Our apartment looks like a thrift store ransacked by influencers. Nina’s clothes and toiletries and textbooks and electronics are everywhere. I stand in the kitchen, clutching my coffee, and watch her try to shove an inflatable dinosaur costume (which she’s assured me is an improv party thing and not a sex thing) into her carry-on.
Harper left early this morning. She landed safe and sent us a selfie from her childhood bedroom, with its pink curtains, glittery butterfly stickers pasted directly onto the wall, and faded poster of Harry Styles in his One Direction era.
This never leaves this chat, she captioned the shot.
“You can FaceTime me if you get lonely,” Nina tells me as she stands on top of her suitcase, using her body weight to crush the contents down so I can tug the zipper shut. “I sent you the festival schedule. Seriously, any time we’re not onstage, you can call.”
“I’ll be fine,” I grunt. “I have my shift at the library tonight. I’ll pick up some new books to get me through the weekend.”
Nina jumps off her bursting suitcase and smiles sadly.
“I know I said I’d respect your choices and stay out of this—”
“But you won’t.”
She shakes her head. “You owe it to yourself to talk to Vincent. You’re a storyteller, Kendall. You need the closure.”
I pull her into a hug—the kind that’s so tight it almost hurts.
“I hate when you’re right,” I mumble into her hair.
Nina squeezes me tight. “Now, as your whore best friend, I’m ordering you to go get your happy ending.”
• • •
My lecture on Shakespeare is long and offensively dry—to the point where I stop listening to the professor and start making a bullet point list in my head about why this class is a waste of my tuition dollars and no one should ever be required to study Shakespeare to get a bachelor’s degree ever again. But eventually I run out of reasons to be mad about Anglocentrism and androcentrism, and I start a new list in my head: ways to apologize to Vincent Knight.
When class lets out, I join the herd of tired students migrating outside. It should, in theory, be golden hour. Campus should be kissed purple and orange. But instead, the skies overhead are heavy and gray, and everything is dim and dark and moody.
I love it.
I have an entire Spotify playlist dedicated to this kind of weather. I pull it up on my phone and reach one arm around to fish my headphones out of my backpack.
After a few moments of awkward grasping at the outer pocket, I accept that my headphones aren’t where I usually shove them. I stop at a bench along the path and plop down with a heavy sigh, annoyed with myself for letting my backpack become such a disordered mess—which feels like an on-the-nose metaphor for the rest of my life right now. If I’ve lost them, I’m either going to have to fork over the money for another pair or I’m going to have to join Harper and Nina and the rest of this godforsaken country in buying AirPods, which are completely out of my budget and which I will inevitably lose within a week.
“Fuck you, Steve Jobs,” I mutter.
The wooden planks underneath me creak and dip. I still, lift my head, and find Jabari Henderson sitting on the other end of the bench.
“Hey, Kendall.”
I’m immediately on guard.
“Can I help you?”
He lets out a low whistle. “God, you and Vincent are alike.”
It aches like a prodded bruise. I narrow my eyes at Jabari—because glaring feels way more badass than turning into a puddle of tears—and yank at the zippers of my backpack, abandoning the search for my headphones in favor of getting out of here as quickly as possible.
“I have to be somewhere. Sorry. You’ll have to let Vincent know you failed . . . whatever you were trying to do here.”
There’s a dare in my voice. Own up, it says. Tell me this is all a scheme, or a joke, or a bet. Tell me I’m not the villain in my own story. But Jabari flinches too, and the showmanship of his smile falls into a solemn frown.
“He doesn’t know I’m here.”
I arch an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Just—please, hear me out. I really fucked this up.”
Jabari has brown eyes, like Vincent. They’re wide and honest and imploring. It’s sobering, and maybe a little disconcerting, to see someone who’s always laughing and smiling look so serious.
“Five minutes,” I relent.
Jabari nods and wipes his palms on the front of his jeans like he’s readying himself. I brace myself for hard truths, reality checks, and some point-blank shots at my pride.
Instead, Jabari says, “Vincent’s never had a girlfriend.”
“I know.” My face flushes. “I wasn’t expecting him to commit to me or anything—”
“No, no. I don’t think you understand me. It’s not that he doesn’t want to date you. It’s that he has no fucking clue how to.”
“But he’s been with girls, though? Right?” It’s a silly question. There’s no way a boy would know how to eat a girl out like that without some prior experience. I wince at the thought.
“Sleeping with someone is different from dating them,” Jabari says.
