Page 82 of Faux Real
“Bye,” I sigh, hanging up.
“What was that about?” Oliver asks, a slight frown on his face. “You okay?”
“I was supposed to go to DC for Thanksgiving, but my dad has to work,” I say, letting out a groan. “Shit, Max is going to visit her family, I can’t even stay with her. This sucks.”
“You can always stay on campus,” Ollie says with a casual shrug. “I’ll be here.”
“You’re not going to your aunt’s?”
“Not if I can help it,” he scoffs. “I’d much rather be alone than with Bessie and her boyfriend, the man makes protein powder. A total Chad.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “If you wanted to hang out or something, I suppose I could clear my incredibly busy schedule for you.”
“Oh, you’re too kind,” I say, suppressing a grin. “Well, I guess you’re not theworstperson to spend a national holiday with.”
“I’ll even get us a turkey dinner,” he says as we cross the street. “Cranberry sauce and everything.”
“You cook?”
He smirks. “No, but I UberEats like no other.”
I roll my eyes. “An invaluable skill.”
“Practice makes perfect,” he laughs. “So, you’re down? Orphan Thanksgiving?”
I snort. “As long as you buy real cranberry sauce, not the canned shit.”
Because like Ollie said, real is always better. I glance at him, sucking in a shallow breath.
Too bad real is not always real.
twenty-five
Chemical Reactions
OLIVER
“Comein!”Kennycallsout.
“Wow,” I snort as I walk into Kennedy’s dorm room, my gaze bouncing toward the shit ton of pillows sprawled on the floor.
This is the first time she’s let me see inside her girl cave and I must say, it’s exactly how I pictured it. Neat, organized, and spotless. Predictability often irks me, but with her? I like it.
“What’s with all the pillows, love?” I ask, setting the take-out bag of Thanksgiving food on her desk. “Do you plan on putting me into a turkey coma and then taking advantage of me?”
“No, I just figured we’d be more comfortable sitting on the floor and eating,” she mutters, removing the hot containers of food from the bag. “Did they pack utensils?” She peeks into the bag. “Ah, yes they did.”
“Since when is the floor more comfortable than a bed?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at her. She turns away from me. “Oh God, you’re worried about crumbs, aren’t you?”
She cranes her neck over her shoulder, a sheepish tight smile on her face. “Beds are for sleeping, not eating, okay?”
“Sometimes beds are fornotsleeping too,” I say, tossing her a wink as I plop down on the seven pillows and adjust my weight. “Well, this is uncomfortable. As your guest, I thought you’d be more hospitable.”
Kennedy rolls her eyes, passing me a couple of containers. “Something tells me you’re used to sleeping on floors,” she says with a knowing smirk. “I’m just trying to make you feelrightat home.”
I scoff, propping myself against Maxine’s bed. “You calling me a bum?”
“You said you crash in the basement of a bar, and I assume there are no beds down there.” Kennedy shrugs, sitting down across from me as she hands me a knife and fork. “Simple deduction.”
“Well, aren’t you just brilliant?” I muse, sticking my fork into a rather dry piece of meat. “Can I be honest with you?”
