College Ruled

thirty-three

33
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THIRTY MINUTES later, I find myself sitting in front of the property's pond, beside a fire, sandwiched between Wes and Preston's lawn chairs.

In pants.

And a sweater — Grayson's, long and fluffy and so soft I could die — but by the grateful look he shot Chris when she finally passed me off a pair of mom jeans, you'd think the pants were all that mattered.

The man in question is on the back patio, huddled in another one of his sweaters. Him and Maverick lean over the small grill, speaking low and rushed.

I huff and sink lower into my lopsided folding chair, absolutely not wondering what they're talking about. Not at all. Especially not when tank-top-wearing Andy waltzes over and injects herself into their conversation.

        Probably to fawn over how good Grayson looks in white (god does he look good). Or to apologize for cheating, for the messy disaster of their breakup, to confess her undying love and her desire to take him back. Or maybe just to ask him to go back inside and rail her on the —

"They're talking about meat."

I nearly fall out of my chair, drawn so quickly out of my quiet spiral it takes me another second to realize Preston is staring at me.

        "What?"

        A smirk teases the corner of his mouth. He juts his chin toward the smoking grill.

        "Grayson always cooks the steaks medium rare. Maverick always tries to convince him to cook them rare. And then of course there's Andy, who's gonna insist on well done," he says, shrugging. "It's an argument as repetitive as any tradition."

       I spare the arguing trio another curious glance.

       "Meat."

       "Yep." Preston shoves at my shoulder. He shakes his head in a laugh and takes a swig of the beer resting on his bent knee. "Meat."

        "How fun—"

        "Okay, let's forget about the meat for a second," interrupts Wesley. He pops out of his chair and scoots it closer to me, plopping back down in an exasperated huff. "Do you hate me?"

       Preston sighs. "For fuck's sake, Wes."

       "Of course not," I say, frowning.

       "You should at least think about it," Preston drawls, "He did interrupt a full weekend of boning."

       "Unintentionally, dickhead," grumbles Wesley.

        Preston shrugs. "Tomato, tomahto."

        "Fuck—"

        "Remi," Christina calls from the back patio, saving me from the images of Grayson and I boning that are fluttering rapidly through my head. She's huddled in an oversized cardigan that falls off her shoulders as she makes her way toward the fire pit. She drops at my feet, pulling her knees to her chest and leaning her back against my shins.