Right of First Refusal (Radleigh University #2)

by Dahlia Adler

  “I give up—what’s happening here?”

  “It’s my newest series,” she says, peering around the canvas to assess the positioning of Lizzie’s legs before dipping her brush into medium-brown paint. “Taking biblical characters and setting them in the modern world.”

  “Adam and Eve,” I realize, looking at the apple in Lizzie’s hand. “Frank, that is pretty fucking brilliant.”

  “Isn’t it?” She squints at her handiwork, then dabs at a little spot with the tip of the brush. “These two sex fiends totally inspired me.”

  “Hey!”

  “She means it as a compliment, Connor,” Lizzie explains, brushing her foot up his leg. “Trust me.”

  “I do,” Frankie murmurs as she paints, “but if you move again I will kill you both in your sleep.”

  “We’ve been sitting like this for hours, Frankie.” Connor huffs out a sigh. “I’m about five seconds away from eating that apple.”

  “So impatient.” Frankie clucks her tongue. “How do you teach children?”

  “He doesn’t teach children, you bitch,” says Lizzie. “I can’t believe you talked us into this.”

  “How did she talk you into it?” I ask, dropping onto the couch. “You’re usually so good at evading Frankie’s projects. And Connor, this seems pretty risqué for someone who’s trying to stay out of trouble.”

  “She’s oddly convincing when she wants to be,” he grunts.

  “You don’t even know the half of how many people on this campus have already learned that lesson,” Lizzie says with a grin. “But for what it’s worth, her lasagna really is as good as she says it is.”

  Despite having just crammed a thousand calories into my face at dinner, the mention of Frankie’s lasagna makes my stomach rumble. It’s the only thing she knows how to cook, but she does it damn well. “Feel free to let me know what night that’s happening,” I say, pulling off my boots and putting my feet up on the couch. “I feel like I haven’t had home-cooked food in months.”

  “Uh uh, Caity J. Lasagna’s not free. You want my food, you’ll have to pose.”

  “As what?”

  Frankie frowns. “I’m not sure yet. Something that works with your height, maybe. Something warrior-like. Ooh, maybe Deborah! Or Yael! You would make such a good soldier.”

  “That’d be cool!” Lizzie agrees, and even Connor nods.

  “Who are Deborah and Yael?” I ask sheepishly. Lizzie knows tons of random trivia, Connor’s a major history nerd, and Frankie’s dad is a former priest, so she has a weird amount of biblical knowledge, but this is totally not my area of expertise.

  “Deborah was a general in the book of Judges,” Frankie says as she stops to squeeze more paint onto her palette. “But I think I want you to be Yael. She was this badass woman who lured the opposing general into her home, soothed him into sleep, and then brained him with a tent peg.”

  “Hot damn. You may have convinced me,” I say, curling my feet up underneath my butt. “Can I pick out who plays the general, by any chance?”

  Lizzie laughs. “So that explains why you’re here. Let me guess—you just had a run-in with the stargazing ex.”

  “More than a run-in,” I grumble. “I got stuck with him and Andi for a whole damn dinner. I was clawing Jake so hard in the thigh I probably drew blood.”

  “And how exactly did you explain that to Jake?” Frankie asks.

  “Who is Jake?” Connor asks.

  Oh, crap. Right. Lying. “Jake’s the guy I’m dating, and Mase is his coach. He’s really unbearable, apparently.” At least that part is true. “Neither of us wanted to be there. Hence the clawing.”

  Lizzie and Frankie exchange a glance. “I feel like we’re missing something,” says Frankie.

  “Same.” Lizzie shifts to work out a crick in her neck, and Frankie immediately clucks her annoyance. Lizzie rolls her eyes as she puts herself back in position. “You have twenty more minutes, Frank, and then I’ve got a Skype call with my brothers. Make good use.” She looks to me without moving her head. “And you, we are clearly in need of some girl time. No offense, lover,” she says to Connor.

  “So, that whole conversation we had about not calling me that in public just kinda went in one ear and died there, huh?”

