Hard Facts by Penny Clarke
13
Grayson
Daylight decreases. Cooler forecasts settle in for the long haul. Out come the hoodies and sweatpants and layered shirts, the flannel sleeves and knitted scarves. Every step on campus is met with scattered seeds and brittle twigs and leaves in a kaleidoscope of vivid earth tones.
And as the season shifts, so do Summer and I fall into routine.
Tutoring lessons. Football games. Sorority socials and volunteer hours. If I thought my already-busy schedule hectic before entering into a relationship—well, now I barely have a moment to consider it, rushing as I am from one obligation to the next.
Strangely, I don’t really… mind it all that much.
Spending time with Summer isn’t just another item to check off my ever-increasing list of tasks. It’s where I forget about all my other worries. The only chance I have in a day to kick back. To get relief from all the thoughts running through my head. Even if it’s just the two of us, meeting for lunch or walking together between classes. Summer fits into my life, as uncomplicated and seamless as a soluble compound sinking into a solvent.
“I thought Regina George was supposed to meet us here.”
Well. Almost.
“Summer got held up at ABB,” I raise one unamused eyebrow at Natalie. One more time, I check the latest update she’d texted. “She’s on her way.”
Barely hiding the furl of her lip, Natalie drinks from her plastic cup and leans back against the house’s stairway banister. Despite it having been a whole month since Summer and I started pretend seeing each other, Natalie has yet to accept it as fact.
“Natalie hates me,” Summer told me at Kellermann’s after one Leopards match, where Natalie spent half the time cheering Morris on and half the time testing Summer on robot movies. When I’d tried to explain that Natalie doesn’t have it in her to hate anyone, Summer shook her head. “Girls know when other girls don’t like them, Rowe. And Natalie hates me.”
She hasn’t since brought it up, and I have yet to touch on the subject again. With either girl. Because I don’t want to upset Summer. And I’m a little apprehensive of what Natalie’s reaction might be. Outside of interactions with Morris, I’d long stopped tracking her behaviors, due to their sheer fickle unpredictability.
Still, that doesn’t stop a large part of me from wanting them to reach some kind of compromise.
Which is maybe why I extended Summer’s invitation of a party to the rest of my friends. That, and Natalie’s insistence that outside of football, I’m never around. Although she seems to be the only one that feels that way, as she’s clung to my side since we got here. Spencer and Levi chat in the kitchen with a mutual friend, while Rylie and Kennedy have been waiting for the bathroom. Morris is conspicuously absent, chewing out one of his new defensive linemen out back, after catching the kid with a joint.
Leaving only Natalie and me to wait in the house’s front hallway for Summer’s arrival.
When she walks through the door a minute later, I wave her over. A few of her sorority sisters sidetrack her (They’d acknowledged me earlier. Since I’d become such a regular fixture at their house, I was even able to greet a few by name), so I point my own beer cup at Natalie and instruct, “Please try to get along.”
“Does Eleanor Ripley get along with Cece Lannister?”
Before I can chastise her comparison—not to mention, the complete butchery of character names, or the franchises’ starkly conflicting genres—Summer’s here. At my side. Arms circling my neck. Dragging me down. Meeting my lips.
And here, possibly, is the best part of this new routine.
Constant contact. Her fingers, patting down my hair. Mine, brushing back her curls. Holding hands. My free arm, easing around her waist. Bringing her body close. From light pecks on the cheek whenever we say goodbye. Or drawn-out liplocks like this, every time we say hello.
To the point that even Natalie—who once squealed at the bar, They’re making out again! No, keep going, Kennedy. Kiss Spencer. Kiss the shit out of him—punches my arm. “Grosssss, stop. Come up for oxygen, you two.”
Summer pulls back, but not away. “Hey, Natalie.”
“Mother of xenomorphs,” Natalie mutters into her cup.
Before Summer, tilting her head in confusion, can ask my friend to repeat herself, I hastily comment, “I don’t think there is any oxygen in this place.”
I wave my cup through the air, which is decidedly… herbal.
