Fool Me Twice Page 8

  I don’t miss the way Henley watches me with my family. Her cheeks sport a nice blush, one I’d like to see as I do wicked things to her with my mouth and fingers. There are questions in her expression as I hold Tyla on my hip, and I want to know what she sees when she looks at me like this.

  Just as quickly, she walks off. Part of me wishes she’d come over here, but how am I going to explain that one to my parents? Oh, this is the girl I fucked three times last night and damn was she incredible. Yeah, I think not.

  “Linc? Can we go grab pizza before we head home?” Dad asks in a tone that means he definitely already asked once.

  I shake my head to clear it. “Yeah, of course. But only if we get Hawaiian.”

  “That’s my favorite!” Brant’s smile is so wide, I can’t help but crack a smile of my own.

  “I know it is. Let’s do it.” I suggested that type of pie because I know he loves it.

  And these kids still have a hard time asking for simple things they want, because they’re so used to being denied or yelled at for being children. My little cousins deserve everything they want out of life, and if that means pineapple on pizza, then I’ll suffer through that.

  An hour later, the five of us have demolished three pies, Brant is playing on Mom’s phone, and Tyla is nearly asleep in Dad’s lap.

  “Any other news on the adoption front?” I lower my voice so that the kids don’t hear.

  Dad shakes his head. “We don’t have another hearing for a month, but I have to submit the application for another six months of temporary guardianship this week. And then in two weeks, Cheryl gets her first supervised visit.”

  “I’m so nervous I could just be sick.” Mom rubs her chin, her eyes darting around.

  I lay a hand over hers. “It’s going to be fine. If it’s supervised, there is nothing that could happen.”

  I don’t say what we’re all really thinking. Of course, a million things could go wrong. She could not show up and completely disappoint the kids. She could take them somewhere, or ditch the supervision. She could say something to them to upset them, or … the list goes on and on.

  “Enough about this, though. How else is school going? Are your classes going well? Any girls we should know about?” Mom asks, because she can’t help herself.

  She doesn’t actually care if classes are going well, but I guess she does. But not in this instance. No, the whole point of her line of questioning was to ask if I have a girlfriend yet.

  “Jeanie, leave the boy alone. He’s playing the field,” Dad answers for me.

  I snort, because they’re both so old fashioned about the whole thing.

  “Not playing the field, and no girlfriend,” I tell them without elaborating.

  Because that’s not quite the truth, is it? I’m not playing the field, but I’m not dating. However, there was a girl in my room this morning that I was pleasantly surprised waking up to, and one I’d like to see again. That’s a big step, even if it’s small, for me. I’m typically not into repeat performances, but I just can’t get her out of my head.

  And now that I have Henley’s number, I made her give it to me before she scurried from my room, I could text her and ask her to celebrate my victory.

  Technically, the team didn’t win, but I did seeing as how they let me play a quarter.

  And I feel like celebrating with her naked body in my bed.

  16

  Henley

  It’s been a full five days since I watched Lincoln score a touchdown in his first college game, and I’ve successfully avoided him since that moment.

  See, I have to play the game. Guys my age don’t want a solid, committed, dependable girl. They don’t want a steady relationship, one that you can count on to remain steadfast without texting the other person five times every second.

  No, guys between the age of seventeen to twenty-four want drama and strife when it comes to sex and love. They want unpredictable ups and downs, a roller coaster of emotions and make up fucking. I’m convinced they want girls my age to be what they deem “crazy” because it makes it more fun for them.

  So, I’m being unreadable. The more I play hard to get, the more Lincoln is going to be drawn to me. We had mind-blowing sex and then I didn’t call him. I didn’t text him, or try to message him on social media. Although I saw him all over mine. Liking my photography pictures on Instagram, even sliding into my DMs.

  I haven’t responded to a single one. This is part of the plan, though I didn’t realize that my vagina would be so sorely disappointed about it. Once you feed the beast, it’s hard to go back. It had been a while since I’d had sex, and Lincoln gave it good food. Now, I want seconds, and I can’t have them.