  “Didn’t even really make it in that ear, honestly. But Cait, girl date, yes? Next point at which we’re all free, we need to go and do something. Maybe shopping? Shopping seems like a thing we should do.”

  The mention of shopping triggers the memory of Abigail’s stupid email. “Well, I can tell you my dad and his fiancée would love that,” I say wryly. “I’m supposed to be buying a bridesmaid dress for his stupid wedding.”

  “Perfect!” says Frankie, clapping her hands and immediately splattering paint on her face as a result, though she doesn’t seem to care, any more than she acknowledges that my tone is meant to convey that I’d rather die. “Saturday?”

  “I’ve got scrimmage on Saturday,” I respond, already looking forward to my next game. Much as I loved lacrosse before, I appreciate it double now that I’ve got aggression to work out. The irony that my frustrations about potentially missing the championships are helping to drive my team there is not lost on me.

  “Sunday, then,” Lizzie says decisively. “I know we’re all free Sunday.”

  She’s got me there, and I reluctantly agree. I may have no interest in anything having to do with this wedding, but if anything has the potential to make it bearable, it’s having my friends with me.

  I think I’ve had more than enough testosterone in my life for a good, long while.

  By the time we actually go, I’ve built up the dread in my head all over again, but of course, Lizzie and Frankie won’t let up. “I can’t even believe we’re doing this. I don’t even want to go to the stupid wedding,” I grumble as Lizzie practically yanks me through the door of Sweethearts Bridal Shop. “The last thing I wanna do is try on a zillion stupid froufy dresses.”

  “You are going to the wedding, and you know it.” Lizzie rolls her eyes, and I might be imagining it but I could swear her glasses magnify the attitude. “Be cranky and all that—I get it—but let’s not pretend you’re actually gonna miss your father’s wedding for a fucking lacrosse game.”

  I grab my arm back. “I know you think lacrosse is stupid—”

  “Of course I don’t think it’s stupid, Cait. Just because I don’t enjoy sports doesn’t mean I don’t understand that it’s important to you and that you love it. But this is your father. This is his wedding. And however you feel about Abigail and the fact that your dad is marrying her, she’s still gonna be your stepmother. You can’t even imagine how much you’d hate yourself for missing this.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from letting out a heated response I’ll regret. Six months ago, Lizzie would’ve been on Team Righteous Anger, no question. But now her parents are dead, and I know how much time she spends regretting every instant she fought with them, or displeased them. “We’re not the same, Lizzie,” I say quietly.

  She snorts. “My parents weren’t sick, remember? They were fine and then they weren’t. They were alive and then they weren’t. Sometimes, shit just happens. You don’t think I imagined I’d have decades to make up lost moments with them?”

  “So I have to do whatever my parents want because someday I may lose them in a random tragic accident and I’ll regret that one time I disobeyed them?”

  Frankie sucks in an audible breath, which is the ultimate in “You’ve gone too far,” because Frankie doesn’t generally believe there is a “too far.” But I stand firm, setting my jaw as I watch Lizzie’s eyes narrow. “I can’t live my life as if I’ve been in your shoes,” I say. “I haven’t. What happened to your parents is horrible, but do you really think if I’d warned you there was the slightest possibility in the world that would happen, that would’ve been enough to get you to stop smoking or partying or whatever else your parents would’ve gotten pissed about?”

/>   Lizzie exhales sharply and holds up her hands. “Okay, stop. Let’s start this over.” She fixes her stare on me. “Caitlin, you are going to try on dresses, because this is your father’s wedding and it wouldn’t take your father dying for you to regret not going. You’re already upset that they’re moving and you’ll be missing out on their lives. How do you think you’ll feel when you see family wedding pictures without you?”

  “She’s got a good point,” says Frankie, and it’s hard to disagree. I may not be sure either way, but if I don’t get a bridesmaid dress, that is making a decision I’m not ready to make. I sigh and tell the saleswoman what I need, sure Frankie and Lizzie are exchanging triumphant glances behind me.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter to Lizzie as the saleswoman walks off to look for some things in my size. “If I said—”

  She holds up a hand. “You didn’t. I get it. It’s sort of impossible for me not to play the Dead Parents Card.”

