“That’s just because it’s an historic home and all that.
“Good to know,” I say, looking for a place to put my bag.
He takes it and hangs it on a hook by the door, next to a Bainbridge hockey hoodie, and a bunch of keys that must belong to the vehicles outside.
“I’m such an asshole.” He shakes his head.
“Not always,” I say honestly.
“Who sayswelcome to my house, sorry about the surveillance cameras,” he deadpans.
I laugh. “Better I know now. Besides, it makes sense. This house is beautiful,” I say, looking around. “Is it part of the original campus?”
“Ah, she picks an easy topic! You want the full tour?”
I nod and joke, “You seem to be pretty good at tours.”
He laughs. “I’m not just a pretty face, Phoebe.”
And he’s not. He’s so, so much more than that. Which is why I remind myself for the forty-seventh time thatthis is not a date.
“Ok, so Booker is a way better man for this job, seeing as the house belongs to his family, but I think I’ll do a decent job of giving you the rundown. This house was originally the home of the college’s founder and pastor, Willard Bainbridge. He was my roommate, Booker’s great, great, great grandfather.”
“So, from this point back to the front door, that’s all the original house. In the '90s, Booker’s grandpa added the rest of this so his daughter, Booker’s mom, Kim, and her friends could live here. Before that, it was the house of the dean.”
“This is where we hang out, mostly,” he says, pointing to a great room that boasts more square footage than the entirety of my mom’s house. There’s a TV that looks more like a movie screen, a foosball table, a pool table, and a wall of-- “Wait, is that whole wall for darts?”
“Yea. Whit put so many holes in the wall that we decided to pad it and dedicate that space solely to darts. You know, kind of like you’d paint a chalk wall for a toddler.”
“Hey.” I shove him playfully. And oh, Lord, but I forgot how magnetic his touch is. “I happen to have a chalk wall in my room back home.”
“Of course you do. You’re an artist. That makes sense. Whit’s a communications major with terrible aim.”
“Fair enough.” We walk farther into the house, and it feels like it goes on forever.
“To the left is the formal dining room, but we never use it. In fact, yep,” he peeks around the corner, “right now it’s storage space for Whit’s deejay stuff.”
“He’s a deejay?”
“And a rapper. Ok, not really, but--”
I can’t help but smile. “I got you and yourFresh Princereference. You’re talking to a girl who was raised on '90s TV.”
“Really?”
I give him a look. “Where do you think the name Phoebe comes from?”
“You’re kidding me. That’s freaking awesome. My name is much less cool.”
“Ty? I’m pretty sure that’s a standard-issue early 2000’s name.”
“True, but that’s not my name.”
“Then what is your name?”
“Uh-uh. I’m not telling unless you give up your middle name. Please, god, tell me it’s Rachel.”
“Ha ha! No, my mom didn’t double up on shows.”
