“Shit, Book, I’m sorry. It’s just--”
Booker shakes his head, ever the calm one. All those hours in church have made him a patient man. “It’s an untenable situation. I know. But Ty, you need to face two things. One is that you’re falling for her, no matter how much you deny it. You talk about her all the time and your eyes light up when her name is mentioned. The second is that she deserves to know. You can’t keep it from her any longer and expect your relationship not to burst into flames the minute she finds out.”
I want to correct him on his use of the word relationship, but I don’t because A) no one would believe me and B) he’s right. My feelings for Phoebe are genuine. And unless I’m totally misreading the situation, she feels the same way about me.
But I don’t have the slightest clue what to do with that information. Yea, Booker’s got a point. She deserves to know. But I can’t tell her. Not yet, anyway. She needs to pass this class, and she needs my help to do it. I can’t fuck with that. I won’t.
Chapter 7
Phoebe
Mel and Ian said The Chapel would be intimidating. I didn’t count on them being right. I mean, sure, they usually are, but how can a house be intimidating?
Now I know.
The building in front of me has to be a hundred and fifty years old. But it’s far from falling down or dilapidated. In fact, just the opposite. It’s this stately old Victorian, all brick and stained-glass.
My Corolla looks decidedly out of place next to the Beemer, the Land Rover, and the Mercedes-Benz.
But I’m not here for a car show.
I’m here to work on my latest paper.
That does not explain why Mel insisted I wear one of her cute summer dresses or why she begged me to let her curl my hair.
For the record, I said no to both. I’m wearing leggings because pants with buttons should be outlawed. And my hair is down, but that’s because I haven’t put it up yet. I agreed to change my shirt, but that’s only because the one I’d been wearing had a ton of paint stains on it. As a Fine Arts major, my clothes can be categorized in three ways: lots of paint stains, some paint stains, and brand-new with the tags still on.
So, here I stand like I’m about to enter some Manor House from the nineteenth century, wearing leggings, a striped tee, and my Chucks.
Because this is not a date.
And even if it were, this is what I look like. I’m not dolling myself up for a casual date at some guy’s house. Though, again, this is not a date. And it’s not some guy, it’s Ty. I’m just a student he’s tutoring and therefore has to put up with. And he’s just the guy tutoring me, and whose moody ass I deal with three days a week. Ok, he’s chilled out a little recently, but still. That’s no reason for me to get all dolled up.
College is a little weird to me this way. In some respects, people dress way more casually than high school. I think half the student body wears pajama pants on the daily and hoodies are kind of a uniform. But when it comes to going out? Suddenly, these sleepy, schleppy college kids turn themselves into Instagram models. Swear to God, I thought there was a tarantula infestation in our bathroom one morning before I was fully awake. I almost passed out cold while brushing my teeth. Turned out, it was just Mel’s fake lashes.
I’m pretty low-maintenance, as far as that stuff goes. Mel wanted the room with the bigger closet, and I wanted the room with the best light. We might be total opposites, but we’re pretty damn compatible, so that’s good. I’m not sure I’d have survived college life without her and Ian. They’ve become my support system and I haven’t had that for so long.
One thing’s for sure. Mel and Ian wouldn’t approve of me loitering on the front step, debating about ringing the doorbell, and half-afraid it’s going to belt out some Wagnerian chords, signifying my impending doom.
Just as I gather my courage, the door opens and there stands Ty.
Good grief, he’s gorgeous.
Like front-cover-of-a-romance-novel hot. And I’ve only ever seen him fully clothed.
And I only ever will becausethis is not a date.Just because Ty and I have declared a truce of sorts, and just because we’re friends, does not mean this is a date.
“Hey, you want to come in?” he asks with a voice that, honestly, narrates my daydreams.
“Oh, um, yea.” Way to play it cool, Phoebe...
“For a second there, I was afraid you were going to bolt,” he tells me.
“How did you--”
We walk inside and he points up to the door frame. “There are security cameras around the perimeter.”
My eyes go wide.
