“You're joking, but I just might. As long as they don’t want me to quilt or sew or bake anything. But hanging out, playing Bingo, and swapping gossip, I can do.”
Josie stares at me. “Won’t you just be there to balance the books? Or watch someone else do it?”
“Yes, but you know me, I’m social. I’ll probably take my lunch break and hang with the regulars, unless they shun me because I can’t crochet.”
“Even if they do,” Josie says, “I’ll still love you.”
“That’s good to know,” I tell her, tossing my trash in a nearby wastebasket. “Do you love me enough to go to the bachelor auction this weekend, by chance?” I aim for casual because I know Josie, and that is not her scene. But I have to go, and I know she’d have a good time if I dragged her along. But I also know what happened the last time I dragged her to something the hockey team was hosting.
“A bachelor auction? What is—oh wait, isn’t the hockey team doing that as a charity fundraiser? Some of the other staffers were talking about it,” she says, toying with a loose string on her cardigan. She wants to seem unaffected, but I know she isn’t.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “That’s why I’m going. Ian can’t make it, so I’m his proxy, and my job is to bet on Booker. Come with me, Jos. We’ll have fun—I promise.”
Josie looks at me like I’ve lost my mind—or like I don’t remember that party we both went to at the hockey house a few years back. I do, though.
Josie tugs at the string a little harder, and it comes loose, revealing a tiny little hole in her cardigan. “Watch a bunch of athletes strut around on stage looking for dates? That’s not my idea of a good time. I’d rather shelve books, honestly.”
Is she for real right now? “Josie,” I say, my exasperation clear.
“Mel,” she mirrors right back.
“Just come with me. We’ll have fun. You might not even see—”
“I won’t see him,” she says definitively, “because I’m not going.”
“Jos, it’s been three years.”
“Two years, ten months, and five days,” she tells me. “I know exactly how long it’s been, Mel. And I can’t go.”
“Josie, you’re killing me. I understand heartache—I really do. But you can’t avoid him forever.”
“I can, actually. And it’s not heartache. We didn’t last long enough for that,” she says, though I know she’s lying. “Like you said, it’s been nearly three years since we’ve spoken. We’ve seen each other, sure, but we’re both quick to look the other way. He probably wants to forget me as much as I want to forget him. We have nothing in common. We never should have… Anyway, just listen to what I’m saying. He stays on his side of campus, and I stay on mine. And it works, ok? Look, Mel, I know you—you’re a social creature. But I’m not. And the idea of going to that bachelor auction makes me break out in a cold sweat. I just can’t do it.”
“I get it,” I tell her, smiling gently. Now I know what Ian must’ve gone through trying to convince me that Chaz was bad news. No matter how much I want Josie to bury the past with the only guy she’s ever fallen for, it’s not going to happen unless she wants it to. “No more pressure, I promise.”
“You know what? You should ask Phoebe. She’d probably love to go.”
“She’s too busy with wedding plans. Honestly, it blows my mind that she’s getting married. Don’t get me wrong—she and Ty are perfect for each other, and I’m so happy for them—but it’s crazy how fast life goes. I can’t believe that we’re almost done with school.”
“Speak for yourself,” Josie says, laughing. “I’ve got another year and a half.”
“Don’t even try to pretend you don’t love it,” I tell her, glad we’ve moved on to a more neutral topic. I still think she’s being ridiculous, but it's not really my place to push her. Josie got her heart crushed, but I know there’s more to the story. I know they’d both be a lot happier if they were forced to figure their shit out. But I guess I wouldn’t want anyone to meddle in my love life, so I should stay out of Josie’s.
And she probably would rather shelve books than bid on cute guys.Josie is one of those book- smart people. She’s just really good at school, and she enjoys it. Me? Not so much. I always do well in my classes, but I just don’t have the thirst for knowledge that she does. For me, classes are more a means to an end, and that end is a career in a bustling city—a place where things are constantly happening. Maybe then, with so much going on, I can move past the shame and regret of everything that happened with Chaz. In a big city, I’ll blend in and get wrapped up in my work. I’ll meet new people and I’ll just be Mel. I won’t be the girl who was so dumb she slept with her married professor. Granted, very few people here know how serious things got with Chaz. It was smarter for both of us to keep our relationship quiet—me, because I didn’t want the stigma attached to dating a man whose class I was in. And Chaz? Well, he definitely needed to keep things quiet, seeing as how he was leading a double life.
But I can’t think about him now. I’ve wasted way too much time and energy on Chaz Ashman. My focus is going to be on getting through this semester unscathed. After all the shit I had to deal with last year, I feel like the universe owes me an uneventful semester. Is that so much to ask?
9
Will
The bachelor auction is in full swing, and I’m not wearing a tux. None of us are, but honestly, a tux would be way better than what they’ve got us in. Somebody decided that the theme should be Under the Sea,so we’re all wearing trunks. And ok, I can’t say I mind that.I work hard in the gym and on the ice, so I’ll flaunt my muscles if it brings in money for charity. That’s what I signed up for after all. What I didn’t sign up for was the teensy-tiny swim trunks I’m wearing. I am in serious danger of dying from a lack of oxygen flow to my dick. And though I’m not the only one dressed for the beach, I’m the only one wearing trunks fit for a twelve-year-old. All the freshmen from the three participating sports teams are wearingfloaties and sun hats and swim trunks. We’re even doing a little choreographed number. But somebody messed up somewhere because these shorts are about four sizes too small. The fabric clings to my thighs like Saran Wrap and everything the good lord gave me is on display, shrink wrapped like a sausage at the grocery store.
Hockey players are notorious pranksters, and I love a good joke, even if I am the butt of it, no pun intended. But I like my dick and balls a lot, and if I die of testicular strangulation before I lose my virginity, it’ll be a sad state of affairs.
In a desperate attempt at relief, I do the penguin shuffle over to Abbi, the girl who’s in charge.
She looks me up and down. “Hockey player, right?”