Natalie savors a deep inhale. “Yeah, I’m buzzed. And not from the cheap booze.”
“That’s The Green House Effect. If you’re not getting a contact high, then it’s just not a party.”
“You talking shit about me, Summer Prescott?” a guy with dark hair sidles up to our group.
“Just your house, Hunt Hammond.”
For a moment, my side turns cold while she releases me to hug this newcomer.
I force myself not to take it personally. Summer, when she first brought up tonight’s party, made it clear that her friendship with its host, Hunt Hammond, is purely platonic. Except, she admitted—after I’d pushed, because she still struggles, just the smallest bit, with telling me things—for one night, last spring.
And though I’d suspected that was the case, I still hadn’t been fully prepared for my reaction. Smarting, bitter displeasure. Envy, as green as this house’s exterior, or the plant it’s christened after. Made worse, when I asked my friends for more information on this Hunt guy, and their responses had been:
“Rich dude. Fucks around a bunch.” Spencer.
“Isn’t that the guy everyone says has a cucumber down his pants?” This, from Levi.
To which Rylie and Kennedy—eliciting disturbed looks not only from me, but both their boyfriends—not-so-helpfully corrected, “Eggplant.”
“Seriously,” Summer pulls away from him now, wrinkling her nose. “You couldn’t spring for some air fresheners?”
“Babe, the atmosphere is just one of The Green House’s many charms.” He offers up a plate in one hand, heaped with brown squares. “As are our delicious desserts.”
I really have no reason for it. No cause for covetousness. Summer’s always made her position on the matter quite transparent. I kiss lots of boys, Rowe. I’d be putting out in the back seat. Your cock feels above average. Even though we’ve kicked up the physical connection, our snuggling on the football stadium bleachers, or her sitting on my lap at Kellermann’s doesn’t detract from this relationship being, in the end, completely false.
All the same, I press a possessive hand to the small of her back.
“Did you know,” I ask. “Delta-nine-tetrahydrocannabinol is found mainly in the female cannabis plant?”
Hunt blinks, finally noticing me. Next to Summer. My hand on her body. “Huh?”
Summer rolls her eyes, but she leans into my firm touch. “Hunt, Grayson. Grayson, Hunt.”
We give each other tentative nods. His gaze lingers on my arm. “This the boyfriend?”
“My one and only.” Turning, Summer lays her head on my shoulder and brushes her lips over my tight jaw. My stiff shoulders relax, if not from her kiss, then from how fucking good that feels. Her plush body, cozied up to my side. Or better yet, her words. Making my chest, and my ego, swell with pride.
Until Hunt shrugs, saying to Summer when she turns down his brownie plate, “If the kush isn’t your thing, babe, I’ve still got that premium sour diesel upstairs. You liked that last time.”
My chest, and my ego, swell with an entirely different emotion.
A finger jabs repeatedly into my side, stopping me from acting out on the urge to break this guy’s plate over his smarmy fucking head. With an annoyed huff, I slap the hand assaulting me, “This is Natalie.”
It only adds fuels to my irritation, the way Hunt swivels that grin to my friend. All suave and slender charm, as he subtly takes in her pink hair, her collection of bracelets, and, most especially, her low-cut shirt. “Natalie. Brownie?”
“That depends,” Natalie eyes the plate. “Cake or fudge?”
“Fudge, of course.”
“Box mix?”
“I’m offended,” Hunt clasps his chest. “Special family recipe. Emphasis on the special.”
Natalie—Fuck, what?—giggles, taking one. Then, around a mouthful, “Holy shit, this is amazing.”
Summer says wryly, “Didn’t realize you were such a gourmand, Hunt.”
“Gotta keep you guessing somehow.”
Natalie moans at an increasingly disturbing volume. Stop, I mouth at her. Almost missing Hunt whisper something in Summer’s ear.
She waves him off, and I stop holding back a disgruntled glare. Hunt laughs, “Chill, boyfriend. Have a brownie.”
Two fall off the plate when I shove it away. He raises an eyebrow. I mutter a half-assed oops. Natalie gasps in horror.
