Will: If you know what I mean…
Will: (And if you don’t know what I mean, I mean sex. We could finally have sex. I am completely ready for sex).
Mel: OMG. You are too much. Of course I knew what you meant.
Mel: It’s all you talk about.
Mel:Well, sex and hockey.
Mel:And I’m only waiting out of respect for you. If you want to save yourself for your first real girlfriend or something, well, that’s your choice. (And okay, “saving yourself” sounds creepy when I type it, but you know what I mean). I want to take things slow—go at your pace.
Will:If we were going at my pace, we’d have had sex nineteen times already.
Will: Leaving now. See you in 5.
I smile as I pocket my phone and clock out. Cammie’s supposed to work tonight, but I doubt she’s coming in. I’m thinking Theo’s right and they might shut campus down soon. I say goodbye to everyone and head out into the downpour when I see Will’s taillights. I pull my hood over my head, grab the cargo I carefully wrapped in trash bags, and make a run for it.Will’s car is about twenty feet from the door, but I’m drenched by the time I get inside. He is, too. This rain is no joke.
“You are a lifesaver,” I tell him, leaning across the console for a quick kiss. And yes, I knowwe don’t need to kiss right now—there’s no one watching us and he’s definitely passed that level of intimacy with flying colors. But the truth is, I like kissing Will. And I like being his girlfriend. His fake girlfriend. Honestly, I probably like it more than I should, but since there’s a built-in expiration date, I’m telling myself to enjoy it while it lasts.
“No problem,” he says, returning my kiss and giving me another.
“Seriously. It’s bad out here, and I’m so sorry I dragged you out. I could have walked home, but I knew my project would be ruined. And I have to finish it by Monday.”
We stop at a red light and Will looks at me. “You could not have walked in this. It’s like a freaking waterfall. Besides, the guys let it slip to my mom that I’m seeing someone. She’s over the moon and I’m apologizing in advance. So, if you were swept away by a rainstorm and I did nothing to stop it, I’m one hundred percent sure my mother would never speak to me again.”
“But she hasn’t even met me,” I reason, and Will only shrugs.
“Doesn’t matter. You chose me, so you have perfect taste. I’m happy, so you’re automatically her favorite person.”
Briefly, I wonder what his mom would think if she knew this was all fake, but I don’t have long to ponder because soon we’re pulling up in front of my place.
“Here, take my keys. I’ve got to carry this,” I say, pointing to the sopping mound of trash bags in my lap.
“Yeah, what is that anyway? Are you taking art or something?”
“It’s my yarn,” I tell him.
“Your yarn? But you don’t knit.”
“Of course, I don’t knit. I crochet,” I say, opening my door and dashing out, just as Will does the same. We sprint across the yard, and thankfully, Will has the door open just when I make it to the front step.
We walk up to the third floor where Will starts peeling off layers. I pull off my wet sweatshirt, grab some towels from the bathroom, and then start unwrapping my precious cargo. I get down to the last layer to find the yarn is perfectly dry. “Thank freaking god,” I say, totally relieved.
Will—a glorious, shirtless Will—looks at me strangely. “I didn’t know you could crochet,” he says.
“I couldn’t, but I’m learning,” I tell him, putting on a pot of coffee. “Glenna and Dorcas are crocheting blankets for hospital patients, but they’re on a tight deadline, and Judith is in Florida with her grandkids, so she’s no help at all.”
“Glenna and Dorcas?”
“They’re regulars at the senior center. I mostly shadow in the back office, but they’re so short-handed that I’ve started helping with small projects, one of which is the Hookers.”
Will drops the towel he’s been using to dry his torso.
“Glenna and Dorcas are hookers? And they…uh…hook at the senior center? I mean, good for them, everybody needs a job, but um…”
I can’t help it. I bust up laughing. “Oh my god,” I tell him between bouts of laughter. “The look on your face. They’re not hookers as in prostitutes, not that there's anything wrong with that. They’re hookers as in crocheters. You know, like crochet hooks?”
“Oh,” he says, realization dawning. “That’s probably a lot safer. I mean, I’m not tryna be an asshole, but they should be careful. One wild move in the bedroom and one of them could break a hip. I’m only guessing, of course, seeing how I’ve never actually had sex…” he says, drawing the word out and wiggling his eyebrows.