  “Can’t really blame you. I imagine it affects everything in your life.”

  “Yeah.” Her lips twist into a wry smile. “Not a lot of people who can empathize, either. Which I guess is a good thing, but it gets rough.”

  We’re all silent for a moment, because Lizzie’s talking about her feelings and Lizzie never talks about her feelings, and for the first time, I’m actually glad to be out at this stupid dress shop. Then the saleswoman comes back with a rack of options that make me feel distinctly nauseated with their bright-and-shininess.

  “Abigail said any color?” Lizzie asks, examining a hot-pink thing I wouldn’t wear if it were my only protection against the fires of hell. “At least that’s cool.”

  “Any color,” I confirm, flipping through the dresses in the hopes there’s something black. Or navy. Or dark brown. Anything that wouldn’t be wrapped around an Easter egg. “As long as Cammie and I coordinate.” I pull my phone from my back pocket and wiggle it.

  “And what’s Cammie wearing?” asks Frankie.

  “Probably a repurposed trash bag,” I mutter. If Cammie even comes to the wedding, there’s no way she’d shell out any money to be part of it. “She said to pick something out first and then just let her know.”

  “No other bridesmaids?” Lizzie’s moved on to fire engine-red.

  “Nope. She wants this to be a small family thing, apparently. I’m guessing on account of the pregnancy.”

  “Okay, so this could be way worse.” Frankie examines a wildly patterned thing critically, glances at me, and drops it. Good girl. “You’re not completely dress-averse.”

  “No, just completely averse to this wedding,” I mutter.

  “We’re ignoring you now,” says Lizzie. “Here—how about this?” She holds up a floor-length dress in a stretchy fabric that’s about the same shade of blue as the Patriots’ away jerseys. At least that’s something. When I hold it up against me, though, it’s obvious it’s inches too short.

  “And now I remember why I stopped bothering with dresses.” I sigh, handing the dress back. “Some articles of clothing are just not meant for girls over five-eight.”

  “There’s gotta be something here…” Frankie mutters. As the two of them go through dresses, I pull out my phone and text Cammie. I forgot how much I hate dress shopping. Can we re-discuss that wedding boycott?

  With pleasure, she writes back immediately.

  I snort. I should be a better influence than this, but as Frankie and Lizzie hold dress after dress up next to me with frowns on their faces as they don’t even brush my ankles, the disheartened feeling that always comes with shopping as a Tall Girl only increases.

  There are only two dresses in my closet right now, and they’re both dresses that are supposed to be knee-length but which I’ve embraced as minis instead, including the one I just wore to the Omega Nu party. Pretty sure that isn’t gonna fly at the wedding, though.

  I had a dress I loved, once. I’d bought it for Cammie’s high school graduation, on my mother’s insistence, and got so many compliments that I threw it into my trunk for camp on a whim. It was simple—strapless, white with a black lace overlay, fitted on top with a flared skirt that made it less obvious it was inches shorter on me than it should’ve been. I wore it with a cardigan to her graduation, but when I saw other girls at Stone Creek wearing dresses to the end-of-summer banquet after my sophomore year, I ditched my plan to wear my one nice pair of black pants and pulled out the dress instead.

  After all, there was a certain basketball player’s eye I’d recently caught, and I wanted to keep it.

  Honestly, part of me had worried that Mase would find the sight of me in a dress silly, that he’d think I looked like a not-so-little girl playing dress-up. We’d already fooled around a few times, so I knew that despite the fact that he’d only really seen me in tank tops and shorts, he wasn’t exactly clueless to my femininity. But still, I felt weirdly shy walking into the banquet all dolled up.

  For about two seconds until Mase spotted me, froze in the middle of joking around with his friends, and smiled so slowly it felt like he was peeling the dress off me right then and there. It gave me the confidence to walk over to their group, and when I did, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me to his side and I knew I didn’t wanna be anywhere else that night.

