Page 28 of Pinkie Promise

When I realise that the rest of her pictures are hidden because her page is private, I tap the button that saysfollowand stare anxiously at the ‘requested’ symbol.

I inhale a deep calming breath and flick open the top button on my jeans.

Then the page refreshes and suddenly I’m in.Jesus, she must have just accepted the request.I sit up on one elbow and scroll quickly down the page. There are, like, at least twenty different pictures of her on here. I click on one where she’s wearing a white halo and I instantly recognise it as the outfit that she wore for Halloween. Then I scroll one picture further and my mouth goes dry.

The muscle in my jaw flexes, then turns rigid.

It’s a close-up photo that she took of herself, hair splayed against her pillow and a secret smile on her lips. She’s wearing a pyjama tank top andno fucking bra. My thumb jerks accidently on the image and a red heart pops up out of nowhere. Don’t know what the fuck that means, but I go with it anyway. The jerk of my thumb also means that I’ve scrolled farther down the picture, and now I can see a text caption beneath it. Why the hell anyone would read a caption when the picture looks that good I do not know, but I read it anyway and it says:Trust the process. Good things are coming.

It’s the kind of ethereal cryptic shit that I would expect from someone as enchanting as Fallon. Positive with a stressed-out undertone. Intriguing and unpredictable.

I gently move my thumb on the screen so that I’m back on the picture and I slowly ease down the zipper of my jeans.

I groan at the instant expansion and carefully shove down my boxers. Then I wrap my fist around the base and begin frantically stroking.

I’ve got this all under control.

Chapter 9

Fallon

I spend Wednesday on the couch, huddled under a fuzzy purple blanket with my laptop balancing on my belly. I have my hoodie drawn up over my head and the sleeves pulled down so that only the tips of my fingers are visible. They’re a sparkly lilac blur as I tap away at the keys.

I’m more than a little amazed that my thesis supervisor, Dr. Sloane, emailed me this morning with her first run-through of my initial thesis draft. What with it only being the very start of November I hadn’t expected her to be so prompt, especially when she has twelve other senior students that she’s supervising this year. She told me that I’m her only student who has completed their first draft, a fact which was so gratifying that it motivated me to get halfway through my second draft too. Then I spent the time after my thesis-blitz trying to find every potentially relevant document that may be of use to Dr. Ward – the professor who’s going to be my grant referee – seeing as I got an email from her at crazy o’clock in the morning asking me to re-send the grant documentation because she couldn’t find my previous email in her inbox.

Her recommendation only needs to be between one-hundred and three-hundred words long, so I’m surprised that she hasn’t rattled out something easy and generic instead of asking me for further details. As I send her the documents a nervous tremorsurfaces in my stomach, thinking back to what Connell said when I mentioned that she was my reference of choice.

I mean, it’s only been a month since she told me that she would be my referee and she will have obviously been very busy, but then I think about someone like my supervisor who is getting back to me weeksaheadof schedule, and suddenly I’m wondering if maybe Ididpick the wrong faculty member for my grant submission.

I log out of the college server and then treat myself to a peek at my manuscript. I scroll through the chapters, rereading bits here and there, and then when I get to the part that I’m now up to I drum my nails against the keys, wondering if any words will come.

I type slowly, cautiously, for the next half an hour, pausing every now and then for a sip from my Baby Yoda mug.

I write a little over the next forty-five minutes, and then I get a text from Aisling and I put my laptop aside.

AISLING:Where are you? We have cheer, like, five minutes ago.

When I look at the time I realise that it’s way later than I originally thought.

So yeah, I’m skipping cheer, but it’s only because I’m no longer on the squad. When I remind Aisling of this she instantly responds with:

AISLING:Participating in Nationals isn’t the only reason to be a cheerleader – we aren’t just a comp team, remember? We have an events squad too… ;)

I slowly sit upright because she’s being alluringly suspicious, making my heart beat a little faster in my chest.Why else would I come to training if I wasn’t flyering at Nationals?

Is there a chance that I can still spend my senior year doing cheer, even if it isn’t with the comp team?

AISLING:Get your tush over here now, Fallon!

I grin, grab my things and bolt out of the door.

*

I scooch my way along the plastic seats, looking for the one that corresponds to my wristband, and when I realise how close to the rink I am my cheeks go a little pink.

I’m practically on the ice. In fact, I think that I’m actuallyinthe sin bin. I’ve never been to a hockey game before so I wasn’t sure what to expect but, just in case, I’ve dressed for Antarctica. Giant scarf, knit jumper, thick woolly tights. I huddle the scarf around my face and slouch further into my seat, slow-chewing my way down a candy cable while I anxiously wait for the players to appear.

The lights go down, the music goes up, and after a five minute countdown both teams are flying onto the ice.

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