Why am I even hesitating?
Because sharing the intimate details of your life with forty-thousand strangers is no joke.
It’s never stopped me before.
I’ve written about embarrassing moments. Failed hookups. AwkwardI-wouldn’t-believe-it-if-it-hadn’t-happened-to-meencounters of the humiliating variety.
This feels different. For the first time, I’m not sure I want to share my story. I want to keep my night with Cooper for myself.
Because it was your first time or because you’re catching feelings?
I stiffen. The former, obviously.
Even I’m not foolish enough to fall for a guy who thinks commitment is a four-letter word.
Coop doesn’t do relationships. Until two nights ago, he’d never even invited a woman over.
When he confessed as much, I’d thought it was a line. That he was telling me what he thought I wanted to hear.
Sunday morning’s inquisition proved me wrong.
The way his roommates grilled me would’ve been comical if it had happened to someone else.
Which is pretty much my entire brand.
Still, I can’t deny I’m flattered he made an exception for me.
Despite Coop’s reputation, he’s not the obnoxious player he pretends to be. Under all the swagger and sarcasm, he’s got a big heart. One he clearly feels the need to hide behind that infuriating smirk.
The realization fills my chest with warmth.
Because we’re friends. Not because I’m falling for him.
That’s a one-way road to heartbreak.
Which is why my time is better spent focusing on my term paper for Call-Me-David. Now that I’ve dealt with the pesky problem of my virginity, I can turn my full attention to not failing Creative Nonfiction.
Wishful thinking, sis.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t change the fact that I have five weeks to write a twenty-page essay on a lesson or experience that shaped me in some way.
I scrape my hair into a ponytail and secure it with a scrunchie from the nightstand.
There has to be something I can write about.
Like having sex for the first time?
I bite my lip. It’s been done before, and it’ll be done again, but could I actually do it? I’m not sure I could look Call-Me-David in the eye afterward. Not when my name will be printed at the top of the paper.
Then again, it’s not like I’ve got a lot of other options.
Ugh.Why did I ever think it was a good idea to sign up for this class?
Because you enjoy writing and virtually every degree you’ve considered requires it.
I huff out a breath. I hate it when my subconscious is the voice of reason.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text, and, grateful for the distraction, I grab it off the nightstand.
