clean.”
“Rowdy, that’s disgusting!” When she leans forward and taps me on the leg of my pants, chastising, my entire body goes rigid, calf burning where she poked at it with the tips of her fingers.
“It was still warm! Clearly, I didn’t die from it, so how bad could it have been?” I protest. “Plus, it had just the right amount of parmesan sprinkled on top.”
I pinch my fingers, sprinkling imaginary cheese onto an imaginary platter of spaghetti.
Scarlett plays footsies with me, urging me to quit talking about it. “I’m going to gag. Knock it off.”
Our loud laughter carries into the yard, causing the few people gathered by the road to glance up at the house.
I chomp down the last of the oatmeal bar and rip open the second one. Chew. “Okay brainiac.” Swallow. “Here’s one for you—never have I ever cheated on a test.”
Her pert nose wrinkles. “Why would you assume I’m a brainiac?”
“Uh, cause you’re the girl in class who wants extra credit.”
“You would latch onto that fact—but the truth is, I always needed extra credit because my grades were just okay, not because I loved the extra work. Let’s get real here.”
“Really?”
“Really. And for your information, yes—I’ve cheated on a test.” She takes a drink from her bottle. “It was in high school and it was a take-home algebra exam. We weren’t allowed to use calculators or get help, but during study hall a few of us worked on it together and I got busted.” She pops a fruit snack in her mouth. “God I am so bad at math.”
“I’ve never cheated on a test, unless you count the road test to get my driver’s license.”
“How can you cheat on the road test?”
“By flirting with the examiner?”
Under the dim light, beneath the winter cap, her eyes widen. “Guy or girl?”
“Guy.” I grin shamelessly.
“Was he cute?”
A laugh escapes my lips. “Yeah.”
“Have you ever flirted to get out of a speeding ticket?”
“No.”
Now she’s the one smiling. “I have.” Her grin widens. “I was home one weekend, driving my dad’s car, and got pulled over coming home from a dinner with some friends. I recognized the cop as someone from high school, a guy a few years older who had just become an officer. So”—she shrugs—“I might have unbuttoned my shirt a little while he was running the plates.”
“No fucking way.”
“Way. Two whole buttons.” She laughs. “So much cleavage.”
“Why Scarlett, you little…”
“I really think it’s weird you think I’m some prude just because I got into an argument with your teammates.”
“Honestly, I’m sure it had a lot to do with what you were wearing. They’re morons.”
Her groan is accompanied by a dramatic eye roll. “I’m burning that sweater when I get home.”
“Yeah?”
“Heck no.” She scoffs. “I love that stupid thing.”
THIRD FRIDAY
“The Friday Where I Feed Him…and Give Up Trying to Stay Away from Jock Row.”
Scarlett
“Don’t you freeze your ass off out here?” Tessa’s heels click along the pavement, the strappy, impractical kind she has trouble walking in because they are impractically high.
I personally would never be caught dead in anything other than a wedge, but who am I to judge? I shamelessly wore an ugly sweater to one of the hottest party spots on campus.
It’s only two short blocks from Tessa and Cameron’s apartment complex to Jock Row, but it’s taken us more than twenty minutes because of their ridiculous shoes. At this rate, the party will be over by the time we get there.
Nonetheless, we trudge along.
“Why does he keep making you stay outside?” Cameron wants to know.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “But then again, I haven’t asked.” Nor do I care.
“Explain again why do you keep going back?”
“Duh—because Rowdy Wade is freaking hot, that’s why. As if she needs any other reason.” Tessa’s ankle twists on a crack in the sidewalk and she slows her pace. “I’d sit outside on the front porch with him too if I had the chance.”
“I would, too, but I guess I just don’t get why the captain of the team is okay sitting outside on the porch.”
“Maybe he wants Scarlett all to himself.”
Tessa’s theory makes me blush, face hot as Hades, cold air notwithstanding.