  And then there is that intriguing scene I saw after the game. Lincoln with his parents, I know what they look like after Catherine made me social media stalk the guy for most of senior year. But who were those little kids hanging all over him? They were adorable, and seemed to worship him, which only serves to make him look like more of the golden boy that he is. They couldn’t be his kids … could they?

  No way, I laugh the idea off. There has to be another explanation. One I want to get, and I’m kicking myself about the self-imposed blackout on Lincoln.

  Another wave of guilt hits me unexpectedly, which seems to be happening a lot these days. I am not the type of girl who does something like this, but maybe this is what happens when your best friend dies. They say grief manifests itself in various ways, and maybe mine is turning into a vindictive bitch.

  Seducing someone only to break up with them seems so cruel, though I understand why Catherine put this on her list. She was humiliated.

  The hardest thing to cope with is that Lincoln seems nice. Sure, he’s cocky and he’s got that attitude that a person who has always been on top of the popular pyramid sports, but he’s … well, he acts like a good person. He’s never disrespected me or given me the impression that he’s rude or pushy with girls. He actually has a personality and can hold a conversation, unlike a lot of guys my age.

  It’s not for the first time, in the silence of my own room, that I wonder whether Catherine was only seeing one side of her breakup with Lincoln. Were her emotions so clouded by her diagnosis that she took his rejection as a bigger deal than it was?

  And that makes me feel even more guilty, that I’m choosing the side of the guy I’m sleeping with over my dead best friend. Catherine always put me first, even if I was wrong, and I should be doing the same.

  My textbook on famous photographers lays open on my bed when my cell phone ringing distracts me. I wasn’t really studying anyway, what with my fifth episode of One Tree Hill on “in the background.”

  “Hey, Mama,” I say when I pick up smiling.

  I miss my parents, which is something I didn’t think I’d do being here. It’s just the three of us, our little family unit, and we’ve always been close. But they raised me to be an independent spirit, and I’ve never leaned on them for much. So being homesick threw me for a loop, although Mom calls every day to try to bridge that gap.

  “Hey, pumpkin. How you doing? Saw your latest Instagram post, that botanical garden on campus is just beautiful.”

  Mom is one of those parents who stalks their child’s social media. She will constantly text me or DM me about my posts, about my high school classmates posts, and she recently started following Rhiannon, so she’s got a mouthful to say about my roommate.

  “Thanks, there was great lighting that day.” I nod, though she can’t see me.

  “And Rhiannon’s latest find with that band at the dive bar near campus? I very much enjoyed that!” My mom snaps her fingers on the other end, and I roll my eyes.

  She’s trying to be “hip” to impress Rhiannon, though my roommate is anything but the cold-shoulder kind of girl everyone would assume she is by her appearance. As I’ve found out, Rhiannon is willing to help anyone or give a lesson on anything she’s passionate about.

  “Yeah, she has a real ear fo
r it. How’s everything there?”

  Mom makes a happy little chirp noise. “Just the same as always. We’re missing you. Dad and I tried the new Indian place the other night, it was pretty good. Trying to stop by Michaela’s at least once a week and see how she’s doing.”

  Her mention of Catherine’s mom’s name has my stomach dropping to my feet. I haven’t talked out loud with anyone about Catherine since I left my hometown, and it was kind of a nice break not to have the shadow hanging over me on campus.

  “How’s she doing?” I try to keep my voice from trembling when I ask.

  “Oh, sweetheart, she’s not doing well. It’s still so raw, as I’m sure you know. We all know. It’s going to take time.”

  “Yeah.” My voice cracks, betraying the tears I’m barely holding in.

  It’s tough to think about Catherine on my own, but talking to people who knew her? Jeez, it’s like flaying my skin opening and pouring salt in the wounds.

  “It’s okay to miss her. To think about her.” My mom’s calming voice comes through the other end of the phone.

