Page 32 of Personal Foul

He has the audacity to look affronted. “What? Why not? I already told you I’d make it good for you. And we’re dating anyway. Might as well get all the benefits of it. And would you please sit down?” He smacks the cushion beside him again to punctuate the last two words.

Laughing, because he’s ridiculous, I settle on the opposite end of the sofa and place my glass on the black tile coaster on the side table next to me. “Okay, let’s unpack all of that, shall we? A—we’re not dating. We’repretendingto date. That’s a big distinction. And even if we were, we’ve been ononedate. What makes you think I’d put out already?”

He sips his beer as he listens to me. “Well, since you haven’t put out for anyone, it’s not like you have a three-date rule or some shit.”

Exasperated, I sigh. “And that’s the other really big reason you can’t ‘pop my cherry,’ as you so crassly put it. I told you. I’m not a virgin. This is not uncharted territory. You wouldn’t be my first, so I don’t need someone to give me a good first time story. I already have one.”

His eyes narrow again, and he makes an expansive gesture of invitation. “Oh yeah? Then let’s hear it.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Dylan

She scoffs and looks away, like she’s not going to tell me. But I have a feeling that if I keep my mouth shut, she won’t be able to help but tell me.

At this point, I believe her. I didn’t at first. She’s kind of a liar, after all, especially when it comes to saving face.

But her repeated insistence, even after I said I wouldn’t have a problem with her being a virgin, makes me think she might be telling the truth. Well, it makes me willing to hear if her story sounds plausible at least.

She’s also repeatedly insisted that she won’t sleep with me, but I’m less convinced about that. Maybe it makes me a cocky douchebag, but I don’t usually have trouble with women playing hard to get for too long.

She sips her water and glances at me, then away, then back at me, then away again. Her cheeks flaming, she tucks a phantom hair behind her ear. “It was freshman year here,” she says to the wall. “We dated for part of second semester.”

I wait a bit, but it seems that’s all she’s going to volunteer. “What was his name?”

A glance my way, then she refocuses on the wall. “Josh.”

“Josh what?”

A pointed look, because she realizes what I’m doing. “Josh Coleman. He’s a theatre major. Or at least he was when we dated.”

“He’s not anymore?”

She shrugs. “I would assume so, but people change their minds sometimes. We broke up over spring break, and I haven’t really talked to him since. We had freshman English together, and once we broke up, we mutually pretended the other didn’t exist for the most part. After that, our schedules didn’t align, so …” She shrugs again as she trails off.

“Why’d you break up?”

Rolling her eyes again, she pulls her feet up next to her and grabs one of my throw pillows, pulling it into her lap. “Why are you interrogating me about a relationship my freshman year?”

It’s my turn to shrug. “I’m curious. Did you break up with him, or did he break up with you?”

She picks at fuzz on the pillow. “He broke up with me,” she says softly. “Said our relationship was too much, too soon. That he needed to focus on his career.”

I can’t help scoffing. “And you call me pretentious. What kind of career does a nineteen-year-old theatre major really have?”

Chuckling, she meets my eyes. “Right?” I like it when she’s relaxed enough to laugh with me. And when she dishes shit back to me when I’m teasing her. It’s fun.

“But it can’t have been all bad,” I observe. “You gave him your V card, after all. Did he scatter rose petals over your bed and all that kind of romantic shit?” She seems like the type of girl who’d want that, especially for her first time.

She laughs again. “No. Why? Is that what you would do?”

“Pshh. No. Not for a hookup anyway, which is what we would be. No need for romance there.” I hold up a finger. “Not that that means I skimp on the satisfaction, though. For either party. Mutual pleasure doesn’t necessitate all the romantic accessories, in my opinion.”

She runs her hand over the pillow, watching the nap change directions. “Yeah,” she says quietly, her face almost sad. “You’re probably right. It’s nice sometimes, though.”

Humming, I nod. “I can see that. In the right context, with the right person, it would be. It would be super weird if I bought you roses and scattered petals all over my house, though.”

That makes her laugh, which was my goal, breaking her out of the melancholy I’d inadvertently brought over her. “Especially since I’d be the one cleaning them up after.”

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