Page 101 of Holidating
I hung up the phone and spun around. “Okay. Last call, here.Are you sure this dress doesn’t look slutty?” My fingers worried the fabric between my breasts.
Gently, Katie swatted my hand away. “First of all, we don’t use the word ‘slutty’ when referring to ourselves. And that dress lookssexyas all hell. In the best possible way. I hope your basketball player brought a hankie to wipe up his own drool.” She got up off the bed and turned me around by the shoulders, so that I was facing the mirror again. “The dress is navy blue, K1. It’s an anti-slut color. And the contrast with your hair is just awesome. Use your eyes, babe.”
“Thanks,” I whispered, trying to see things her way. The dress I’d chosen was cut in a halter style. Until tonight, I hadn’t ever stopped to wonder why we were dressing up for this weeknight party, where charity work was supposed to happen, too. But sorority girls, I’d discovered, were always looking for an excuse to get dolled up.
Yet when guys were around (which was always) we were supposed to be grateful if they’d worn khakis instead of sweats, and a button-down instead of a faded Harkness t-shirt. In fact, if they wore their baseball caps frontwards instead of backwards, that was dressy.
Double standard, much?
I dabbed the eyeshadow applicator into the silver shadow and skimmed it across one eyelid and then the other.
Once more I squinted critically at the girl in the mirror. The dress showed a lot of shoulder. But it wasn’t too short, which was important. I needed to be able to bend over tonight without giving anyone a show. And the halter top had just enough coverage that I wouldn’t expose my cleavage if I leaned forward.
“You look great. Now go,” Katie prompted, swatting me on the rear. She gave me a smile in the mirror and slipped out of my room.
I slipped my feet into my most authoritative shoes — black suede Prada pumps with a three-inch heel. Then I took one last look in the mirror. Katie had been right. This dress was perfect. It was sexy without showing off. And my hair looked fabulous, and the jewelry was subtle.
Fine. I lookedfine.Not slutty. I stood there a little longer, willing myself to believe it.
Usually I didn’t think so hard about these things. Ilikedto looksexy. And, to be perfectly blunt, I liked sex. A lot. I’d never been afraid to admit that to myself. Not until last week, anyway.
For the most part, coming to Harkness — and getting out from under my conservative parents’ roof — had been liberating in all the best ways. In high school, sex had to be sneaky. It’s hard to get your freak on when you’re listening for footsteps outside your bedroom door. Or — God forbid — in the backseat of your boyfriend’s little BMW convertible.
At Harkness, sexy times weren’t so fraught. And although I’d had to train my roommate Scarlet to watch out for the bandanna on the doorknob of our room, the logistics were a lot easier.
For the first two months of the semester, I’d had a blast. In September, I’d dated a freshman tight end. He had an eight-pack like you read about and gorgeous, muscular thighs. But he wasn’t much of a conversationalist, so I’d had to let him go. Then there was Dash, who I should probably start calling The Fullback Who Shall Not be Named. He was another freshman with lickable abs. But I broke up with him in November, because he wasn’t very nice to me when we had our clotheson.
I’d meant to take a break from football players after that. After all, it was hockey season now. And in the spring there would be lean, muscular lacrosse players to cheer for and party with.
But then a week ago I’d run into Dash again. And I’d done something so incredibly stupid that the humiliation was going to follow me to my grave. A few stupid hours had turned me into someone who second-guessed her wardrobe, her makeup, her life choices…
My phone buzzed with a text.Evening! I’m downstairs in your courtyard. Andy B.
Be right down, I replied. It was sort of cute that he’d added his last initial, as if I might have forgotten who I’d invited to this little party. Andy Baschnagel was a basketball player. I didn’t, as a rule, do basketball players. The sport just wasn’t sexy to me. Those long baggy shorts and even longer arms? Eh. Maybe if I went to Duke or Michigan, I’d understand the appeal.
Anyway, I hadn’t invited Andy B. to this party because he was a basketball player. I’d done it because he wasn’t an asshole (I hoped). And because I’d pledged Tri Psi and could not show up at one oftheir events without a date. And for extra points, he had to be A) an athlete and B) an upperclassman. With Andy, I could check both of those boxes.
No matter that I was suddenly having trouble remembering why I cared about checking those boxes. It was too late to wonder about that now. I had a party to survive, and a guy waiting downstairs. It wasn’t his fault that I would rather hide under the bed than face the people at this party. And I’d absorbed at leastsomeof the ladylike manners my very proper mother had taught me.
It was time to march down there and make the best of it.
When I reached the courtyard, Andy was standing there texting someone, a smile on his face.
He looked friendly enough. And he was pretty cute for a skinny guy. But still, all that attention to his phone was not an auspicious sign. I was sick of guys who spent the whole evening texting their buddies, calculating everyone’s odds of getting some action later.
“Hi,” I said carefully. He still hadn’t noticed me.
His head jerked up, his face guilty. “Sorry. Hi.” He offered me his hand to shake. “I’m Andy.”
For a second, I didn’t step forward. I mean… what guy under forty shakes hands like that? Recovering myself, I took his hand, which was warm even on this cold night. “Hi. I’m Katie.”
“I know,” he smiled. Then he shoved his phone into his pocket even though it chimed with an incoming text.
“Don’t you have to get that?” I asked. It was a little bitchy of me, honestly. But I needed to know what I was going to be dealing with.
“Nah,” he said. “She can stuff it.”
“Who can?” I couldn’t help but ask, even as his phone rang in his pocket.