  I was glad I’d ditched the cardigan, because even as we talked to the other guys, his long fingers stroked the bare skin of my shoulder, sending trails of fire down my spine. Before long I was doing the same thing, tracing the muscles of his back through his shirt, both of us getting increasingly antsy before he finally leaned down and murmured in my ear, “We need to get out of here.”

  They were exactly the words I wanted to hear, though I didn’t know it until he said them. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I blurted to the guys, who all looked at me strangely, but I couldn’t be bothered to care. There was only one single-room restroom in the gym and I ran toward it like my dress was on fire. Less than a minute later, Mase rushed in behind me and all but threw me on the sink, kissing me with a ferocity that matched exactly how I felt inside. My head slammed against the mirror but I didn’t care. I was too busy wrapping my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, inhaling the combination of his familiar deodorant and unfamiliar cologne.

  I didn’t even have to think twice when his hand slid up my dress and brushed against my damp cotton underwear; I just arched into his touch and made some sort of unintelligible noise against his lips that was meant to signify “Finger me now.” I was so horny I came on his hand in about a minute, and it barely took him that to do the same in a bunch of rough paper towels from the dispenser on the wall. When we were both spent, we cracked up at our impatience and the speed with which we’d both come, but before we rejoined the rest of our friends at the banquet, knowing we’d take a ton of shit for disappearing at the same time, he kissed me.

  It wasn’t a desperate, hungry kiss like we’d exchanged a few minutes earlier when we were finally alone, nor was it one of the flirty, teasing ones we’d been exchanging in our late-night makeout sessions for the last couple of weeks. It was real, substantial, promising. It made me feel like what we’d done was more than just a spur-of-the-moment hookup. It made me feel…everything.

  I promptly ruined the dress that night when the banquet spontaneously turned into a basketball game, as most things we did in the gym tended to do, but I still had it somewhere in the back of the closet at my mom’s house.

  I wanted a dress that would make me feel the way I felt that night. No, I wanted a guy who would make me feel the way I felt that night. But they only sold one of those things at Sweethearts Bridal, and it took two hours, but we finally found it.

  Black lace over beige. Go figure.

  • • •

  In other things that shouldn’t surprise me, I spot Mase through the doorway to the weight room on my way out of practice the next morning. I plan to just wave and keep walking, and have to hide my shock when he waves first. With no class until the afternoon
, and my having locked myself in my room (sans Andi) to do my Communications and Greek Tragedy homework the night before, I have nothing better to do than walk in and say hi.

  So I do.

  “I thought I might see you at the community center yesterday morning,” he says as he does another biceps curl. “The kids asked about you. Apparently you made quite an impression.”

  He doesn’t say it to make me feel guilty, but somehow it does. Not that it would’ve occurred to me I was welcome; I certainly had no reason to think I could show up without Jake. “Maybe next week,” I say, wondering if I’ll feel more equipped to handle a morning alone with him and the kids then than I do now. “I had an errand to run yesterday.”

  “An errand, huh? How mysterious.”

  I snort. “Not exactly. I was getting a bridesmaid dress for my father’s wedding.”

  He raises his eyebrows and puts down the dumbbell. “Your dad’s getting married? I thought he and your mom split because he wanted to be a bachelor for life.”

  A little smile threatens to creep over my lips, and I bite one to stop it. He remembered. I don’t know why that feels like a big deal to me right now, but for some reason, it does. And it makes me want to keep spilling my guts to him, knowing that he really listens. “Yeah, I’m guessing that would have been his life plan if he hadn’t gotten his receptionist pregnant, but apparently that just wasn’t in the cards.”

  “No shit.” Mase whistles, then squirts water into his mouth from the bottle next to him with one hand while patting the bench with the other. I take the seat he offers. “So you’re gonna be a big sister?”

  “Oh, God, I hadn’t even thought of the big sister part,” I admit. “I mean, the fact that there’ll be a kid, yeah, but not that I won’t be the baby anymore. How weird.”

  “Do you like the receptionist, at least?”

  “I’ve met her once. I was not particularly impressed.”

  “You gonna meet her again before the wedding?”