Page 67 of The Risk

“What do you guys think about this dress?” Summer reappears wearing a white strapless number with fringe on the hem.

“It’s nice,” her boyfriend says.

“Bee?”

“Way too innocent. I’d never wear it.”

“Of course you wouldn’t wear it—it’s not black. Tell me whether or notIlook good in it.”

“You look good in everything. It’s disgusting and I hate you, and seriously, you can get rid of half that closet and still look like a supermodel in whatever’s left.”

She beams. “You’re right, this is a great dress. I’ll keep it.”

I exchange another amused glance with Fitz. It still boggles mymind that these two are a couple. Yet somehow the fashion major and the nerdy gamer make it work.

“What are you guys doing tonight?” I ask. “I imagine my dad will be working the team pretty hard this week, so this might be your last chance to unwind, right?”

“For real,” Fitz says. “And I don’t know, we’ll probably just…” He shrugs sheepishly.

Translation: they’re going to spend the whole night in bed.

“How about you?” he asks.

“Probably staying home,” I lie.

“Really? No repeat with the Tinder date?” Summer rejoins the conversation. She drops two faded sweatshirts in the donate pile.

“What Tinder date?” Fitz demands.

“Bee had a date last night. Which she didn’t even tell me about.”

“There’s nothing to tell. We didn’t click, and I’m not seeing him again.” It’s disturbing how naturally lying comes to me.

Summer offers an apologetic smile. “We’d invite you to hang out with us tonight, but we’re going to be very busy having sex.”

Fitz sighs heavily. “Babe.”

“What?”

He just shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, grinning at them. “I have a ton of homework to do, anyway.”

“Sounds exciting,” Summer teases.

She doesn’t know the half of it.

17

BRENNA

JAKE TEXTS ME THE LOCATION OF OUR DATE WHILEI’Meating dinner with my father. We’re having vegetable stir-fry that I cooked, and it’s been a mostly silent meal, seeing as how we don’t have much to say to each other these days.

When he notices my phone light up, a deep groove appears in his forehead. “No phones at the dinner table.”

“I’m not even checking it,” I protest. “I can’t control it from going off.”

“Sure you can. It’s called the power button.”

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