Page 53 of Night Shift

“Are you getting sick again?” Margie asks me when she catches me slumped over the front desk with my head buried in my arms. “Because if you are, just go home. Don’t even clock out. I’ll say you were here, and they’ll pay you for the full shift.”

I almost take her up on the offer. But I’m stubborn, so I stay. That’s why. No other reason. Not because I keep watching the front doors. Not because I keep imagining that I hear them creak open, see a glint of light off the glass, catch the movement of a tall, dark-haired boy coming inside. Every time, my chest seizes up with panic.

Because if Vincent walks into the library, then I’ll have to face what happened last night. Which means I’ll have to confront all the evidence indicating Vincent hooked up with me more for his friends’ sake than for his own—the audience at Starbucks, Jabari presenting me as a birthday gift, the kid at the bar trying to get us upstairs to Vincent’s room, our unbalanced alone time (Kendall, 1; Vincent, 0), my missing underwear—and, perhaps even worse, all the evidence I’m still clinging to that it all meant as much to him as it did to me.

But luckily for me, I don’t have to unpack all that tonight.

There’s no sign of Vincent.

Of course there isn’t, that pessimistic voice in my head whispers. He’s already gotten what he wanted.

• • •

On Saturday, Clement has an away game. I only know this because I make the mistake of opening Twitter while I’m supposed to be reading Chaucer, and the first thing that pops up on my feed is a clip of Vincent triumphantly sinking a three-pointer.

I slam my phone face down on the kitchen counter. It doesn’t help. When I squeeze my eyes shut, I still see him—his bare arms flexing, his hair dark against his sweat-dampened forehead, his mouth curled up into a cocky smile as the blurred crowd in the background jumps to their feet to cheer and applaud him.

Good for him. Glad he’s doing well.

I snatch up my highlighter and recommit myself to wading through Chaucer and his archaic English, which is suddenly less painful in comparison. Nina, who’s washing her weekly collection of water glasses and mugs in the sink across from me, arches an eyebrow.

“You good?”

“Fantastic,” I mumble.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” she says, “and you should reach out to Vincent.”

I flip the page of my book a little too hard. It tears a little at the bottom, right along the spine.

“And why would I do that?”

Nina slaps the faucet off and sets another glass on the drying rack. “Because your pity party has turned into a forty-eight-hour rager, and it must be getting exhausting. You did it. You were appropriately miserable. Now can you please talk it out with him so you can either make up or, like, vandalize his car Carrie Underwood style? Anything but this sad girl hour shit.”

“I am not sad.”

“Right. Sorry. My bad—you’re a coward.”

The word lands like a brick.

“I beg your pardon?”

Nina smiles, just a little, like my reaction confirms it. “I’m not trying to insult you, so I’ll make this nice and simple. Do you still want to be with Vincent or not?”

I swallow hard. “Not anymore.”

“Because his teammates will know? And you can’t bear the thought of people knowing that you—a grown woman—want to fuck another consenting adult?”

“Because I felt objectified,” I correct. “You were there, Nina. I saw your face. You got the same sketch vibes that I did. Jabari left Harper upstairs and went to hold another girl’s hand. The rest of the team was trying to get me alone with Vincent. There was a team mission. What if it was a game to them? What if they were keeping score? Boys do that. I’ve read articles about sports teams that have spreadsheets.”

Nina narrows her eyes at me. “You think Vincent’s teammates tried to hook you guys up?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“So, they did exactly what Harper and I were doing?”

I open my mouth, then shut it, then try again. “It’s different. You know it’s different.”

“How is it different?”

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