Page 81 of Night Shift

“What are your parents like?” I blurt, mid–Frank Ocean.

Vincent casts me a quick glance, and it occurs to me that he probably didn’t anticipate seeing me today, much less getting head in the back corner of a bookstore and being grilled on his family ten minutes later.

But then he answers, very confidently, “They’re the best. Kind. Supportive. Just, like, ridiculously good human beings. My dad’s in biomedical engineering—like surgical implants and prosthetics and stuff—and my mom used to teach fifth grade, but she started a ceramics studio with some friends a few years ago, so now they all make pottery full-time. They’ve got a whole business going.”

Something in my chest tugs at the way his eyes light up.

“How’d they meet?” I ask.

“Basketball.”

I arch an eyebrow. “They’re both really fucking tall, aren’t they?”

Vincent nods. “Very. You’ll like them. And my mom will love you—not just because you’re tall, I mean. You’re just more artistic than me and my dad. She’ll appreciate having someone on her team.” His eyes cut over to me. “They’re coming up here for our next home game, actually. You can meet them.” He adds, a beat later, “If you want to. We don’t have to do a whole meet-the-family thing so soon—”

I cut in before he can overthink it. “I want to.”

Because I do. Even though I know I’ll be a nervous wreck and I’ll probably humiliate myself trying to impress the wonderful people who gave Vincent life, I want to meet them, and I want to tell them, to their faces, what a good job they’ve done of raising their son.

Vincent beams at me and reaches across the console to grab my hand.

He keeps hold of it as we sit through the rain-soaked traffic, and as we circle my block for ages waiting for street parking to open up, and as I slide my key into the door and lead him into my dark apartment. It isn’t until I trip over my backpack, which is still sitting where I shrugged it off in the front hall before I ran out to do my whole grand gesture thing, that Vincent lets go of my hand so I can smack on some lights.

And then it’s just the two of us, standing there.

In my apartment.

Where I live.

Whatever sex goddess possessed me in the bookstore has been replaced by the spirit of a middle schooler at her first co-ed dance.

“Can I take your jacket?” I ask, because that seems like something a good host would do. It’s not until I have it hooked over my arm that I remember the front hall closet is packed tight with women’s outerwear and Nina’s overflow collection of costumes she’s stolen from theatrical productions. I shuffle back and forth for a moment before draping Vincent’s jacket over the back of one of the kitchen stools. Vincent’s lips twitch, but he refrains from commenting on my hospitality.

“Wanna give me the tour?” he suggests as we kick off our wet shoes.

“Sure. This is, um, the kitchen.” I gesture toward what is very obviously a kitchen. “And this is our living room. Sorry about the mess. Nina was packing for this improv festival. Um. That’s her room. And there’s Harper’s. And mine is—mine is over here.”

“Lead the way,” Vincent says with a nod.

I wish I’d cleaned up a little before I ran to the bookstore. My bed is made, and my floor was vacuumed in the last few days, but my desk is a certifiable disaster. The entire surface is covered in stacks of notebooks, loose pens, scented candles, skincare products, makeup, and one individually wrapped tampon that I want to drop-kick into orbit. The IKEA bookshelf wedged into the corner beside it is overflowing with an unholy mix of old YA, English literature from all centuries and genres, and romance novels with varying degrees of heat. Even the corkboard hung on the wall is littered with photos and ticket stubs and business cards.

Naturally, Vincent heads right for the mess.

I’m immediately self-conscious. It’s only fair that he gets to snoop. I’ve used his bathroom. I’ve orgasmed in his bed. I can bite my tongue and let the boy look through my stuff. But that doesn’t mean I’m not dying inside.

I peel off my rain-damp cardigan to deposit it in my laundry basket, dart over to my bed to fluff the pillows and pat down the lumps in my duvet, then shift my weight between my feet and search the room for something else to fuss with. My eyes land on Vincent. His broad shoulders are bent over and his head is tilted to the side to read the spines of the books on my shelf. The sight of him like this—in my room, in a sweater and rain-speckled jeans and just his socks—is so domestic that it makes my heart clench. I want to wrap him up in a blanket and keep him here forever.

I wonder if he felt the same way when he had me in his room.

“Would you sit down?” Vincent says. “You’re giving me secondhand anxiety.”

I huff and sink into my desk chair, tucking my hands under my thighs so I can’t fidget with them anymore. Vincent raises an eyebrow as if to ask, You okay?

“I’ve never had a boy over before,” I admit. “Well, Perry Young came over to my house, but that was freshman year of high school, and my parents were there the whole time, so that doesn’t really count.”

Vincent snorts. “They chaperoned your date? Brutal.”

“It wasn’t a date. We were partners on a project for honors English. And I was a solid ten inches taller than him, so there was zero romantic interest from either end. There’s a picture of us at senior prom up there—top left corner.” I pop up to my feet and point it out on the corkboard. “We didn’t go together. It was a group picture. But, look, I’m not even wearing heels.”

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