  And that’s when I lose it. I drop the phone, my hands coming up to my eyes. I sob, a silent, gut-wrenching wail that robs me of breath and sight. It’s not fair, at all, that I’m sitting here and she’s not. How is this even allowed? The world should be ashamed of itself. I’m ashamed of it.

  Wiping my eyes and trying to gulp in a few breaths, I pick the phone back up.

  “Sorry,” I mutter through watery breaths.

  “Oh, honey, you never have to apologize. Your love for her is still here, as is hers for you. She’d be so proud that you’re strong, that you decided to head off to college.”

  “I know that,” I say, even though it sounds false to my ears.

  “Honey, anytime you need to vent or cry, you know you can always call me. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Mom. I’m going to go, okay?”

  “Okay. Say hi to Rhiannon for me.” She sounds like she’s trying to be hopeful.

  I hang up, and my entire mood has dimmed.

  I need to get out of this dorm room. It feels like it’s suffocating me, like I’m in the grave with Catherine and I’ll never get out. I know I should talk to someone about this, how there are moments during the week where I feel like I can’t continue to breathe, like it’s all sucked out and my vision sparks with dots. But that would lead to admitting what I’m doing to Lincoln, and I can’t reveal that.

  Grabbing my laptop, a few books, and my AirPods, I head out to the quad. Nothing a little sunshine and Photoshop can’t fix. Hopefully.

  I’m knee-deep in editing a series of photos of Rhiannon, I made her do a photoshoot two days ago, when someone calls my name.

  I look up to see one of my classmates crossing the grassy sections of the quad, holding up his hand in greeting.

  Alden is in a few of my photography classes, and while we don’t gravitate toward the same subjects, his work is magnificent. He grew up in Queens and specializes in street photography. His portfolio is gritty, raw black-and-whites of the real life and struggle of some of New York City’s most disenfranchised. It’s mesmerizing to study, and he ain’t bad on the eyes either. If Idris Elba had a younger brother, it would be Alden.

  “Hey, baby girl, what you up to?” He fist bumps me and then plops down on my bench.

  He’s sitting close, and I get the feeling that his charm is the kind that can’t be contained. From the moment I met him, he’s been that enigmatic force that everyone seems drawn too. His smooth charisma and easygoing personality make him a fast friend, and someone that everyone wants to be around. It strikes me that I should introduce him to Rhiannon.

  “Trying to work on some lighting on this one.” I point to my laptop, where I have a picture of none other than my roommate up in Photoshop.

  “Beautiful shot. Beautiful girl.” He gets a closer look, leaning into me, his delicious cologne pricking my nose.

  She is, obviously. But these pictures are some of my best work. I sent an early test shot to Kyle, my professor, and he had nothing but a great review for it. It’s kismet that he just so happens to be my advisor, because he’s laid out some great plans for my future both here and in photography. He even uttered the words Time Magazine the other day, and I almost collapsed on the floor.

  “My roommate, Rhiannon. She’s a riot, I have a feeling you’d like her. But I just can’t get the lighting on the apples of her cheeks right—”

  “Henley!” Someone barks, and both mine and Alden’s heads shoot up.

  I see Lincoln Kolb stalking across the quad. His eyes, one green, one blue, flit between Alden and I, our proximity. And I know that look, the fury barely contained. That man is jealous, green-eyed monster jealous.

  My inner-schemer smirks smugly with pride. I’m slowly slipping under his skin, and my plan is going exactly according to how I want it.

  “Lincoln, hey,” I say easily, and Alden doesn’t move from where he’s examining Rhiannon on my laptop screen.

  In fact, his thick hand is resting on my thigh because of how he’s trying to help me adjust the exposure, and I don’t miss the flash of annoyance that passes through Lincoln’s expression.

  “You haven’t texted me back.” He all but growls.

  “Well, hi to you, too.” I shrug. “Been busy.”

  The agitation pouring off of him is palpable. “No, you haven’t. I saw you show up to my game.”

  “That was five days ago. I couldn’t have been busy for the last five days?” I’m being a smart-ass and he’s getting more and more pissed off about it.

