The Locker Room(17)

“Ealson, nice try. You’re coming to the party. I expect you there.”

I prop a hand on my hip. “Oh, so because you expect me there, that means I have to be there?”

“No, but as a friend, it would be nice if you were there.”

“I’m your friend now? When did that happen?”

He sighs and grips my shoulders. “Why are you so difficult?”

“Why are you so sure of yourself? You don’t always get what you want, Knox.”

“Clearly.” He pushes his hand through his hair, his forearm rippling from frustration. “How about this, we grab something to eat before the party and if you decide you want to come after that, then you can.”

“Soo . . . now you’re doubling down on the time you want me to spend with you?”

He smirks. “Is that so much of a hardship?”

“Yes,” I answer sharply and make my way around him. It’s not actually hard to spend time with him, but I’m really not interested in his pursuit of me. I refuse to put a man like him on my radar. Nada. Nope. Although, he is fun to tease.

“Come on, Ealson. Say you’ll come.”

I turn around and smile. “And here I thought you were the type of guy who’d tell me when I can come.” I shrug as his jaw drops to the pavement. “Oh well. Catch you later, Gentry.”





Chapter Seven





EMORY





Whap. Whap.

Lindsay’s fist pounds against my door. “Four hours and counting. Finish up that studying, because you’re going with us whether you like it or not.” She’s been relentless all day.

I rub my hand across my forehead and lean back in my chair, my eyes going blurry from all the words I’ve read and highlighted and then rewritten in my notebook . . . because that’s the kind of studier I am. I can’t simply read it and highlight. I have to rewrite it, sometimes twice, for it to become engrained in my head. I go through notebooks like crazy from all the rewriting, but it’s the only way I know how to learn.

And typing doesn’t work. I have to physically write it in order for it to absorb.

It’s why my hand has a cramp right now.

I’ve been studying since nine this morning. After we stumbled out of the dining hall fresh from breakfast, I locked myself in my room and cracked open my books. I took a small break when Dottie—the good friend she is—brought me some cheddar broccoli soup for lunch. Now that it’s five, my stomach is grumbling, and I’m ready to take another break.

Since I haven’t showered yet—yeah, it’s been one of those days—I’ve allotted my study time to stop sharply at seven, but now I might be rethinking that. My mind is mush.

I need a mindless second.

Cue goat videos . . .

I pop open my computer and log in to the school chat system. Too lazy to grab my phone from my bed, I send Dottie a quick message before I open YouTube.

Emory: Dinner, what’s on the menu?

Because she’s always glued to her computer when studying, she answers right away.

Dottie: Pizza is coming. Daddy dearest called earlier. Spent an hour on the phone with him. He told me all about this pizza he wants us to try so he’s having it delivered.

Emory: Remind me to send him a thank-you card.

Dottie: You know he already knows you’re thankful.

Emory: Still. It’s nice to say thank you. Let me know when it arrives. I’ll study some more until then. P.S. Please tell me he ordered grape soda to go with it.

Dottie: He isn’t the best father in the world for no reason. Of course he got grape soda. Don’t doubt the man.

Emory: Never will again. Knock on my door when it’s here.

I go to shut my chat box, pizza and grape soda waiting for me just around the corner, when a new chat screen pops up.

I catch the name right before I am about to exit out and pause.

Knox Gentry.

What is he doing messaging me?

Because the school wants students to experience what it’s like to live and breathe in a community atmosphere, they allow any student to contact another through the chat system, but the chat has to be accepted first.

Since I’ve never messaged with Knox before, I only have the choice to accept his chat or not. No preview to what he’s said. Damn it.

I chew on my bottom lip, contemplating what I should do. More studying, or finding out what he wants.

Hell, I already know what he wants: me to show up at his party for some odd reason. I’m curious to see what other tactics he has to get me to come.

Not that he needs to, as I’m already going, thanks to Lindsay and Dottie, but he doesn’t need to know that. I’ve watched a lot of goat videos recently, so maybe I should take a small break and have a little fun.

I earned it.

I click to accept his message as I place one of my feet on my chair. Time to get comfortable. I push my blue-light blocking glasses back on my nose and read what poetic diatribe I’ve received. From our past interactions and arguments, I’m sure it will be good.

Knox: Yo.

Oh wow . . . how prolific.

I chuckle, wondering what I was thinking, as if he was going to open with recited poetry or something. He is a “horny college student” after all—his words, not mine.