It’s not that I have anything against his choice of recreational habit. Hell, while Morris spent a brief recess from training to visit his dad out of town this summer, Spencer, Levi, Rylie, and I sat several nights in the living room, debating how we’d survive a zombie apocalypse and ripping fat hits from the bong Levi keeps under lock and key in his closet for such unsupervised occasions.
I just don’t want any from this guy. And it’s got nothing to do with his too-smooth smile, mouthwatering family recipe, or vegetable dick, but everything to do with him seeing my girlfriend naked.
Especially since I’m ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent sure he wouldn’t mind it happening again.
Not a fucking chance.I squeeze Summer closer by the waist. Drift my hand a fraction lower. Dig my fingers into the curve of her hip, just shy of her ass. Both her eyebrows raise at me. And a small voice reminds me that that’s not happening, either.
Because, with every minute we spend together, every affectionate touch, every fucking kiss—it’s becoming harder and harder to remember that this is one-hundred percent pretend.
Hunt shrugs at the lost brownies, leaving them on the floor as he extends his offer to other guests, and why wouldn’t he, since there’s probably more where that came from. Fucking douche.
I almost say so, out loud. Except Natalie forces me to untangle my arm from Summer, pushing me aside.
“Rich girl,” Natalie pokes Summer, then points an eager finger in the direction Hunt left. “You know him?” When Summer hesitantly says that she does, Natalie bites her lip, quickly glancing at Hunt’s retreating form. Then, on a dreamy sigh, she asks, “Give me his number?”
The fuck!?Did those brownies contain some super fast-acting strain of sativa or— “You can’t seriously like that guy, Natalie.”
“Butt out.” Then she hitches an arm over Summer’s shoulders, almost sloshing beer on her heels, and gives me a defiant look, as if to prove a point. See, Gray? We’re getting along, just like you wanted.
I open my mouth to make her see reason, when Morris finds us. He shakes his head, jaw locked in a tight frown.
“Oh, no,” Natalie winces. “Tell me you didn’t totally eviscerate Hofstadler.”
He grunts, “I had to.”
“Theo, he’s just a freshman! Practically a baby.”
“And he fucking knew what he signed up for when he joined my fucking team.” He takes in the three of us, gaze narrowing on Natalie’s arm around Summer, before asking, “Where the fuck are Armstrong and Hart?”
I angle a finger past the dining room, where we can just barely make out Spencer’s hulking figure in the kitchen entryway, Kennedy at his side. Looks like she and Rylie survived the bathroom line.
Morris spots the cup in my hand, shifting that stern captain stare to me. “How many is that?”
“Is it not obvious how utterly shit-faced I am?” I deadpan. Then, tilting the cup so he can see its full contents, “Still on my first, Morris. Barely. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
At that, Summer perks up. “Are you guys ready for it?”
She means ABB’s Fundie Run. Since Morris, after Spencer and I badgered him into it with a hefty wager, had also signed up for it. Not that it had taken much to convince him. Let’s be honest, Morris and a 5k? It’s a done deal.
When we tell Summer that we are, she looks to Natalie. “And you’re sure you can’t make it?”
Natalie drops her arm. Shakes her head. And downs the rest of her drink.
“Nat has to monitor an all-day psych lab,” Morris answers for her. “Meaning she should also take it easy.”
He sends a meaningful look at Natalie’s empty cup. She scoffs. “This was mostly foam—”
“How many, Nat.”
She turns to Summer, who watches Natalie’s flippant dismissal with blatant interest. “So this Hunt guy, I’ve heard—”
“Hunt who?”
“Oh, why, Theo. Hello,” she blinks innocently at him. “Funny, I don’t remember dicks being invited to this very important discourse between women.”
“Nat,” Morris warns.
“Girl. Talk. Theo. Do you not see I am trying to get to know Gray’s lover?” She turns to Summer. “I mean, I assume. Are you guys doing it? Gray won’t tell me. For real, Blondie, how big—”
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I wedge myself between the two girls. Maneuvering Summer around the treats on the floor, I inform Morris, “It’s her fourth drink. And she ate a weed brownie.”
