The Score (Off-Campus #3)(23)
Stella fills the silence by barraging you with questions about your life. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s avoided discussing herself if she could help it. I guess that’s why it surprised me when she started dating Justin Kohl, the football player Hannah had a crush on before she fell for Garrett. Stella has openly admitted more than once that she’s afraid of intimacy.
The thought of Justin has me turning toward Hannah. “Hey, did Garrett ever own up to being wrong about Justin?”
She wrinkles her forehead. “Where did that come from?”
I grin. “Sorry. I was just thinking about Stella, and it reminded me of how Garrett was convinced that Justin had sinister motives. Didn’t he insist that Justin was a slimeball?”
“Yep.” She sits up with a laugh. “We actually talked about it a while back. I accused him of being subconsciously jealous of Justin.”
“Ha. I bet he loved that.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense, though. Justin is one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. But Garrett insists he just misread him.”
“Well, either way, I’m glad Justin turned out to be a good guy. Stella deserves to be happy.” I hear the wistful note in my voice and hope Hannah doesn’t pick up on it.
She does. “You deserve to be happy too. You know that, right?”
“I know.” I swallow the lump that rises in my throat.
Her green eyes take on a hesitant light. “Allie…do you regret breaking up with Sean?”
The lump gets bigger. It makes it hard to breathe, especially when I remember the agony in Sean’s voice when he’d asked me who I slept with.
“No,” I say finally. “I know it was the right decision. We wanted completely different things for our future, and it wasn’t something we could compromise on, not without one of us resenting the other.”
Hannah looks pensive. “Do you think you’re ready to start dating again?”
I shudder out a breath. “Nope, not even close.” But God, what I would like is a distraction. I’m tired of being sad. I’m tired of wondering how Sean is doing and fighting the urge to call him. I might not want to get back together, but I hate knowing that I hurt someone I care about. I have this terrible habit of wanting to make everyone happy, even if it means sacrificing my own happiness. My dad insists it’s an admirable quality, but sometimes I wish I were more selfish.
I guess I was selfish on Friday night, though. My rebound sex with Dean was all about satisfying my own base urges, and as guilty and embarrassed as I felt afterward, I can’t deny it was hella satisfying.
Shit. Maybe Dean’s right. Maybe we should hook up again.
“Maybe I need a fling,” I say aloud, just to test out the idea.
Hannah’s response is swift and scolding. “You tried that, remember? After you and Sean broke up the first couple times. You hated it.”
It’s true. I did hate it. “But I didn’t actually sleep with anyone,” I point out. “All I did was go on a bunch of crappy dates and make out with a few jerks. Maybe that was my mistake—actually dating those guys. Maybe this time I should pick a hot dude and bang his brains out for a few weeks. Just sex, no expectations.”
She snorts. “Good luck with that. We both know you can’t even make out with a guy without hearing relationship bells in your head.”
Also true.
And why am I even contemplating this? If this is how Hannah responds to me broaching the subject of a fling, I can just imagine what she’d say if I admitted I’m considering a fling with Dean. The guy is a player to the extreme. Not only is he not relationship material, but I doubt he could even commit to a fling. I can’t see him being exclusive to me, which is absolutely non-negotiable, because there’s no way I’m sleeping with someone who’s also sleeping with other people.
Yeah…I need to nip this Dean idea in the bud. I don’t know why he’s so eager to jump into bed with me again, but I’m confident he’ll get over it eventually. The guy has the attention span of a fruit fly, and the affection-giving habits of a puppy, offering his sexual devotion to whoever happens to be holding the treat. By which I mean the vagina.
As I return to my senses, I change the subject. “Hey, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Garrett and I are going to my aunt and uncle’s place in Philly. My parents are flying in and meeting us there.”
“Nice. Sounds like fun.”
“You’ll be in Brooklyn, right?”
I nod. I spend every holiday in Brooklyn with my dad. I always look forward to seeing him, but this year I’m a tad worried because the last time we spoke, he insisted on cooking Thanksgiving dinner himself.
Usually I’d be cheering over that announcement, because Dad happens to be the best cook on the planet. But since he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis five years ago, I’ve been doing my best to make sure he doesn’t push himself. The only reason I turned down a free ride to UCLA’s drama program was so I could remain within driving distance of him. The man is so damn stubborn, insisting he doesn’t need help and that he can manage on his own, but I hadn’t felt comfortable moving to the opposite end of the country once his remission periods became few and far between.
Now I’m even more relieved I stayed on the east coast, because Dad’s condition has gotten progressively worse this past year.