“What’s his problem, then?”
“He’s . . . shy.”
I laugh in his face. “Fuck off.”
“I’m serious,” Jabari says, laughing a little too. “He knows how to be an asshole when he needs to show out on the court, but listen—I’ve never seen him like this. We had to hype him up the morning before he met with you at Starbucks. The kid was so fucking nervous. I don’t know how he sat through class. And then I got a call from him while he was running across campus—”
“He was late.”
“I know. That’s why he called. He was worried he fucked it up. Wanted to know if he was supposed to get you flowers or not, or if that was coming on too strong.”
The mental image of Vincent sprinting across campus, phone to his ear as he frantically consults his friends on how to woo a girl—how to woo me—hits me like a punch to the sternum. It leaves me winded. It ruins me.
“So, the whole thing about getting him laid for his birthday?” I ask, voice hoarse. “That was just some wholesome fun, then? A little team bonding?”
Jabari winces.
“That one’s on me,” he admits, fidgeting with an elastic bracelet on his wrist. “I was just excited for him. He’s been so miserable this season, with his wrist and everything, and he’s always had our backs . . .” Jabari pauses, and we’re both thinking of the point guard Vincent knocked out in the middle of a game. “I thought all of us should have his back for once. He always does shit for us. I wanted to return the favor. Help him be selfish for once.”
I think of what Vincent said in his bedroom, about being bad at asking for what he wants.
“By getting him laid?” I ask.
“By getting him the girl.”
“The girl, or a girl?” It’s my insecurity talking. The words taste sour and shriveled in my mouth, but it feels good to get them out, even if Jabari will think less of me.
He shakes his head. “You were it, Kendall. You’re the only one.”
Past tense. Present tense. Which is it?
“Is he . . .” I swallow hard. “Is he mad at me?”
I hate that those words actually left my mouth. They’re so immature. So middle school. But then Jabari shakes his head again, and the tightest of the knots that have been in my chest all week finally tugs free. I’m glad I asked. Communication is brutal, and maybe I’m worse at it than I thought I was, but God, it’s worth it.
“He’s mad at what went down,” Jabari says, “but I don’t think he’s mad at you. If that makes sense. He told me what you said after he asked you to come to the bar with us. First off—brutal. But personally, I thought you caught on to the fact that we were all trying to get him alone with you all night and it creeped you out. But Vinny took it a little more personal than that. Said something about knowing he wouldn’t be good enough for you.”
All the talk about romance novels, dukes and billionaires, and my high expectations. Vincent wasn’t teasing me for the fun of getting me flustered and outraged. He was genuinely concerned he wouldn’t measure up for me.
“That’s quite literally the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” I say.
Jabari nods. “I told you. He’s new to this. And he’s a sensitive little shit.”
I groan and slump back on the bench. Campus is growing darker and grayer. I feel a tiny, cold drop of misty rain land on my cheek but don’t make a move to wipe it away.
“Why does he think he wouldn’t be good enough?” I ask.
Because, contrary to what Nina said, I know I’m exactly like other girls—just on the introverted and anxious end of the spectrum. It’s not like I’m extraordinary.
Jabari shrugs. “Ask him. I mean, I could tell you he hasn’t fucking shut up about you and your damn poetry, but you probably want to hear all that from him. Besides, it’s not my job to win you back. That’s on Vincent. I’m just here to tell you I’m sorry, and that I really like you and your roommates”—he almost stumbles over that last word—“and that I’ll hate myself for the rest of my life if I’m part of the reason you guys didn’t work. I scared you off. I know I did. I got too excited, and I was only thinking about my boy, and I didn’t let you know what was up.”
“I get that, though,” I say very quietly. “My friends were doing the same thing.”
“I still can’t stand that I fucked it up, though. Vincent’s the one who usually kills the vibe. Not me. I’m the life of the fucking party, okay?”
I croak out a laugh.
“He didn’t hook up with anyone at the bar, then?” I ask, picking at a hangnail and refusing to meet Jabari’s eyes. “I was the only birthday action he got?”
Jabari’s quiet for a moment.
When I glance up, he’s staring at me with wide eyes.
“Y’all hooked up?”
The surprise on his face is so genuine that I have to admit that maybe—just maybe—I was wrong. Maybe Vincent didn’t tell anyone about what happened in his bedroom. Maybe he kept his promise to me.