“Hey!” As I take Summer’s hand to lead her away, I hear, “Don’t look at me like that, Theo. Maybe you need a brownie—”
“Damn,” Summer says, glancing back once more before we round the corner into the living room. “Talk about tense.”
“They’ll be fine,” I tell her. Though Morris may be a little worked up and Natalie a lot inebriated, I’ve observed them enough to know their spat will fizzle out the moment one of them says something incredibly inane and the other cracks up in laughter. The former being Natalie, in most cases.
I spot Rylie with a group of other guests, dancing. Over her head, Levi waves at us to join them. When I point them out to Summer, she nods, and I lead her that way. Only to have her pull me to a dead stop in the alcove between the living room and den.
“I meant you,” she says. “With Hunt. Going all caveman on me. Grayson James, were you jealous?”
There’s a glint in her eyes. One that makes my throat turn dry, and I swallow as she backs me against the wall. My gaze drops briefly to the slouching neckline of her sweater dress, before I remind myself to rein it in and meet that teasing silver look.
“Neanderthals are actually genetically fascinating. Did you know—”
Her hands smooth beneath my flannel, thumb popping the topmost button loose. I know she’s only doing it to check on the shirt underneath, which, for once, is just plain white and free of any puns.
But I feel that touch all the way to my twitching cock.
“Do you know what he said to me?” Her hand escapes my button-down. Snakes up to my forehead, where she brushes hair off my temple. Then, she pushes back my glasses when they slip down my nose, my scowl’s so severe. “That whenever you bore me, I can come see him.”
Mother. Fucking. Asshole.
“He’s looking this way now. Still wanna talk about Neanderthals,” Summer nuzzles her nose in my neck. “Or are you gonna do something about that?”
I don’t need to be told twice. And I sure as fuck don’t need to double-check whether or not Hunt is actually watching us. Because fuck him. And fuck if he thinks I’m not enough for my girlfriend.
Because this—clasping Summer’s body against me, cupping the back of her head as I bring her lips to mine—this is more than fucking enough. Feeling her mouth, her breasts, her hips, aggressively pin me to the wall. Hands squeezing my forearms. Frantically clutching at my rolled-up sleeves. Like there’s nothing she’d rather do than strip me of my shirt, right here in front of a whole party of people. I flick her top lip, her tongue, with mine, luring out a breathy moan as a reward, and it’s so overwhelmingly, so implausibly, sofuckingsexy, I have to pull back. And Summer—since she hasn’t had enough—grips my shirt collar and drags me back to do it all over again.
Then I really do need to stop. We don’t often put on a show like this. Repeat our Kellermann’s kiss. I think if we did, I’d combust from such incomplete stimulation. Lose my head with lust. And yes, act like a fucking primitive beast, incapable of all reason and pragmatic thought. Throw Summer over my shoulder and prove to Hunt how not-boring she finds me. Upstairs. In his bed.
Which is why I always put an end to these rare, uninhibited embraces before they go too far. Before I do something embarrassing. Like plead with her to give me all her time, all her attention. To forget the fake part of our relationship. Or, fuck, come in my pants.
Sensing my need to slow down, Summer places soft, open-mouthed kisses along my jaw. She whispers, “I checked my grades earlier today.”
“And?”
“Got a C on that chem test. Plus.” I feel her smile against the skin below my ear, just before grazing the lobe with her tongue. Containing a shudder, I bring my mind back to schoolwork. “What about stats?”
She groans. From annoyance, and not any lingering pleasure, and I find myself chuckling. “Definitely not a C, huh?”
She whines again, slumping in a pout against my shoulder.
“Hey, remember who’s teaching you. We’ll get you there. Chin up.” And I slip a hand under her chin, making her do just that. Until those pewter eyes meet my confident grin, and she rolls them, as I knew she would.
“So smug,” she murmurs against my lips, long lashes drifting shut. And I return this kiss. Slow and sweet, and erasing every thought but ones of her from my mind.