“Who told you that?” he asks.
“It didn’t take a genius to figure it out,” I say, snapping another part onto the swing.
“I’m just dating women who don’t live in town,” he says, grabbing more laundry. “And taking time for myself, to do some personal and spiritual growth and shit.”
“Well, which is it?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away, like he’s thinking.
“Or it’s someone who we don’t know but who you’re not supposed to be with,” he goes on, ignoring everything I just said. “A fellow professor? Your advisor?”
“Pretty sure Oliver’s parents have been dead for a while now,” I remind him.
“The Dean? A student? A research assist — Caleb.”
I’m not moving, my eyes practically boring holes into the page of the manual that say sliding the pole into shaft A, then rotated.
“You didn’t drive one of your students across the state,” he says, sounding extremely reasonable.
“Not a student,” I say, still staring down.
He doesn’t believe me. I can tell from here, without looking, that he doesn’t believe me.
“Shit,” he whispers, and I can hear him swallow. “Caleb, be fucking careful, you can get fired for —”
“Thank you,” I say stiffly.
“I’m serious,” he says. “You just got this job, there’s no way —”
“I’m not looking for advice from the guy who’s following his ex around like a lost puppy dog, even after she broke his heart and rubbed his nose in it,” I say, angrily snapping two more pieces together. “Thanks, Seth, I’m fully aware of the rules and regulations on this one.”
“Are you? Also, fuck you,” he says, yanking a towel out of a hamper.
I flip him off.
He flips me off.
I go back to the baby swing, heart pumping like mad even as I try to breathe through it and concentrate on what I’m supposed to be doing, which is helping Daniel and Charlie in their hour of need, not getting into a stupid fight with Seth over our respective woman problems.
That said, I might kill him if he gets back with his ex. I didn’t go through that with him just for her trashy, lying ass to move back to town and instantly re-bewitch my brother.
Finally, I’ve got the frame put together. I stand it upright.
It stays. It even looks sturdy. Carefully, I attach the swing, then plug it in and turn it on.
It swings, gently, at nowhere near launch velocity, and I look over at my brother.
“Sorry,” I say.
“No, I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re a grown-ass man, you can handle yourself.”
The swing creaks slightly as it rocks, and I turn it off, cross the room, and grab a pair of pajama pants.
“Her mom was in a car accident,” I say, folding them. “She was in surgery in a hospital in Norfolk when Thalia got the call and they weren’t sure if she’d make it.”
Seth understands. I know he understands.
“How is she now?” he asks.
“Much better. They’re expecting a full recovery,” I tell him, grabbing more laundry.
“Her name’s Thalia?” he asks.
“Just a friend,” I say.
Seth doesn’t say anything, but he gives me a look. It’s a big brother look, an I’ve known you all your life and I know your bullshit look.
“Careful,” he says.Chapter Twenty-FourThaliaVictoria: Wonderbread Woman
Victoria: a One Night Stand
Harper: Chicken Strip! That one gives you an excuse to be sexy.
Margaret: It’s Halloween, she doesn’t need an excuse.
Victoria: Fifty Shades of Grey! We’ll go to the hardware store and steal paint swatches.
Margaret: Or, hear me out, just wear something slutty, it’ll do the trick.
Margaret: Trust me.
Harper: Don’t peer pressure her.
Me: Yeah, Margaret, don’t peer pressure me.
Margaret: What?
Margaret: You said last night that you just wanted to find some random guy and make out with his face!
Margaret: We’re just helping.I put my phone face-down on the scarred wooden desk of my carrel and rub my eyes. It’s nearly one-thirty in the morning, and the library closes soon, which means I should leave.
It’s entirely possible to get locked in here. No one checks all the floors, they just make the announcements and lock the doors. I know more than one person who’s had to call the campus police to let them out.
My phone buzzes again, but I don’t check it right away, because last night around this time — tired, overworked, and eating cereal around our kitchen table during a study break — I expressed this desire to make out with someone’s face, and my roommates jumped on it.
Of course they did. I knew they would, because they’ve all been a little bit worried about my whole date-with-my-professor situation, and then they were more worried about the whole got-a-ride-to-Norfolk thing, and now that everything between Caleb and I has been perfectly, one hundred percent platonic and above-board for the last few weeks, they think I’m moping.
I’m not moping. I’m busy. And, fine, yes, still masturbating to the memory of our single make out session, but I have to think about something, right? A person can’t just not masturbate, and I can’t get off if I’m thinking about writing a paper.