There’s no way this is taking five minutes.
The line for the bathroom is about a mile long and takes up half of the upstairs hallway. I fall into place behind a pair of girls who immediately notice that I’m out of sorts and take it upon themselves to compliment every inch of my outfit, then my makeup, then my bone structure.
Now I remember the only thing I’ve ever liked about college parties: the warm sense of community and camaraderie formed between drunk girls waiting for their turn to pee.
Someone down the line shouts for lip balm.
Immediately, there are four offers.
It’s more fun than the actual party, and it’s exactly the environment I need to take a deep breath and think. It shouldn’t be this hard for me to go after what I want. And that’s Vincent. Judging by the way he looks at me and the near-constant stream of flirtatious jokes and double entendres, he wants me too. So why is my anxious little brain complicating things? Why am I so worried about our friends? Speaking of—I should make sure they’re holding up without me.
I’m checking my phone for any texts from Nina or Harper when I feel it: the familiar invisible tug that urges me to lift my head.
Vincent is coming down the crowded hallway in the opposite direction. He looks thoroughly annoyed. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why: he’s a few steps behind Griffin, who’s swinging a lanyard with what must be the key to the basement and whistling along with the pounding music that’s drifting up through the floor. Griffin breezes right past me. For a moment, I think Vincent will too.
But our eyes meet like magnets snapping together, and he comes to a stop at my side.
“Hey. You good?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Just waiting for the bathroom.”
Vincent looks up and down the row of girls like he’s just noticed that we’re all lined up for something. A trio of lacrosse boys try to slide past Vincent in the crowded hall, and he shuffles forward, toward me. There’s enough room between me and the wall that I could probably take a step back, but I don’t. I let Vincent get so close I can feel the heat of his chest radiating against me. He smells divine. Laundry detergent and something subtle and spiced that’s achingly familiar now. I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes.
“Do you want to use mine?” Vincent offers.
I scrunch my nose. I’m not quite drunk enough to tolerate the sight of a urinal.
“I’m in a single,” he adds. “I have my own bathroom. I promise it’s clean.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I register that the girls ahead of me in line are watching us with open mouths. The taller of the two gives me a pointed look that says, Go with him, obviously.
“Fine,” I relent. “But I reserve the right to roast you if all you have in your shower is that shampoo–body wash combo shit.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Holiday.”
For a split second, I think he’s going to take my hand again, but the hall isn’t quite crowded enough to justify the need to form a human chain. I shoot the two drunk girls I’ve been bonding with a sheepish smile (Can you believe this is happening? ) and they return the gesture with a thumbs-up (and some obscene gestures that I take to mean Get it, girl) before I turn and follow Vincent back down the hall the way he came.
He pulls his keys out of the back pocket of his jeans and unlocks a door at the end of the hall.
His room is nicer than I was expecting.
Admittedly, I’ve come to believe that most college-aged boys who don’t live in the on-campus dorms sleep on air mattresses or futons they found on the side of the road and have decor made exclusively from empty vodka bottles and beer cans. But Vincent’s room is more like an IKEA staging room than a dilapidated frat house. His bed is made. His desk is stacked tall with textbooks and stray papers, like he’s been doing homework, but none of those papers are crumpled or scattered on the floor. The only true mess in the room is the mountain of athletic gear on the floor beside his wardrobe—a few duffel bags, some practice jerseys, and some basketball sneakers that are so enormous I briefly do a double take at Vincent’s feet.
He clears his throat and gestures toward the door to my left.
“Bathroom’s through there.”
“Right! Right. Thanks.”
I pull the door shut behind me. How on Earth have I just finessed this? I’m in his bathroom. I didn’t even really need to pee (I just wanted a quiet moment to myself) and now Vincent and I are in what has to be the quietest corner of the house. His sink is clean, the mirror above it clear of any water splatter or toothpaste stains. The towels on the wall-mounted rack are navy blue and unwrinkled. I slowly pull back the shower curtain, hoping the rustling fabric and the sliding of metal rings on the curtain rod isn’t too loud. Shampoo. Face wash. Body wash. Three separate bottles. Well done, Knight.
With my inspection complete, I flush the toilet (to keep up the illusion) and then lean over the sink, palms braced on the rim, to stare hard at my reflection.
“You’re a strong, independent woman in control of your own life,” I whisper. Then, as an afterthought: “And your tits look phenomenal.”
When I slip out of the bathroom, Vincent is perched on the side of his mattress, his phone in his hand. He slips it back into the pocket of his jeans and stands as soon as he sees me.
We’re alone together, finally.
In his bedroom.
The floor underneath my feet trembles in time with the bassline of a Spanish song I know Nina and Harper must be screaming the lyrics to, wherever they are. I could head back downstairs and join them. I could smile, thank Vincent, and walk to the door. It’s propped open a few inches. I can hear the distant chatter and footsteps of people down the hall. Vincent could reach for the door too, and hold it open. He could sigh and say something about getting back to his party.
But he doesn’t move. And neither do I.
We stand, rooted, our eyes on each other.
He steps forward, and the black tally marks on his forearm catch the light.
“What are those for?” I blurt, pointing at them.
Vincent looks down and blinks, like he’s forgotten the lines were there. “Drinks. I’m supposed to make it to twenty-one by midnight.”
“You’re running a little behind.”
He shrugs. “It’s only ten. I’ve got time.”
“Unless your very reasonably sized and superchill party gets broken up by DPS, you mean.”
Vincent exhales a laugh. “It’s not really my party.”
“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”
“I just meant that this party isn’t for me. It’s for the team. They’ve had to pull all the weight this season, so yeah, I would’ve done things a little differently—maybe invited about two hundred fewer people—but the team’s worked hard. They deserve some good old-fashioned chaos.”
“Spoken like a true captain.”
