Page 58 of The Dixon Rule

On Thursday night, when I return to my apartment from the Meadow Hill gym, I receive a text that sends my pulse racing.

LYNSEY:

Is that offer to crash on your couch still open?

I stare at the message for an eternity. I don’t want to sound too eager. Can’t be responding with a “Hell yeah. Get your sweet ass to Hastings.” Because we’re supposed to be friends, and I shouldn’t be commenting on her sweet ass. I also can’t respond too fast, so rather than test my willpower, I leave my phone on the couch and go take a shower.

My sweaty T-shirt is still plastered to my chest. I would’ve stayed longer at the gym and done a few more reps of deadlifts, but by the end of my workout, I had some company in the form of two middle-aged female residents whose blatant ogling was beginning to freak me out. I swear, all the women in this complex are sex starved.

After my shower, I slip into a pair of basketball shorts and return to the living room. It’s been seventeen minutes. That seems long enough.

ME:

Of course.

LYNSEY:

Can I call you?

ME:

Sure.

A moment later, her throaty voice fills my ears. It’s so familiar, it feels like coming home.

“I arranged for a Briar tour on Saturday morning. One of the summer students is going to show me around campus, and then I have a meeting with the head of the Performing Arts department.”

“Wow. This transfer thing is for real, huh?” My pulse quickens at the notion of having her here all the time. I mean, it’s a big campus and we’ll probably never see each other, but just knowing she’s here…

But I can’t get ahead of myself.

“I think so, yeah. I’d like to talk to the department heads and some of the faculty before I make any decisions, though. There’s a summer course in progress right now. Advanced ballet. They’re going to let me join the class for the afternoon.”

“That’s great. I hope it works out,” I say casually, trying to pretend there isn’t a hockey stadium full of fans cheering inside me.

“I’ll probably leave Connecticut around dinner time tomorrow and be at your place around seven or eight? Does that work?”

“Sure. I’ll text you the address.”

“Thank you. Oh, I might be bringing a friend, if that’s okay. Not sure yet, though.”

“That’s fine.” I push away the resulting pang of disappointment because I can’t exactly ask her not to bring Monique or one of the old crew. One, it would sound sketchy, and two, they were my friends too all throughout high school. It’ll be good to see them, anyway.

“I’ll text you tomorrow when I’m heading out,” she says. “And thanks again, Lindy. This’ll be so much easier than grabbing a hotel in Boston, since you’re only ten minutes from campus.”

“Of course. Like I said, anytime.”

My heart is thrashing in my chest as I end the call. Buzzing with energy, I quickly examine my surroundings. My apartment’s clean, but Lynsey is sort of a neat freak. In high school she used to drag her finger through the layer of dust on my bedroom window ledge and say, “Is this how you want to live, Shane?” It was cute. Well, most of the time. I can’t deny sometimes it could get annoying.

During my cleaning mission, it comes to my attention that I don’t own a vacuum. I have no idea how my mother allowed this atrocity to happen. Probably because she pays for a cleaner and assumed I would never even attempt to tidy up between appointments.

There are no chain stores in Hastings, only small boutiques, but the hardware store probably sells vacuums. I could go tomorrow morning when it opens.

A mocking voice in my head points out I’m going to a lot of effort for Lynsey, who might not even come, but I inform that voice that everyone needs a vacuum, so fuck off, please.

The next morning, I’m awake bright and early, leaving my apartment at the same time Diana’s door swings open.

“Morning,” she says when our gazes collide.

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