It’s not a phase.
It’s here to stay.
I’m in love with my best friend.
With the girl who ran in the rain for me.
With the girl who did my homework all the way through elementary and high school so I could concentrate on my football, and gave me pointers and summaries when we walked to school together every day.
With the girl who believed in me before even I believed in myself.
And showed up at my games every weekend, her textbooks on her lap, doing homework in-between cheering for me.
I’m in love with my roommate.
With the girl who cuts my hair and knows my favorite color is black and my favorite food is Cajun fried catfish.
With the proud owner of the sweetest pussy in Louisiana.
I’m in love with Jolie Louis.
And I’m going to conquer her. Consequences be damned.
“I just had the best date of life yesterday. Not an exaggeration. A fact,” Chelsea swoons, throwing her arms across the library desk and burying her head between them. She blows a lock of raven hair from her face. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes are bloodshot, and her huge smile is telling me that she is crushing hard, all while riding the mother of all natural highs. I sit across from her, smiling as I rearrange my sensible blouse. I’ve always pegged myself as a maternal chick. It’s not the most feminist thing in the world to admit, but I already know my most rewarding role in life will be being a mom. But Chelsea? She’s something else. She aspires to become a nanny after we graduate. Save up for a few years before becoming a mother herself. She’s got a wedding and (at least) four kids on her (utterly crazy) brain twenty-four-freaking-seven.
“Where did Mark take you?” I probe, pretending to be typing on my MacBook. Really, I’m just stalling and trying to look like everything is okay. Like I’m not a mess of epic proportions. Sage and I haven’t spoken a word to each other today. No texting. No stumbling together, laughing in the hallway. Even the drive to campus was silent. He tapped the wheel, I texted my mama, and liked every single thing my friends posted on Facebook. It was awkward to say the least.
“We had a picnic under the stars. Then we went to my place. Nikki is gone for the week, so we had the place to ourselves. We watched Suicide Squad. Then we…” She blushes, looking away. “Then we did other stuff. And, so, yeah, he’s a great guy.”
“I’m so happy for you.” And I am. A friendship ain’t worth the time you spend together unless you can wholeheartedly feel the joy and love your peer experiences when something amazing happens to them.
“Thank you, sweets. So, what about you? Still mad about that jackass, Brandon? You should really put yourself out there more, lady. Guys will be lining up as soon as you give them the signal you’re interested.” She wiggles her brows and closes her thick textbook. I offer her a weak smile, looking around us to make sure the library is deserted. It is. I haven’t told her about the whole fake relationship with Sage yet. I kind of figured it would run its course before we even had the chance to explore it, as with many of Sage’s crazy ideas. I was even partly right. True, I did most of the ruining of said fake relationship, but it doesn’t matter. Not really. I don’t, however, want to keep anything from Chelsea.
“I kind of hooked up with Sage this past week. Nothing too serious. We just messed around.” I drum my collarbone with my fingers.
“I know,” she says, straight-faced. I raise an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Dude, I know, Penny knows, every single person on campus knows,” she reports nonchalantly, downing the rest of her latte and throwing the cup into the trash at the side of our desk, shrugging. “Mark and I talked about it. Sage told him. Apparently, he told the whole football team that if they as much as breathe in your direction, he’d cut their noses off. Kind of possessive, if you ask me. Never thought he was the caveman type.”
I’m staring at Chelsea with my mouth agape, realizing that it’s not a good look, and yet too shocked to respond coherently.
I look around me. There is only one more desk occupied in the whole library other than Chelsea’s and mine. It’s a bunch of sorority girls sitting across the room with their feathery pink pens and white, lush cardigans and blonde, high ponytails. They’re staring at me, and I know why. If eyes could stab, I’d be bleeding to death on the floor. To them, Sage is not a real person, with a story, a personal tragedy, and complex personality traits. He’s a legend. A status symbol. Like a Ferrari or a Versace item. Fierce protectiveness grips my throat. I don’t know how I’d be able to live if I ever found out that he got married to this type of girl. The ones who see him for so much less than who he is.