21. Fallon

“No. It’s… I’m…” I stutter through my objection, but the stranger who asked to partner with Corey is already moving toward someone across the room who calls out to him.

Defiance and shock are so potent in my stomach that I’m sure they’re visible in my gaze as I stare at Corey. “We can’t.”

“What? Be partners?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Then what can’t we be?” He leans closer.

“I mean, yes. We can’t be partners.”

His caramel eyes shine with mischief. As the youngest of four, I know the look too damn well.

“Why?”

Because I slept with you. Because I’ve developed feelings for you. Because I’m terrified you’re not as good as I think you are—want you to be—and even more horrified you might be, and it won’t matter because I’ll be breaking fifty different girl codes by spending time lusting over you, not to mention fixating and torturing myself about your every breath and touch, comparing them all to that night.

I take a measured breath and lean back in my seat to gain space from him, and the myriad of thoughts have me more exhausted than every practice I’ve ever participated in. “This is a terrible idea.”

Before he can respond, the professor launches into discussion. I hear nothing but the occasional adverb and pronoun when his voice hits a high note or when he clears his throat. I’m distracted, absorbed by the dark-haired stranger—Corey—beside me who smells so damn good I have to stop myself from leaning forward.

He’s so close but so damn far away.

Toofar.

Corey leans back in his seat and looks at me.

I swallow and try my damnedest to look and act unaffected, but I know he can see right through my ruse.

He slides a piece of paper onto my desk.

Sweet or Salty

Comedy or Drama

Too cold or Too warm

Left side of the bed or Right side of the bed

Dark Chocolate or Milk Chocolate

Ocean or Lake

Small town or City

I recognize the narrow characters from the note on which he wrote his phone number that is currently tacked to the bulletin board in my bedroom. He writes his e’s as capital cursive e’s, and all his letters are the same height—my heart skitters as I try to stop obsessing over such a ridiculous detail.

I circle my preferences: salty, comedy and drama, too cold. Then I cross out right or left, and write middle of the bed, and circle dark chocolate. I pause at ocean or lake, embarrassed when I realize how that night with him has changed how I see the beach, deepening my love for the ocean. I circle ocean and put a question mark by the last one, and beside it, scribble, ‘I’ve lived in Oleander Springs my entire life. I don’t know anything different.’

Then, I write the same questions back to him and add more.

Tea or Coffee

Cats or Dogs

Underestimated or Overestimated

Animals or People

Kind or Honest

Teacher or Student

His smile turns my stomach into one giant knot.

I attempt to listen to our professor as he tells us about the significance of our project, tips for success, and how we’ll be graded, but as Corey slips the paper back to me, my full attention shifts to his handwriting and the answers I am overly eager to learn.

Salty.

Drama.

Sounds like a null point.

I stare at his answer.

Null because I sleep in the middle? Or null because I’m calling things off?

Dark Chocolate.

Ocean.

“Wherever I can play football”

I read his last answer, which is in response to my asking city or country, which ensures city. There aren’t any small towns with NFL teams.

Coffee is circled, and tea is crossed out.

I laugh without meaning to, and his gaze flicks to mine.

I press my lips together and glance at the professor to ensure we’re not getting the stink-eye, and then return my attention to his note.

Dogs, though my sister has a giant tortoise that kicks ass.

These are both terrible.

Animals.

Honesty.

Again, so many innuendos…

We exchange three more lists of questions before class is excused. I gather the sheets we exchanged, tucking them into my backpack because I am nothing if not a self-tormentor.

“You look like you’re second-guessing things again,” Corey says.

My gaze slides to his, slower this time. He’s studying me, and I hope he doesn’t recall that night at the bar and hotel when alternative me was brave and sexy and knew exactly what she wanted.

“I’m not sure I’ve stopped,” I admit.

He cracks a smile. “I’ll make an excellent partner. For starters, we live in the same building and have similar schedules.”

“But do you bake cookies?”

His smile broadens as though pleased with my response. He wants me to tease and flirt, and heaven help me, I do, too.

“No, but I’ll buy you every damn cookie in Oleander Springs. Plus, I have a big screen for all these movies we have to watch.”

All eleven that we’re required to watch and then complete a short report about, explaining the intended message and audiences. I have no clue how this constitutes as media training, but I’m positive watching eleven films alone with him will become my own personal hellscape. The thought is punctuated by the reminder of Kelly describing him as filthy rich. I have no idea what that means, but it’s another similarity to Tobias that makes my heart stall.

“What does your schedule look like on Wednesday?” he asks.

“I can’t. I?—”

“That’s right. Game night.” He shakes his head.

