Nolan swallows and drops his gaze to my foot, and then back to my gaze. He squats so he’s at eye level with me. I wish he’d stand again. It’s easier to act unaffected when looking at his wall or chest. “I shouldn’t have kissed you because I like you. You have this drive and confidence that is so fucking sexy, and you’re hilarious, beautiful, loyal, and fun. Girls like you deserve a guy who will call every night at nine and be there to walk you to your car and text you back without making you feel needy—but it’s not who I am.”
“I’ve done the serious boyfriend route,” I tell him. “It didn’t work out so well. I don’t even know what I want, what I like. If I were to make a boyfriend list, I wouldn’t be able to tell you what I want from a partner. Having someone call me every night sounds clingy, and I don’t need a guy who gets jealous or wants me to be some virginal princess—I’m not. My entire life is planned. I know adulthood is waiting for me in two and a half years—and I’m not running from it, it’s what I want, but right now, I just want to have fun and not feel the same level of obligation my future holds.”
He stares at me, his hand still on my knee.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not asking you. You’re not on the hook to date me or anything else. We’re friends.” The last word came out surprisingly smooth because it feels like gravel in my mouth, but maybe that’s exactly what Nolan and I are.
“Friends,” he says, as though testing the word out.
“Friends,” I repeat.
Chapter17
Nolan
Iwait outside of Hadley’s public speaking class, every muscle in me aches due to Coach Peters's retaliation for a rogue play Hudson called last Friday against Florida when we couldn’t make ground. Peters didn’t care that we’d won or that we’d made the reels for two separate plays that went viral over the weekend only that we hadn’t fallen into line and did as he called.
The door beside me opens, and the first few people who stream out of the class sigh with relief as though finding freedom.
Hadley steps out, one shoulder sagging under the weight of her bag. Her dark hair is curled in waves today, and her lips are stained the color of strawberries. My chest warms with relief at the sight of her. I watch her take four steps, looking to see if she favors her injured ankle.
After we proclaimed our friendship, we officialized it by spending the day binge-watching half of the first season ofOnly Murders in the Buildingfrom separate ends of the couch. I think we both realized we wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation, even about her speech.
While I drove her home, she told me about her family’s company, her memories of playing at build sites, how her brother and sister often filled the roles of her parents, and her diehard obsession with Taylor Swift. I confessed that my dad signed me up for football because he was worried I didn’t have enough masculine influences, and how the one thing I miss most about Indiana is being home for Thanksgiving because our entire extended family would come over and my grandma made me chocolate cream pie because I hate pumpkin, and we spent the day eating and watching football.
Katie was home when we pulled up, and her anger melted at the sight of Hadley’s bruised ankle, asking me a dozen questions and clarifying what needed to happen with icing and care. She even sided with me when I insisted on carrying Hadley up the stairs.
Our mutual declaration of friendship permitted me to send Hadley four texts on Sunday, reminding her to continue icing.
She threatened to turn off her phone.
I warned her I’d drive over.
She sent me a picture of her foot in a bucket of ice water and half her face as proof.
“How’d your speech go?” I ask, pushing away from the wall to catch up with her.
Hadley spins, visibly startled. Her blue eyes dance with silent questions that she tucks away with a shrug. “I got through the entire speech this time.”
I raise a hand for her to high-five. “Progress.”
She smirks, eyeing my hand suspiciously before obliging. “What are you doing here?”
“Holbrook wants to see you.”
“You’re now his errand boy?” She raises her brow. “I’m good. Great actually.”
“Good. Then it shouldn’t take long.”
She glares. “I have a class in forty minutes.”
“So do I. We’d better get going.”
Hadley clutches the strap of her bag, an objection visible with her twisted lips, but she turns and follows me across the campus.
“I heard you and Katie made up,” she says.
“Mostly.”