The Studying Hours
Page 20“So Sydney, what else do you like to do for fun.” The tone of my voice is obviously an innuendo, an invitation I’m not quite feeling in my pants.
“Well,” she starts slowly. “I like parties…and sports…and meeting new people…and being friendly.”
Speaking of friendly: the vision of Jameson rising from her seat in the library right before she kissed the shit out of me has me pausing. The black sweater and pearls she had on. The buttoned up green cardigan she had on as she watched me get a hand-job in the hallway of a house party last weekend. The gray one she wore yesterday.
“Hold up. Does she always wear cardigans? I mean, she wears other shit out of the house, right?”
My date hesitates. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve never seen her in anything but sweaters. She owns other clothes, right?”
“Er…are we back to talking about Jameson?”
“She has other clothes in her closet, yeah? Not just all that plain crap? Does she own sweatshirts?”
“Uh…yes. I’ve seen her in other shit.” Sydney’s brow furrows into a pout. “Sorry if I’m coming off as confused, it’s just…I’ve never heard anyone call her plain before. I think you need your head examined.”
She’s probably right because why the fuck am I still talking about this shit?
I grab one of Sydney’s mozzarella sticks, dip it in marinara sauce, and swallow it whole. “I just think it’s weird. She looks like a fucking kindergarten teacher.”
My date shrugs. “She gets that a lot, but that’s not how she is. Trust me.”
“Well that was the weirdest date I’ve ever been on.” Sydney walks in the door of our apartment, throwing her purse on the end of the couch I’m sitting on. “If you can call it that.”
I sit up straighter, my plaid flannel pajama bottoms bunched up around my knees. A piece of red licorice rope hangs out the corner of my mouth as I close my laptop, set it on the coffee table, and lean back into the plush couch cushions.
Trying to appear casual, I slowly drawl out, “What do you mean?”
Sid huffs, banging a few cabinets open and rummaging through them until she finds a clean cup. “He spent the entire time grilling me about you.”
What? “Shut up.”
“For real. The entire time. At first I thought it was cute, you know? I thought he was asking out of polite interest, but then it got really annoying.”
“Sydney, stop it. That’s not funny.”
“I wish I was kidding,” she says as she fills her cup with water then takes a few sips. “Honest to god, James, that guy is so hot. Like, I could see his hard nipples through his shirt. And his tattoos? Gawd, so hot, but not gonna lie—he killed my lady boner by bringing your name up every two seconds.”
“Why would he do that?”
She levels me with a stare. “Gee, I wonder.”
Rolling my eyes, I follow her when she heads toward the bathroom, padding behind her with bare feet. “I mean, not that I care, but what was he asking? Be more specific.”
Shuffling past her into the tiny room, I plop down on the toilet, emit an indignant hmph, and cross my arms as she drones on.
“I know, right? And here’s the crazy part: he was hinting about asking me out again, which I found super bizarre ’cause he didn’t seem to give a crap about anything I was saying.”
“Would you have said yes if he’d asked?”
Say no, say no.
Sydney’s face contorts with an Are you nuts look before shifting her focus into the mirror. “Um, yeah. I mean, I’m not stupid. It’s Oz freaking Osborne. He’s so freaking hot. I swear, I wanted to pet him. Oh my gawd, James, his tattoos got me so turned on—I could have climbed into his lap. My panties are so wet right now.”
Tattoos. Wet. Hot.
“Right,” I deadpan. “Hot.”
And wet.
My roommate pulls out a cotton ball, gets it wet, and begins taking off her mascara. She turns to me with one eye open. “What is with you? You’re acting strange.”
“Me? No I’m not!”
But I am—I totally am.
“He asked for my phone number?”
My roommate laughs. “Yes Jameson, your phone number.”
“Why would he want my number?” I muse, sounding mystified. “That’s so weird.”
“Uh, no it’s not.” Blindly, she fumbles for a towel, her voice muffled when she says, “I swear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think…”
I hold my breath. “Think what?”
“I’d think there was something going on between the two of you besides being study buddies.” She says it warily, as if she’s afraid of what I’ll say next, afraid I might tell her to stay away from him.
“Pfft, please. That’s ridiculous,” I object. “I’ve seen him in the library maybe five times—that’s it.”
“I’m not so sure-er!” she singsongs. Then, lowering her voice, she teases, “What goes on between the two of you in that library, Jameson Victoria Clark?”