“Tomorrow?” I ask.

“I have practice at eight, then this class, another class at eleven, and weightlifting at four. We could meet at seven?”

I rub a hand across my brow, knowing I should say no, yet I nod.

“My dorm or yours?” he asks.

“Mine,” I say too quickly. It’s better if I have a sliver of control. Then I think of Kelly and what she’ll think if she or one of the other girls sees Corey coming or going from my room. “Or maybe yours.”

His grin is less potent, reminding me of the first night we met near the restroom when it was just a tease. “You can think about it and let me know. You have my number.” It’s not a question, but the long look he gives me argues that it could be.

I swallow and nod.

“I have to get going. We’re hanging sheetrock today at Nolan’s, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Here. In class. Every day for the next six weeks.

My insulin pump chooses this moment to blare an alarm. I’m low. I’ve been sensing it for the past fifteen minutes but ran out of snacks after this morning’s grueling practice. Corey glances at my pocket but is unable to see anything. He doesn’t ask, and I don’t offer to explain. Telling someone you have a chronic illness—especially one as uncommon as mine—is rarely something you can wrap up in ten seconds.

“I’ll text you,” I tell him.

We stare at each other for a moment, both waiting for the other to move first. Finally, I do. He follows me outside, holding the door open for me. It slams back as hard as it had when our professor arrived, but this time, I don’t startle. Instead, I try to gain my bearings as Corey disappears to my right.

My gaze strays to him several times before realizing I’m near the cafe Kelly and I had gone to last week—the one where she offered to help make this transition easier for me.

I groan. It feels like a bad omen to return there, but it’s half the distance from my dorm, which is a thirty-minute walk, and I need sugar now. I text Lexie with an SOS and head for The Spiced Chai.

The small cafe smells even better than I remembered, or it could be attributed to my low blood sugar, which makes food taste and smell a hundred times better because my body goes into a self-preservation mode when low, craving sugar.

The bell on the door rings as I’m studying the menu, and I turn to find Lexie.

“How’d you get here so fast?”

She crosses the space, meeting me. “I wasn’t the one walking.” Her gaze skates across my face, glistening with a sheen of sweat, and then down to my slightly trembling hands, reading that I’m low without me saying a word. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

“Hi, ladies. What can I get you?” the same woman with dark blonde hair who was here last week greets us.

I want to order everything, but pick a sandwich, fries, and a drink. Lexie orders the same, and I slip my card over as Lexie objects.

“I asked you,” I point out as my card is run.

With our drinks in hand, I steer us to a table below an air vent. The record-high temperatures has the air-conditioning streaming blissfully through the vent as I’d hoped. When I’m low for an extended period, I become uncomfortably warm and sweaty due to the adrenaline my body produces.

I gulp down half my glass of sweet tea, a treat I rarely indulge in because it’s difficult to bolus for because it’s filled with sugar, and a high blood sugar feels just as horrible as a low, if not worse.

Lexie sips her Coke, watching me closely. She doesn’t fuss over me like my parents and brothers still do. She’s used to my disease, and though she notices when I need a break, water, or sugar, she never treats me like I’m fragile or flawed. It’s something I’m endlessly grateful for.

“He’s in my class,” I blurt out.

“Who’s in your class?”

“Corey.”

Lexie blinks rapidly. “Please don’t tell me you still think this is another coincidence.”

I roll my eyes, not wanting to hear about fate or astrological predictions. “The entire class is student-athletes, including two girls on my soccer team.”

“I can’t believe you’re considering letting him slip through your fingers because you feel guilty.” We spent all of yesterday dissecting why pursuing Corey would be the worst idea for both my new friendship with Kelly and my position on the team.

Lexie didn’t agree with a single one of my points.

“It’s not just guilt, it’s girl-code. You heard Kelly. She’s liked him for three years.”

“A- You had no idea. B- She didn’t like him that much if she was willing to date other people.”

Her words rattle around in my head, impossible to forget because my cousin hasn’t dated anyone in over a year—not since meeting Asher.

“Fallon, I know how much soccer means to you and that you’re freaked out—Saturday couldn’t have gone much worse—but if you just tell Kelly and explain the circumstances…”

“Tell her what? That I slept with the guy she’s in love with and have my own complicated and very messy feelings for him?”

My shoulders turn rigid and my face red as the cafe attendant delivers our lunch, no doubt hearing every word I just spewed.

Lexie smiles at her as I offer a mortified apology.

“Maybe not in that order,” my cousin says, picking up her pickle spear and taking a bite.

I sigh dramatically before sinking my teeth into my sandwich.