“I hear he’s single,” Tessa adds. “Like, super single.”
“Has he hit on you?” Cameron wants to know.
“I don’t think so.”
Cameron stops in the middle of the sidewalk, grabbing my upper arm with her hot pink talons. “Well what would you do if he did? Maybe we should role play, just in case.”
“Fantastic idea, Cam,” Tessa enthuses. “Scarlett, pretend I’m Rowdy and I invite you back to my house. What do you say?”
“Uh…I’d ask what we were going to do there?”
She makes a buzzing sound. “Wrong. You never want to be the one doing the walk of shame—make him do it.”
“So I invite him to my place instead?”
“Exactly.”
These two, I swear.
“What do the two of you do on the porch, anyway?” Cam shoots me a sidelong glance, focusing on not stepping on any cracks in the sidewalk.
“I don’t know, a little bit of everything. We play games.”
“What’s he like? Like, what are his hobbies and stuff?” Cameron wants to know.
“Why? Are you collecting data so you can stalk him?” I tease.
“No, but maybe if you got a little more personal you’d—”
Tessa cuts her off. “Cameron, stop. She’ll figure it out on her own.”
But we have been getting personal, the deeper into Never Have I Ever we got. I learned he’s broken his arm twice, and neither time was while playing baseball. He’s never gone skydiving but it’s first on his Fucket List. Once, he dumped a girl he really liked because his friends dared him to, and it was over the phone, then felt so terrible he wrote her a letter.
He’s run red lights, almost been arrested for disorderly conduct, and his parents locked him out of the house once to punish him when he was two hours late for curfew. He sobbed on the steps like a baby for a solid half an hour before they let him in.
He was seventeen.
“So you have a crush on him?” Cameron confirms.
Yes.
Yes, yes, yes.
“I keep coming back because it’s entertaining. Is that so wrong? I think we’re becoming…friends? Is that weird?”
I hate sounding so insecure, but I haven’t hung out with these two in an entire year, and I’m not
about to go spilling all my well-guarded secrets, no matter how well they have me pegged.
I make a mental note to spend more time with them during the week instead of just hitting parties on the weekends, really get to know them again. I want to be a better friend, not just their third wheel.
“Friends to lovers?”
If I blush any deeper, I’ll spontaneously combust and burn myself right out of this thick jacket.
“No, Tessa, not friends to lovers. Rowdy Wade is way out of my league.”
Cameron snorts. “No, he’s not. You’re fucking adorable.”
Adorable.
Great! I’m sure cute and adorable are exactly his type.
Cameron says it with such conviction I believe her—I believe she actually thinks Rowdy Wade could like me.
The butterflies in my stomach awaken as the baseball house comes into view. First, they roll, stretching. Then, on delicate wings of hope, they begin fluttering. Dancing.
Baby steps.
Little by little, one at a time.
And then suddenly, there he is.
Rowdy watches as we approach, removing his hands from the pockets of his thick, black jacket and placing them on the railing of the porch. He leans over, braced himself on his elbows, green eyes wrinkled at the corner, amused, watching us.
Watching me.
Damn him and his insane level of attractiveness, charisma, and charm.
My knees protest, giving a tiny wobble when he smiles.
“Ladies,” he greets us. “Scarlett.”
Tessa and Cameron do their best to hoof it up the stairs in their heels, toward the beat of the music, loud noise, and the smell of flowing alcohol.
“Come here often?” Rowdy teases when my first foot hits the bottom of the staircase leading up to the house.
“Har har.”
My feet gingerly take each step one by one until I reach the top. Tessa and Cam are understandably fascinated with our easy exchange; they hesitate by the front door, waiting for me, though their hungry eyes are locked on Rowdy.
Aggravated by their obviousness, I wave them off, shooing them inside. “You go on ahead. Give me a second.”
“Make it a few hours.” Rowdy coughs into his fist, masking his words like boys did in middle school, juvenile and immature.