Page 41 of Becoming Us
He blinked. “What is?”
“Having feelings for your straight friend.”
He huffed again. “I don’t have?—”
“I won’t tell anyone. Promise. Not even Holly,” I added quickly.
He pressed his lips together, eyes flicking away, then gave me the faintest tilt of his head. “Whatever.”
At least we had that in common. Ezra Tate could dish it out—but when it came to his own baggage, he kept it padlocked.
“So.” I gestured toward the living room. “Do you want to give sleep a shot, or crack open a bag of chips and play something?”
Ezra glanced at me, then grinned wide. “You’re on.”
“Second drawer to your left. Grab a couple. I’m feeling overindulgent tonight,” I said, hopping on my good leg toward the couch.
“Salt and vinegar?”
“Whatever,” I called back, setting up the console.
He flopped down next to me and tossed over a bag. I hesitated, then gave in. I’d already demolished the ice cream—restraint felt kind of pointless now. I tore the bag open and stuffed a handful in my mouth.
“For a rich kid, your manners are shot,” Ezra joked, yanking the bag to steal a handful. The loud crunch echoed through the room.
I laughed, accidentally spraying a few crumbs. My chest felt lighter than it had in weeks. If I’d somehow managed to win Ezra Tate over, maybe things weren’t so bad after all.
The next morning, I hobbled to class, surprisingly optimistic about life. Sure, I had an ankle brace that would be strapped on for the next two weeks, and I’d only managed a couple hours of sleep, but after everything that had happened last night, it felt like I’d genuinely turned a new leaf.
Jaz had shown up early, and watching Ezra fumble around her had been entertaining—for about five seconds. Then she had clocked him as another Miami boy, and they had launched into a rapid-fire Spanish exchange, leaving me completely out of the conversation. Still, it had been nice to see.
Ezra wasn’t always a dick. He had even given me a ride to campus in my car before heading off to pick up Atty for work.
With my busted foot, I couldn’t drive, so it looked like I’d be relying on them that week.
I made it to class on time and dropped into my seat—less than gracefully—setting my bag down on the circular table. Summer courses were usually light on students, and this one had maybe ten. I was feeling good. Optimistic. Ready for whatever curveball the universe might toss next.
Then I looked up.
Across the table, a pair of blue eyes locked onto mine. They widened slightly, just as surprised as I was.
The universe had to be kidding.
In an instant, all that good energy evaporated as I stared straight at Mathew fucking Davis.
Mathew fucking Davis was sitting across from me.
Mathew fucking Davis was sitting across from me because he was in my class.
Mathew the-guy-Atty-had-had-sex-with Davis was sitting across from me because he was in my class, and I would have to see his face every other day for the next three months.
What were the fucking odds?
CHAPTER
SIX
BEFORE
