Page 11 of The Girlfriend Goal

"So he definitely likes you."

I looked up from my perfectly organized study materials to find Jared sprawled across my bed, still glowing from his reconnaissance mission.

"Who?"

"Lance. Keep up." He rolled onto his stomach. "His face when I mentioned you coming home flustered was priceless. Like a puppy who'd been caught eating homework. Also, his roommate is stupidly hot."

"Matt?" I tried to picture him through Jared's eyes. "I guess. If you like the whole athletic golden retriever thing."

"I very much do." He sighed dreamily. "He spilled coffee on himself when I walked in. It was adorable. Then he tried to use 'refrigerator' as an example of his extensive vocabulary."

"That sounds about right."

"Is he single? You've been spending all this time with Lance—"

"For our project!"

"—and you haven't asked about his hot roommate?" Jared threw a pillow at me. "I overheard him call me ‘a demon sent to test him.’" Jared hugged the pillow. "I've never been someone's test before."

"That's definitely not true. Remember Kyle from theater? You made him question his entire sexuality."

"That was different. This guy already knows he's bi. I saw his dating apps open on his phone." He sat up. "Let’s go get some breakfast."

"I have class in an hour."

"Skip it."

"I don't skip class."

"You also don't stay out until 2 AM with hockey players, yet here we are." He was already pulling me out of my chair. "Come on. I promise to stop teasing you about Lance if you come to breakfast with me."

"You're lying."

"Obviously. But I'll keep it to a minimum." He grabbed my backpack. "Besides, don't you want to see if they show up?"

"Why would they show up?"

"Because I may have mentioned we sometimes get breakfast at the Pancake House on Thursdays."

"Jared!"

"What? I'm being proactive about my love life. You should try it sometime."

Fifteen minutes later, we were sliding into our usual booth at the Pancake House, me with my color-coded planner and Jared with his phone out, pretending he wasn't checking the door every thirty seconds.

"So," he said, failing at casual, "tell me about Matt."

"He's Lance's best friend. They've lived together since freshman year. He's actually pretty funny when he's not trying to hook up with everything that moves."

"Everything?"

"I think his goal is to date at least one person from every sports team before graduation."

"Ambitious. I respect that." He flagged down the server for coffee. "What else?"

"He makes Lance look responsible by comparison, which is saying something. Apparently once tried to do laundry in their dishwasher."

"Did it work?"

"According to Lance, it just created very clean but very wet clothes."

"Innovative." Jared was fully charmed. "Is he smart?"

"He's pre-med, actually. Wants to be a sports physician. He just hides it behind the whole dumb jock thing."

"A hot pre-med disaster bi who plays hockey and can't do laundry." Jared clutched his chest. "It's like someone built him in a lab specifically for me."

"You just met him. And you once swore off athletes forever after that lacrosse player—"

"We don't talk about Brendan." He waved it off. "Besides, that was lacrosse. Totally different energy."

The bell above the door chimed, and Jared's entire body went rigid. I didn't need to turn around to know who'd walked in.

"Be cool," I hissed.

"I'm always cool." But his voice had gone up half an octave.

"Well, well." Lance's voice carried that particular brand of confidence that made my stomach do inappropriate things. "Fancy seeing you here."

I turned, aiming for nonchalant. "Fletcher. What a coincidence."

"Right. Total coincidence." He slid into the booth next to me, close enough that I could smell his shampoo. Something pine-scented and annoyingly appealing. "Definitely not because Jared mentioned you have breakfast here on Thursdays."

"Traitor," I muttered to Jared, who was too busy staring at Matt to respond.

Matt stood awkwardly beside our table, looking everywhere except at Jared. "Hey. Hi. Hello. All the greetings."

"Smooth," Jared said. "Did you practice that?"

"I did, actually. Lance made me rehearse in the car." He finally made eye contact. "I also practiced an apology for the coffee thing. Want to hear it?"

"Desperately."

"I'm sorry I spilled coffee and forgot how words work. You're very pretty and it broke my brain temporarily." He paused. "Wait, that came out different than I practiced."

"I like this version better." Jared scooted over. "Sit. You can tell me more about your broken brain."

And just like that, they were in their own world, Matt sliding in next to Jared and immediately launching into what appeared to be a competitive analysis of their coffee preferences.

"That was smooth," I told Lance. "Very subtle."

"Matt hasn't shut up about Jared since he left. It was either this or listen to him write poetry about his hair."

"Matt writes poetry?"

"Badly. It's mostly just words that rhyme with 'pretty.' There are surprisingly few." He stretched his arm along the back of the booth, not quite touching me but close enough that I was hyperaware of its presence.

In the morning light streaming through the diner windows, I could see the tiredness around his eyes, the tension he carried in his shoulders.

His fingers drummed against the booth, that nervous rhythm I was starting to recognize.

"I made an appointment at the learning center.

Next Tuesday. They said the testing takes like four hours, which seems excessive, but whatever.

" He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal, but I could see the anxiety in the set of his jaw.

"Would you maybe come with me? Not for the actual testing, just moral support or whatever. "

My heart did something complicated in my chest. "Yeah. Of course."

"Thanks. It's not a big deal."

"Lance, it's okay for it to be a big deal."

He looked at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression.

"Order up!" The server appeared with menus. "What can I get you folks?"

We ordered—Lance getting what appeared to be half the menu while I stuck to my usual fruit and granola. Across from us, Matt and Jared had progressed to sharing Matt's pancakes while arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

I caught Lance's eye and we shared a moment of mutual amusement at our friends' ridiculous flirting disguised as food discourse.

"Five bucks says they're making out within a week," he murmured.

"You're on. Jared has a three-week rule."

"Matt has no rules. This should be interesting."

We fell into comfortable conversation, the kind that had been happening more frequently during our study sessions.

He told me about the community center, how Marcus had shown up early yesterday to practice drills.

I updated him on our project timeline, pretending not to notice when he used his phone to record my explanation for later review.

"So," he said as our food arrived, "the hockey game was yesterday."

"It was fine. I was there for academic purposes. Observing athletic performance for our project."

"Right. That's why you jumped up when I made that save in the third period. Very academic. Admit it. You enjoyed it."

"It was more interesting than I expected," I conceded.

"Does that mean you'll come to more games?"

"I'll consider it, for the project."

He was smiling that genuine smile that made my defensive walls feel increasingly pointless.

Across from us, Matt had now progressed to feeding Jared bites of his omelet while Jared pretended to be offended by the very concept of eggs.

"This is disgusting," Jared said, accepting another bite. "How do you make eggs this fluffy?"

"It's all in the wrist motion."