Page 96 of Changing the Playbook
For a moment, he just stares. Then he surges forward, capturing my mouth in a kiss that tastes like promises and possibility and every rom-com cliché I’ve mocked. When we break apart, we’re both gasping.
Heat creeps up my neck thinking about what we just did. “We should probably talk about this. Figure out what we’re?—”
“Sophie?”
“Yeah?”
“Stop thinking.”
And for once in my life, I do.
twenty-seven
SOPHIE
The morning rushat Campus Grind hits me—heat from espresso steam mixing with chill from the constantly opening door, bitter coffee grounds and vanilla syrup creating that particular smell of desperation and hope that defines college mornings.
For the first time since I moved here, it feels like home.
And it’s got nothing to do with coffee and all to do with Mike.
The line snakes almost to the door, everyone clutching phones and looking ready to commit coffee-related crimes. I bounce on my toes, my own phone burning a hole in my pocket, but for once, I’m not checking on my mom’s vitals or Hazel’s schedule. Instead, I’m wondering if Mike’s awake yet. He had?—
“OK, what is happening with your face?” Maya’s voice slices through my thoughts.
My eyes narrow. “What about my face?”
“It’s doing this…” She waves her hand vaguely at me. “You’re all glowy and weird.”
Maya stares at me for so long that when the line moves forward, she doesn’t budge. I can feel her cataloging me like she’s triaging a particularly difficult patient, deciding whetheranythingcan be saved. Then her mouth drops open in a dramatic gasp that turns several heads.
“Oh my God. You’rehappy. Like, genuinely happy. Not drunk-happy or I-just-aced-an-exam happy. This is…” Her voice rises to a squeal. “This is sex happy!”
“Maya!” I hiss, grabbing her arm, even as the guy in front of us swivels around with obvious interest.
“Don’t ‘Maya’ me. You’re floating around all…” She gestures wildly. “Even your hair looks different. Bouncier. That’s definitely sex hair.”
“My hair is not?—”
“It’s totally sex hair.” She grips my shoulders, practically vibrating. “Did you finally stop overthinking and jump that beautiful hockey boy’s bones again?”
The interested guy gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. I glare until he turns around, but my face keeps betraying me with this stupid smile I can’t control. I want to sink through the scuffed linoleum floor.
But also…
I want to tell her everything. Because for the first time in forever, I have something good to share. Something that isn’t about medication schedules or an eight-year-old’s activities or my crushing course load. It’s something that’s just mine.
“Fine,” I mutter, the word tasting strange and sweet. “Yes, Mike and I are together.”
Maya’s squeal could shatter windows. “I KNEW IT! When? How? Details! Is he as good as he looks? Because he looks like he’d be really?—”
“We’re next,” I interrupt desperately, pushing her toward the counter, where a bleary-eyed student is waiting to take our order.
But as we order—my usual diabetes-inducing coffee plus a black one for Dad—the smile creeps back, because Maya’s right. Iamstupidly, ridiculously, terrifyingly happy.
“I need all the details,” Maya demands again as we wait, clearly not falling for my deception and avoidance routine. “When did this happen?”
“Saturday.” I lean against the pickup counter, the fake marble cool under my palms. “He spent the day with Hazel and me.”