  After my breakdown about Catherine, I’m almost reveling shoving his face in this. He was one of the people who hurt her most, so the fact that I can anger him now has power simmering in my veins.

  His head tips toward Alden. “Can we talk in private?”

  Alden finally catches on that he’s the third wheel here, although I kind of want him to keep his hand on my thigh. The shade of Lincoln’s cheeks right now is giving me a sick pleasure.

  “I’m gonna go.” Alden begins to stand, and I smile at him, giving him a squeeze on the arm.

  “Stop being such a chick, Lincoln. I’m working,” I tell him, acting completely unaffected.

  Lincoln watches Alden go, a threatening gleam in his eye.

  “Didn’t realize you were seeing someone.” It’s such a reach, and we both know he’s only asking because he’s pissed at Alden’s hand on me.

  “I’m not.” I don’t elaborate, and focus my eyes on my laptop.

  “I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?” His tone changes, and I swear I hear hurt in it.

  “Aside from storming up on me on the quad and insinuating I’m dating someone, no.” I chuckle sardonically.

  Lincoln sits down next to me, and it’s so hard to resist the urge to look at him. Even if I haven’t been responding to his texts or social media outreach, it doesn’t mean I haven’t been combing through his pictures, stalking like every millennial knows how to do. Those shirtless ab pictures on his Instagram are shameless, but it doesn’t make them any less hot.

  “I thought we had a good time the other night, Henley. A couple good times, if I remember. I thought we could do it again.” He’s ducked his head, trying to get me to look at him.

  With him this close, I can smell the pure soap and toothpaste scent of him. I want to have more good times, too, but I need to be unreadable.

  After focusing on my laptop for another few beats, leaving him hanging, I finally glance up as if I haven’t heard what he said.

  “Yeah, sure. Send me a text sometime. I kind of have to finish this …”

  Lincoln looks a little crushed. Part of me feels like a total bitch, but then I remember how he dumped Catherine, and I mentally puff out my chest. This jerk deserves this, I have to keep telling myself that. I reach into my bag, rubbing the edge of the worn paper with Catherine’s bucket list on it.

  He rises from the bench, stutters as if
he might say something, and then walks off with a straight-legged, frustrated pace in the other direction.

  Phase one of crushing the cocky jock, completed.

  17

  Lincoln

  The weights slam down on either side of my legs, and I huff out a violent breath.

  “Jesus, dude, you’re a beast today.” Janssen claps his hands, the sound echoing around the weight room.

  I breathe out of my nose in labored puffs, and I feel like I could breathe fire right about now. “What the fuck is wrong with chicks anyway?”

  It comes out unexpectedly, but I’m so fucking angry about my interaction with Henley before that I can’t help the outburst.

  A couple of the guys around the weight room chuckle, and Derrick answers. “How much time do you have?”

  “My girlfriend is on her period, so I feel you, brother.” Christian, one of our defensive linemen, nods sagely. “Not that there is anything gross about it, we still have sex, but she’s so fucking unpredictable; I don’t know if I should rub her feet or leave a fifty-feet barrier between us at all time.”

  “Well, I’m messing around with this girl Jamie, and it’s great because she brings me cookies and brownies before we have sex. So it’s all fantastic,” Janssen brags, and we all shoot him a death glare.

  “Fuck you, bro.” I throw a sweaty towel at his head.

  “I feel like you can never understand what they want.” Derrick nods his agreement, ignoring our bragging friend.

  “You know what they say.” Christian motions with his arms.

  There is a beat, and we all lean forward as if he’s going to impart some crucial wisdom.

  “Men are from Mercury, women are from Venus.” He nods like he’s fucking Yoda.

  Janssen cracks up. “Dude, it’s men are from Mars, you dumbass.”

  “Nah, pretty sure it’s Mercury.” Christian’s lips form into a confident grin.

  “Aren’t Mercury and Venus closer together than it is with Mars, so it wouldn’t make sense? I think that’s why the saying is Mars—” Derrick enters the debate, but I cut him off.