Page 7 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Yeah, I believe that about as much as I believe Damian will ever stop being an entitled prick. The only way Ronnie is dating again anytime soon is if Timothée Chalamet and his chiseled jawline ask her out.

“I see.” I nod slowly, then shoot my free hand out across the table with far more speed than I would expect myself capable of in my hungover state, successfully grabbing her phone before she can intercept me. “Then you won’t mind if I check to see if you really deleted his number?”

“Hey!” She scrambles to retrieve the device, but fails, reluctantly falling back into her seat. She gives me an affronted look when I turn the screen toward her face to unlock it.

As I scroll through her contacts, I think back to freshman year when Ronnie all but dragged me and Andie to her home in Santa Cruz, California, where we then met Jay, who was also staying in the area for spring break.

At the time, Andie and I had both felt so certain he was the one for Ronnie.

And it wasn’t because he was almost disturbingly handsome or English, a lethal combination—not that the latter would have affected her too much seeing as one of her dads is Scottish—but it was the way he had looked at my best friend, like he was Icarus and she was the sun, and he would happily let himself get burned just for the chance, however brief, to be near her.

It’s not unusual for people to be attracted to Ronnie, like Barista Boy with his little heart eyes or the model-pretty retail assistant who helped us pick out some clothes when we went shopping earlier this week just before the new semester started.

She’s gorgeous, after all, inside and out, with a personality as charming and bold as her looks.

But prior to meeting Jay, it seemed like any connection she made only ever scratched the surface, and was always limited to the physical.

And it’s for that reason her relationships never last. Ronnie dates for the person , for the sincerity of their soul, not their gender, and yet, despite always seeing who they are deep down, those same people never seem to see the real her.

They never bother to dig deeper, to try to look past the aesthetically-pleasing exterior.

But with Jay, it was different. From the moment their paths crossed one sunny afternoon on a beach near the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, he looked at her as if he could see past her pretty face to who Ronnie was on the inside.

You had to be blind not to notice it, not to perceive how he hung onto each word she said, like he needed every last one to survive.

Frankly, it looked like love, even though they had only just met.

They spent almost the entire spring break together, and then, at the end of that week, he ghosted her.

No goodbye. No nothing. Not even a break-up message over text or voicemail.

Although she denied it, I knew my horoscope-loving best friend—who believes in fate, and true love, and was so excited by their astrological compatibility—was completely heartbroken and is still torn up about it six months later.

She doesn’t hide it well, and her persistent anger at the mere mention of his name only makes her actual feelings more obvious.

I think it’s the lack of closure that bothers her most. A feeling I understand too well.

Just as I knew I would, I find Jay’s number in her phone—not because I know it, but because I can’t think of anyone else Ronnie would have listed in her contacts as PRINCE DICKFACE followed by seven puking emojis, a Union Jack flag, and a tiny crown.

“Okay, this doesn’t seem healthy,” I mutter as Ronnie stands up, and haughtily snatches the device from my fingers.

“It’s a process,” she retorts, returning to her seat with a huff. “I am healing .”

“And rage-texting Prince Dickface when you’re drunk is part of that process?”

Ronnie gives me a dubious look. “I’m sorry, aren’t we meeting because you just did the walk of shame?”

I open my mouth to deny it but can’t.

“That’s what I thought,” Ronnie says with a victorious smirk. “Nice attempt at deflection, though. Now, spill.”

Grimacing, I set my macchiato down on the table. “What’s the rush? Andie isn’t even here yet, and I know you texted her about this.” That, and I don’t feel like repeating this more times than I physically have to.

Ronnie purses her lips. “She has class right now, actually, which we both know you were already aware of. Stop stalling.”

I shake my head, my efforts to delay my shameful revelation thwarted. “I can’t say it, Ronnie. I’m too embarrassed.”

Her tone is reproachful when she snaps, “You are not withholding on me. Don’t make me unfollow you on TikTok.”

“I don’t have a TikTok,” I remind her. Or an Instagram. Or any social media at all, for that matter. I’m not necessarily against it, it’s just not for me.

Ronnie snorts. “Well, if you did, your attitude would make me unfollow you.” When I still don’t say anything, she prods, “Well? Are you going to tell me, or do I need to torture it out of you?”

