Page 50 of Can't Kiss the Chef

Four votes and a victory for Lola. We don’t even need Dalton’s vote.

“Aaron, are you fucking kidding me?” I groan as Lola begins jumping up and down.

“I always knew I would come out on top,” Lola whispers, so only I can hear her when I offer her a hug.

“You always were better on top.”

Lola pulls her head away from her chest like it just caught fire.

“Right when I was thinking we could have a mature friendship,” she scoffs.

19

Lola

If you ever need a place to overthink, sitting in your car waiting for your brother and his drunk friends is prime real estate.

I’ve done some regretful things in those Hickey dorms–it’s never not funny to say–my freshman year but none of them compare to having the dog of the guy you used to date pee on the guy you’re currently dating.

The clock on my dash reads 12:27pm. Nearly thirty minutes past the time I told Oliver I was going to pick him up. I drew the short stick or rather lost a game of rock, paper, scissors and I am now tasked with getting the freshmen on the hockey team to Fall Fest.

This year, we splurged on a couple of hotel rooms so I need my brother to get his ass down here because I need a drink.

The clock flips to 12:33pm

Where is he?

I’m about to punch in the last digit of Oliver’s phone number when I see him. Body relaxed, eyes soft, smile threatening his lips. Casual, on his own time.

He keeps his leisurely pace even after he spots my car. His teammates are laughing at something he said, each one with a different drink in their hand.

Without an ounce of remorse, Oliver comfortably slides into the front seat. I snatch the to-go cup in his hand, before I’m even able to pull off the lid my body rejects the smell of cheap vodka and cranberry juice.

The oversized man-children, who are relying on me for a ride, burst into laughter.

“I have no problem leaving you on the side of the road.” I snarl.

The threat doesn’t do much, my dry heaves don’t instill much fear. I can only hope they fare better at the smell of Well’s vodka by the time they are seniors.

“It’s okay, Lowy.”

He didn’t just fucking Lowy me. I hate that nickname.

“We all know what happens when you get old,” He informs me. If his glazed over eyes are any indication we are going to be in for a long day.

“From a Fall Fest veteran, my advice is to remember that today is a marathon not a sprint.”

The faces in my rearview mirror fall in awe like I’m some modern day Socrates. When in reality, I’m a senior in college who has spent one too many nights hugging the toilet.

I nearly cried from laughing so hard when we pulled into the hotel’s parking lot. I’m not sure who decided it was a good ideato throw eighteen year olds on to the co-ed floor the moment they got some freedom, but they are truly insane.

The car carrying my friends pulls up not even thirty seconds later, and we all walk into the hotel’s lobby. The modern-looking ski lounge is a far cry from anything you’d see in Westvale.

Windows that have to be two stories high stretch from the floor to the ceiling, framing the most picturesque mountain views. Faux fur blankets lie behind the couches making it feel like staying at a friend’s house, not a two-hundred and fifty room resort.

I’m not sure how Indy snagged rooms here last minute. It’s a stone’s throw to the town center and has everything we’ll need for a one-night stay, including a ropes course through the mountains that I’m dying to do.

While everyone is dropping their bags off in their rooms I add to the Friendship-Do list.

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