Page 25 of Give In

“Shit! Sorry. Forget I was here!” I heard Holden apologize. “I was looking for… someone. Sorry. I didn’t see anything. I’m leaving.” He closed the door before yelling one last muffled, “Sorry!”

“I’m sorry,” Brooks apologized. I thought he was referring to the interruption, but he pulled away and handed me my sweater. “I didn’t mean for it to get that far. Don’t get me wrong, Iwantthings to get that far, but not in the middle of a party. And not when we’ve been drinking. I mean, I want you any time, but—”

“It’s okay,” I reassured him. “I know what you mean. Want to head back downstairs?” Standing, I fixed my pants before slipping my sweater on. When he didn’t respond, I looked to where he still sat on the edge of the bed. “Brooks?”

“I do, but… Shit. I can’t yet.”

It took me a second to notice his posture and the shirt he had strategically placed on his lap.

Oh!

Ohhhhhh.

“Do you wanna just hang out up here for a while?”

He shook his head. “You and me in my room alone isn’t going to help. Head downstairs, I’ll be right there.”

“Right. Okay.” Leaving the room, I stopped in the bathroom again to take a second to clear my head.

It was a good thing Holden had come in. Fueled by cheap beer, weightless happiness, and repressed hormones, I’d been about to add another tight knot to the mess that was my life.

With all the risks, expectations, and emotions, sex was messy—literally and figuratively. It was fun and pleasurable, but I was strung too tight to really enjoy it. To me, it was an exhausting hassle that always ended with someone having their feelings hurt.

And I didn’t want that for Brooks.

As I turned into the hallway to head downstairs, I almost bumped into a familiar looking brunette.

“Oops, sorry.” I moved to go around her.

“Hey, you’re in one of my classes, right? With Nixon?”

“Eden.”

“I’m Miranda. You’re here with Brooks, aren’t you?” she asked in a dramatic whisper that smelled like she’d drunk a whole liquor store mixed with only a single shot of fruit juice.

“Yup.”

“Are you guys a couple?”

What are we?

“We’re… friends?” I offered as I started walking.

She walked with me, continuing her interrogation. “You have Caine’s class with him, right?”

Caine. Everyone just calls him Caine except me. I call himProfessor, and I’m the only student he’s a sucky professor to.

It’s ironic or coincidental or whatever the correct, un-Morrissette definition is.

I should just start calling him Caine like them.

My drunken internal dialogue meant I hadn’t answered her, but she didn’t seem to care.

“I wish I had that class,” she said. “Caine’s so gorgeous. One of my girlfriends is in his Tuesday-Thursday class, and she said he’s a sensitive, old soul.”

I snorted my disagreement.

Luckily, Miranda was so drunk and wrapped in her fantasy Caine, she didn’t notice. “He always goes out of his way for his students. She said he’s really gentle about it—”