Groaning, I cover my face with my hands. The truth is torture enough.

Just say it, I tell myself. Rip off the Band-Aid.

“I had sex with Damian again,” I admit, the words tumbling out in a rush.

The confession leaves my lips just as Ronnie takes a sip of her drink, and she sputters, choking on her latte.

She slams the cup down, rattling the tiny, round table, and coughs a few times to clear her throat.

I spread my fingers and peek at her sheepishly through the gaps.

Behind her, I glimpse the barista staring at us, and I briefly wonder if he’s going to jump over the counter and come offer to give her CPR or, perhaps, a moist towelette, like something out of the bodice-ripping regency romance novels she adores so much.

“I’m…sorry?” she says once she’s composed herself. “I think I just had an aneurysm because I thought I heard you say you had sex with Damian Navarro.”

My hands slide down to cover my mouth, as if doing so will mask my shame.

Gasping, she points an accusatory finger at me.

“I fucking knew it. I knew I saw you two together at the party last night.” She leans back in her chair, her tongue pressing against the inside of her bottom lip, jutting it out in an adorable pout.

After stewing for a few seconds, she asks, “What the actual fuck, Lex? How can someone with such a big brain be so stupid?”

Ronnie was raised here in the States, and she sounds it.

But every once in a while—usually, when she’s angry—a tiny twang comes out, compliments of her father, who was born and bred in Glasgow, and the summers she would spend in Scotland visiting her grandparents as a child.

Her dad—a well-known TV chef—moved to the U.S.

in his early thirties after falling head over heels for an American stunt double who could be Pedro Pascal’s twin, and together, they settled in California where they then got married, and had Ronnie via surrogate.

Having parents with that kind of story, it’s no wonder Ronnie is such a firm believer in true love.

I, on the other hand, never had a relationship like that to look up to. My dad was, and always will be, a deadbeat.

“Trust me,” I say, sinking low into my seat in the hope the ground will open and swallow me whole, “I’m judging myself enough for the both of us. No extra criticism needed.”

“I just… I don’t understand,” she stammers. “After what he did freshman year, how could you let that asswipe touch you again? What, did you trip and land on his dick?”

I reach for my coffee, taking another tentative sip.

“I had a lot to drink. And my contacts were bugging me, so I took them out. You know how blind I am. I couldn’t exactly see him clearly.

” I wince at how bad that sounds, but try my best to appear indifferent, as if this whole ordeal is no big thing and not the worst mistake I could’ve possibly made right at the start of sophomore year.

“I honestly didn’t know who I was going home with. ”

“Wow.” Ronnie arches a disapproving brow. “Drunk You is kind of a slut.”

“Hey,” I scold, “that’s not very uplifting of you. I thought you were all about female empowerment?”

“I apologize,” she says, pressing a hand to her chest in mock deference.

“Of course, you are not a slut. Damian is the slut. And on any other day, under any other circumstance, I would be thrilled that you got out there, and experienced a sexual awakening after all these months of self-inflicted abstinence. I’d love that for you.

Really. I am here for that journey. But Damian ?

” She shakes her head, her pink lips pursing.

“I mean, yeah, he’s super hot and all, so Drunk You can be forgiven for your lapse in judgment on that particular front, but aside from the obvious reason this was a terrible idea, he’s fucked, like, every girl at this school, Lex.

I’m honestly surprised he doesn’t have the clap.

” Then, as if coming to some terrible realization, she mutters, “That we know of. Maybe get tested just to be safe. Who knows, he might be clean, but his dickhead personality could be contagious.”

I groan again, scrubbing a hand over my face. “That’s not helping.”

“I’m sorry”—Ronnie shrugs as if she isn’t really sorry at all—“but Drunk You has hit a new low, babe. I’m just glad Andie isn’t here to witness this. We both know she’d have a lot to say on the matter of your very misguided vagina.”

“Which is exactly why we shouldn’t tell her.”

Ronnie barks out a laugh. “I can’t keep something this good from her. She’s family, bitch. And family spills the tea.”

Hard to argue with that logic. Besides, it would’ve been difficult to withhold this from Andie with the way the three of us are almost always together…and especially given how active the rumor mill is here on campus. Sometimes, I feel like I’m in high school again and not college.