Vincent shrugs. “What can I say? They’re my boys.”
“So, you’re the team daddy,” I say, then immediately realize my mistake. “Team dad, I mean.”
He doesn’t let me off that easy. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that first part?”
“No.”
“Did you say—”
“You know what I meant.”
“You’re a mess, Holiday. A mess. I’ve never seen you so off your game.”
I huff and perch on the corner of his desk. “Big parties overwhelm me. I like the dancing, sometimes, but mostly I just feel claustrophobic and self-conscious.”
“About your dancing?” Vincent asks. “I took a ballroom dancing elective freshman year. I could teach you some moves.”
He sounds way too excited about the prospect of embarrassing me.
“My dancing is fine, thank you very much.”
My eyes land on the stack of books on his desk—one of which is familiar.
I hold up Engman’s Anthology and arch an eyebrow.
“You know you have to return this, right?”
Vincent shrugs. “Not for another week.”
I do the math myself to confirm. I hate that so much time has passed. It feels like I’m losing bits and pieces of the memory, even though I’ve been replaying it in my head religiously. The details are smoothing over—the specifics of the conversation and the little touches during our kisses are becoming one big, amorphous feeling. A vibe, if you will.
I zone back in and realize I’ve been staring at Vincent’s mouth.
He’s noticed this, of course, and watches me with eyes so dark and smoldering that I feel like he’s struck a match along my spine.
“Read me something,” he murmurs. “Out loud.”
He must know what he’s asking of me. He has to. My heart hiccups as I push off the desk, take a few steps into the middle of the room, and let the book in my hands fall open, pages sliding over each other until I spot a yellow Post-It peeking out from the top. I flip forward to it and find an Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem. My face splits into a grin.
“Did you bookmark this?” I ask, holding it up so he can see.
Vincent hums noncommittally.
“Say over again, and yet once over again, That thou dost love me,” I read.
Outside, somewhere down the hall, someone screams, “Sarah! Where’s Sarah? Bitch, you took my phone—”
Vincent huffs and marches to the door.
“Can I close this?” he asks me, suddenly a little shy.
My entire body heats. “Sure. Totally. Of course.”
Vincent presses the door shut and, after a moment’s hesitation, twists the lock. He shoots me another glance, to check if I have any objections. I suppress the urge to shoot him a very dorky thumbs-up. Instead, I look down at Engman’s Anthology and clear my throat. Before I can begin reading aloud again, Vincent crosses the room in three long strides and stands behind me, so close I can feel the heat of his body in the inch of air between us.
He’s reading over my shoulder—just like the night we met.
I have to swallow hard to prevent a shiver of heat from rolling down my spine.
“Say thou dost love me, love me, love me—toll The silver iterance!—only minding, Dear, To love me also in silence with thy soul.”
I read slowly. Meticulously. Selfishly, because I want to stand right here until I’ve memorized every detail of this moment. The warmth. The smell. The gentle thump of distant music, the muffled chaos down the hall. The indescribable feeling of relief, that somehow we’ve made it back here. Back to each other.
“Well, Professor Holiday,” Vincent murmurs when I reach the end of the sonnet, “what do you think?”
“This one’s too easy,” I croak, voice as weak as my knees.
“Tell me your interpretation anyway.”
I consider the page again. “She wants to be told she’s loved, but it has to be true. He has to mean it. It has to be more than just empty words.”
“Actions speak louder than words,” Vincent murmurs, more to himself than to me.
“Exactly.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m going to ace this poetry class because of you.”
“You know, technically,” I say, pointing a fingertip at his floor, “this is tutoring. Like, right now. So, I should probably charge you.”
He nods solemnly. “I’ll Venmo you.”
I press my lips together and cover the bottom half of my face with the open book to stop myself from giggling. Vincent’s eyes drop. I briefly imagine him ripping the anthology from my hands, tossing it across the room, and kissing me full on the mouth.
But he doesn’t. He’s still. Patient. Waiting.
“You know how you offered to pay me back?” I ask.
He nods.
I reach up and trace a fingertip over the curve of his shoulder. “What’s this muscle?”
Vincent exhales hard.
“Deltoid,” he answers.
I nod and let my arm drop to my side.
“Is that all you wanted to ask?”
“Yep. Curiosity satisfied.”
I turn to set Engman’s Anthology back on his desk. But Vincent follows—and this time, he presses his body flush against my back. I stop breathing entirely.
“You sure you don’t want to know what this muscle is?” he asks, tracing a fingertip up the outside of my forearm. I shiver when his knuckle passes over the tender skin in the crook of my elbow and continues up and over my—
“Bicep,” I croak. “Everyone knows that one.”
My hair tickles the back of my neck as he pushes it to the side. The only warning I get is his hot breath on my skin, and then his lips are pressed against the curve of my shoulder—so gently that at first I wonder if I’m imagining it.
“And this one?”
I can’t think straight.
“Um.” My voice is a soft croak. “Don’t say it. I know it.”
His lips press against my shoulder again, and this time there’s no mistake. My mouth falls open and heat pools low in my stomach as Vincent nips at the skin.
“Trapezius,” he whispers.
I spin to face him, immediately going weak in the knees when I realize we’re so close that I can feel the length of him against the front of me now. His mouth is inches from mine. I press a hand to his chest, trying to keep that precious sliver of space between us. I feel like I’m about to launch myself at him, but I can’t stumble into this blindly—not when miscommunication is the worst trope. If we kiss now, that’ll be it. I’ll forget everything that’s been bothering me and every question I need answered. And I know I told myself I was coming here for a onetime thing, but this feels like something worth the effort. Worth the risk.
I want to do this right or not at all.
“Kendall,” Vincent murmurs. It sounds like a plea.
“Wait,” I say, swallowing hard. “I have something I want to say.”
