And now I’m stuck at my first frat party with the ex who broke my heart.
Yay college.
AS SOON AS Levi is out of sight, I bolt for the door. Stella wraps her arms around my waist to stop me, but she’s a foot shorter than me, and her idea of a workout is marathoning Project Runway. She clings to me, her feet slipping and sliding as I drag her forward like she weighs barely anything.
In an exasperated voice she yells, “Stamp of approval!” I hesitate, slowing, but not stopping my attempt at escape. “I said stamp. Of. Approval. Skank.”
I sigh. Crap.
We have this rule, something that’s helped us stay friends despite how completely polar opposite our personalities are. It’s a system of give and take, wherein I temper her crazy side and she forces me to live a little.
When Stella showed up to take the SATs drunk, she got the Dallas Cole Don’t-Be-A-Douche Stamp of Disapproval. It was my non-nagging way of telling her that she’d gone too far. And though there wasn’t much to do about it that Saturday, Stella signed up to take the test again, and when the next testing day rolled around, she was sober and serious and pulled off a decent score.
Alternately, there is the Stella Santos Suck-It-Up-You-Prude Stamp of Approval. That stamp has gotten me into more trouble than I care to list, including Stella’s brilliant idea to wrap a house with toilet paper and stick maxi pads to the glass front door. What her plan didn’t include was the knowledge that said house belonged to a policeman, who was not keen on being an advertisement for Kotex.
There is one and only one rule when it comes to the stamps. You have to listen.
I spin, and Stella narrowly misses getting laid out by my flailing elbow. Her exotic eyes narrow on me, and I know she’s not backing down.
“Fine. I’ll stay. But remember those stamps work both ways, sister.”
She moves closer so that she can speak quietly, pushing her short dark hair out of her eyes. “Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t think douche-badger would be here. I heard that athletes don’t usually come to the frat stuff, so I thought we’d be in the clear. But this place is huge.” A stream of people exit out of a nearby door that I guess leads to a basement, as if to illustrate her point. “There’s nothing that says you can’t stay and have fun.”
We have different ideas of nothing. My brain has already pinpointed at least seventeen reasons to leave.
Some idiot with a backward hat lurches toward a trash can just outside the kitchen, and a jet of disgusting pours out of his mouth.
Make that eighteen reasons.
“Right. Well, I’m officially sucking it up.” And trying not to copy backward-hat’s display of stomach pyrotechnics. “What’s up, first?”
“I want you to actually enjoy this. Try to look like you’re not dying inside.” I attempt a smile. “A little less Freddy Krueger, a little more person who actually has a soul.” I flash her more teeth, more menace than mirth, but I’m mostly teasing.
I want to enjoy myself. I want so badly for college to be different that I can taste the desperation on my tongue.
Stella starts to open her mouth, but I beat her to it. “Drinks?” Maybe that will help me loosen up.
“You learn fast, grasshopper.”
On her tiptoes, she manages to loop an arm over my shoulders. She looks around and sighs happily, a this is the life kind of sigh, and I wonder what she’s seeing that I’m not. “Our first college party. Puts those high school pasture parties to shame, doesn’t it?”
I wasn’t a particularly big fan of the parties she used to drag me to out on the Beane Ranch or the abandoned church turned party grounds out on Oakcliff Road. But I don’t see how this is any better.
Finally, I manage to find a pro. “No mosquitoes. That’s a plus.” And all I’ve got.
She directs me to face the group of guys hanging out by the kegs in the kitchen and says, “I see several pluses in our future.”
As long as those pluses aren’t in conjunction with an STD test . . . I can deal.
Chapter 2
Dallas
A new song starts, one that’s been blowing up the radio, and the dancers crowded in the living room let out a cheer. Stella does, too. And as we head for the archway that opens up into the kitchen, she throws out a hand and belts the words. I bump her hip and open my mouth to sing along, but no sound comes out.
The catchy tune shrivels in my throat as I make eye contact with one of the most gorgeous guys I’ve ever seen. He’s sitting on top of the island counter in the kitchen, and even sitting I can tell he’s tall. He has messy dark blond hair, artfully sculpted in that way that makes him look like he’s jumped right off the pages of a magazine. Add to that a strong jaw and eyes that smile more than his lips, and no matter how hard I pull my gaze away, it keeps wandering back to him.
And I get caught.
Not just once.
Like four times! I should have learned my lesson after the first, maybe the second, but now I have officially crossed over into creepy territory.
It takes talent to be a gawking hot mess, and I am a gawking hot mess to the third power. I jerk my eyes away again, a billion years too late to retain my dignity. He’s sitting right next to the keg, though, so I have to look back his way a few seconds later or risk adding frat-boy face-plant to my list of special skills.
This time his lips join the smile in his eyes, and my heart picks up its tempo.
He did have to keep looking at me in order to catch me. So maybe he doesn’t mind that I’m staring.
And maybe Stella was right about this particular stamp.