Page 39 of Cool for the Summer

Pea-protein guy follows me willingly, and we get on the floor just as the beat ramps up. He’s not lying—he can’t really match the tempo of the music, which makes me wonder how good in bed he could be. I could find out—but as I catch sight of Beck in the modest crowd, his hands on someone new’s hips as they move back and forth in sync, I realize I don’t want to.

Beck’s as good at dancing as he is at everything else. The lights in the ceiling must be on some kind of timer, because they’re cycling through all the colors of the rainbow, making the disco ball throw panes of red, orange, yellow, green onto the crowd. I should be getting my hands on Mr. Hard Body, but I can’t tear my gaze away from Beck, watching his face flash blue, purple, pink.

He’s radiant.

And I want him.

I think the last beer must have gone to my head because dragging Beck home right this minute and taking him to bed seems like the best idea I’ve had in a long time.

“I think I’m going to head out,” my dance partner says, leaning close to be heard over the music. “You want to come with?”

I should say yes. There’s a reason I don’t hook up with guys like Beck, and it’s not just because we’re roommates. It’s because hooking up with someone who I actually like, actually care about, is too hard. Too painful.

Pete’s voice in my head says, “Aidan was eight years ago. Move on already.”

Maybe it’s pathetic to still mourn a relationship that’s been over that long, but it’s less that I’m still sad and more that I’ve become so used to short-term hookups that I don’t know how to do anything else anymore.

But it could be different with Beck. Our living situation is over at the end of the summer. Then we’ll both walk away—I’ll go back to the city, to my career, and Beck will, well, maybe he’ll stay here, but he knows that I won’t.

Maybe we could have fun together in the meantime.

I clear my throat to turn down the offer, but he’s already gone. I feel bad for half a second, but honestly, it’s a relief to thread my way through the dancing bodies and find Beck. Now he’s dancing with a dark-haired guy with blue eyeshadow and painted-on jeans.

I hover for a second. Maybe this is stupid. Maybe Beck doesn’t want me like I want him. Maybe he’s too smart to get involved with someone as emotionally unavailable as me.

But when he catches my gaze with his, I push away my nerves. This is just Beck. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says back, sounding amused. He doesn’t stop dancing with the guy, who pays no attention to me.

“Can we—” I stall out, not sure what I want to ask for. A dance? A ride home? Hand jobs in the bathroom?

He raises his eyebrows, and the disco lights flash again—red, orange, yellow. By the time they get to blue, I blurt it out: “Are you ready to leave?”

He looks surprised. “Already?”

“Who’s this?” The guy he’s dancing with looks me up and down, his pierced tongue peeking between his lips.

“He’s my roommate,” Beck says, still sounding amused.

“He’s delicious,” the guy says, invitation in his eyes.

I watch Beck’s face carefully, but he doesn’t move to agree or scoff at the guy’s description of me. Damn him and his poker face.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I say, though I’m not sorry in the least. I tug on Beck’s arm and he lets go of pierced-tongue guy.

“What’s going on?” Beck says, following me a few feet away, nearly off the edge of the dance floor. “I thought you had big plans for tonight.”

The song shifts to something boppier. I run my hand through my hair, frustrated that I messed up a perfectly good night to pull, and messed up Beck’s game, too. All because I can’t keep my mind off him, even when we spend half our time together as it is.

“I’m an idiot.”

He grins. “What does that have to do with anything?”

I jut out my chin. “Thanks a lot.”

He laughs. “No, seriously. Is everything okay? Are you feeling okay? What did you drink?”

“I’m fine. We don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I just—I thought—” What am I doing? He doesn’t want me. He wants a real relationship. He wants a forever kind of love. The kind I’ve been telling myself I don’t believe in for the last eight years. The kind I thought I once had for myself.

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