“Shit,” Jabari says, voicing my exact thoughts as we look out across the park. Then, louder: “Shit. Well, that explains why he was such a fucking bummer after—wait, wait. Hold up. When we came up to his room to get him, were you . . .”
I clear my throat and suck my lips together.
“Shit. No wonder he was so calm.”
“Calm?”
“Yeah. I mean, all night, it was like he was a nervous wreck, and then suddenly he’s kicking back a tequila shot and he just says, I’m gonna ask her to come to the bar. No hesitation.”
I laugh weakly, because the alternative is crying on campus.
“That birthday party really crashed and burned, huh?” I ask.
Jabari hesitates. “Is Harper—”
“Okay?” I finish for him, my tone sharp again. “Not really. Thanks for that, by the way.”
He looks pained. “I don’t want you to have to be the middleman or anything,” he says, “but can I at least get a hint? She disappeared on me Thursday night. And she unmatched me, and she blocked my number. I know I can be a lot sometimes, but I really thought it was going well, so can you at least help me figure out where I might’ve fucked it up? She say anything to you?”
I want to tear him apart. I want to eviscerate him. But I decide to extend a small measure of patience to him in repayment for what he’s told me about Vincent.
“She told me you ditched her to be with another girl.”
Jabari rears back. “She what?”
“She saw you hanging out with another girl at Vincent’s birthday party. A blond.”
“My cousin?”
I arch an eyebrow.
“My dad’s side of the family is white as hell,” Jabari says. “Makayla’s a senior at UCLA, but they had the week off because they’re on the quarter system. She came up to visit.”
I scoff in disbelief.
“I’m not even playing. Hold on.”
Jabari tugs his phone out of his pocket. I watch a few droplets of rain land on the screen as he taps open his photos, pulling up a group shot of at least twenty people. He points out himself, his mother, his father, and then his father’s sister and her tall, blond daughter—who fits the description Nina gave me right down to the vague Speak Now–era Taylor Swift resemblance.
His cousin.
I sigh, scrub a hand over my face, and groan. “Fucking miscommunication.”
“What?”
“Look,” I say, turning on the bench to face Jabari, “Harper likes you. A lot. But she’s never going to chase a man down. She’ll never admit she’s got a sappy bone in her body, but I know she does—way down deep. So, you need to show her this family photo, and then you need to tell her how you feel. And you need to do it big. Flowers. Violins. Diamonds, if you’ve got that kind of budget. But if you’re not ready for that, then you should probably fuck off and leave her alone, because she’s way out of your league as it is.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Jabari shakes his head. “You and Vincent are really fucking alike, you know that?”
“Yeah,” I grumble. “I’m beginning to see that.”
“All right,” Jabari says, holding his hands up in surrender as he stands up. “I said my piece. Don’t tell Vincent I spoke to you, okay? Unless it goes well. Then I’ll take the credit.”
Unless it goes well.
My heart flutters. He wouldn’t say that unless there was a chance. Right?
“Harper’s out of town, just so you know,” I call out. “She’ll be back Monday.”
Jabari salutes me. “Perfect. Gives me some time to find a violinist.”
I watch him turn and jog off, jacket braced over his head to protect his hair from the steadily growing drizzle, and I realize that maybe I was wrong about Jabari Henderson.
Because I was definitely wrong about Vincent.
I’ve spent an entire week trying to talk myself out of him. Trying to convince myself that our time together really was just a bet, some similarly gross and misogynistic pursuit, or otherwise a big performance. Maybe I’ve been doing this whole red flag scavenger hunt even longer, because from the moment we first kissed, I think I’ve been looking for even the tiniest sign that he’s not what he seems to be. Because if Vincent is for real, then he’s . . . he’s everything.
He’s smart, handsome as hell, and quick-witted in a way that sometimes makes me want to throttle him and sometimes makes me want to jump his bones. He’s got friends and teammates who are completely and utterly devoted to him. He’s softhearted, beneath the cold and aloof shield he puts up, and he’s always patient with me. Always listening. Always gentle with me when I need a hand, and firm when I need to get over myself.
I was so worried about this thing between us blowing up, I detonated it myself just so I wouldn’t be blindsided. Nina was right. I construct my own narratives.
But maybe there’s still some strength in that, because in romance novels, there’s always a dark point before the climax. A breakup. A misunderstanding. A fundamental clash in values or beliefs. And then the character who messed up harder has to pull themselves together, confront their heroic flaw, and make amends.
“Fuck,” I say out loud.
It’s me. I have to make the grand gesture.
