Page 67 of Red Zone
“It was a one-time thing,” I say quickly, before she can make it a bigger deal. “It was late, I was tired…. It just happened. Just a one-time thing to get it out of our systems.”
She grins again, annoyingly knowing. “You’re saying that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
I throw a piece of popcorn at her. “Shut up.”
She catches it in her mouth like a smug little gremlin. “I’m not judging. I’m just impressed. You finally cracked the Carter Hayes code.”
“I don’t want things to be weird with us,” I say, voice softening. “I know you and Carter used to—whatever. Hook up. I needed to make sure I wasn’t breaking some kind of girl code.”
Madison waves a hand. “Please. That thing with me and Carter is ancient history and had all the emotional depth of a spoon. You’re not breaking anything.”
I study her face. “You sure?”
She nods. “Swear on my favorite mascara.”
“Damn. That’s serious.”
We fall quiet for a beat. Then she nudges me. “But just so you know? I don’t buy that ‘one time’ crap. He was never like thatwith me. Ever. And you, my girl, currently have cheeks the same color as your hair.”
“I am not flustered.”
“You are a flustered liar.”
“Let’s change the subject before I smother you with this couch cushion.”
She chuckles. “Fine. Thanksgiving?”
I sag in relief. “Yeah. I’m going with my dad to see my grandma. Her house still smells like cinnamon and cats, but I kind of love it. His girlfriend and her daughter are coming too.”
“Emmy is going?”
“Yep.”
“The one who said you were ‘too Type A to be fun’?”
I sigh. “Mmhmm. Should be a blast.”
She cringes. “Yikes. Well, I’ll be eating my body weight in carbs at Jaxon’s house.”
I raise a brow. “He invited you home?”
“Yep.”
I grin. “You gonna survive seeing the whole Montgomery clan after this many years?”
“Unclear. But if I die, bury me in black and make it dramatic.”
I snort and toss a blanket over her. “Deal.”
The hum of low conversation fills the classroom as I flip open my laptop and click into the project proposal doc I stayed up way too late working on. My professor’s nowhere to be found—probably still stuck in her office—and the TA, Callie, is making the rounds, crouching down at tables, giving feedback in her usual overly peppy tone.
She’s actually nice. But I’ve seen her reduce grown frat bros to tears with her “constructive criticism.”
I’m next.
Deep breath.
Callie slides into the seat beside me and rests her elbow on the table like we’re besties. “Okay, Lyla. What are you thinking for your final?”
