CH - 21 SUMMER

So I guess nobody talks about oral sex anymore? We just perform it on

each other and hand out orgasms willy-nilly and it never gets discussed

again? Is this the world we're living in? If so, I'm going off the grid. I'll

build a shack in the middle of the woods where there isn't a penis in sight.

Forest animals have penises, Summer.

"Oh, shut up, Selena," I mumble. "I love you, but I don't need this today."

My row-mate Ben glances at me, sighs, and then returns his gaze to the front

of the lecture hall. He's grown accustomed to my cat-lady ramblings. I'm not

certain if that's a good thing or a bad one.

It's been two days since the locker room incident, and Fitz has been

completely MIA. Gone in the afternoons (holed up in the painting studio,

according to Hollis), hasn't had dinner (or any meals, for that matter) at home,

and both nights he's come back around midnight and proclaimed to be SO

TIRED when I tried to talk to him.

You know what I have to say to that?

Fuck you very much, Colin Fitzgerald. That's the last time his dumb penis

goes anywhere near my sacred mouth. A girl's got to have standards.

Brenna echoes that sentiment when I text her after class with a Fitz update.

ME: Still no mention of the BJ. Last nite he said he had a migraine and locked

himself in his room. This morning he left for practice at 5am. Snuck out like a

thief in the night

BRENNA: Men are garbage

ME: They're pure trash

BRENNA: Trash garbage

I send her the poop emoji, because I can't find a garbage-bag emoji and poop

is an adequate alternative.

BRENNA: All seriousness--I'm sorry, GB. Never thought Fitz was trash

garbage, but people are full of surprises

ME: So are Dumpsters

BRENNA: lolololololol

I grin to myself as I slide my phone into my tote. The Prada bag smells like

delicious new leather, a scent that never fails to cheer me up. It showed up on

my doorstep yesterday morning courtesy of UPS and Nana Celeste. I swear that

woman can sense whenever her grandbabies are upset. It's like she possesses

internal radar that shouts "Quick! Call Prada!" if one of the grandkids so much

as gets a paper cut.

Not that I'm complaining about my gorgeous new tote. I'm not a crazy

person.

I descend the steps toward Laurie's lecture podium. It's not his office hours,

but he agreed to see me after the lecture so I could start writing my midterm

today instead of waiting till Wednesday for him to approve my thesis.

And the good thing about Erik Laurie teaching History of Fashion as well as

serving as my independent-study advisor is that I'm able to kill two birds with

one stone—I can get my thesis green-lit and give him an update on my

swimwear line in one shot.

I still can't quite explain it, but the man continues to creep me out. Everyone

else adores him, especially the girls. They laugh at all his jokes. They tolerate his

winking disorder.

And then there's me, who leaves every encounter with him feeling like I

need a shower. He reminds me of that intolerable character from Harry Potter—

Gilderoy Lockhart, only the film version of him that Kenneth Branagh knocked

out of the park. Laurie isn't as flamboyant, but, like Lockhart, he comes off as a

vain egomaniac who wants everyone to love him.

Or rather, who assumes they already do.

I know it's a harsh assessment, and I try to push it out of my mind as I

approach my professor.

"Winter!" he teases. "I enjoyed your thoughts in class today."

"Thanks."

He shuffles a few papers, then glances beyond my shoulder and nods at

someone. I turn and realize Nora is waiting a discreet distance away.

"There's another student I need a progress report from, so this will be

quick," he informs me.

Thank God. The quicker, the better.

He reads over my thesis for the midterm, suggests two minor tweaks, and

signs off on it. Once that's out of the way, I fill him in on the fabric order I

placed. The Fashion department has a decent selection of free fabrics for

students to use, but we're also able to buy our own if we choose to do so. Since

several of my bikini tops are crochet, I had to order a more lightweight yarn that

doesn't stretch or shrink if it gets wet. Laurie approves of the choice, nodding in

agreement when I explain the reasoning behind it. I conclude by giving him an

update on the models I plan to recruit.

He throws his head back in laughter when I mention I'd like to ask some

football players to model the men's line. "That's a great idea, Summer. That'll

definitely sell some tickets. And for the women's pieces?"

"I'm not sure yet."

He winks. "So you haven't changed your mind about modeling one of the

swimsuits yourself?"

Ugh.

Why.

Just why, Gilderoy.

I force a laugh. "Nope, still not interested."

"What a shame. All right, let's touch base at the end of the week." He rests

his hand on my shoulder before giving it a light squeeze.

And either I imagine it, or his fingertips graze the nape of my neck when I

turn to walk away.

Disgust crawls up my spine. It takes a serious effort not to Usain Bolt out of

the lecture hall. Instead, I move at a normal pace and act as if I'm not completely

repulsed by the potential neck graze.

"Nora, I'll be with you in a minute," Laurie tells her, stepping away to

answer a call on his cell.

"He's all yours," I murmur to Nora.

She makes a sardonic noise under her breath. "Doesn't look that way from

where I'm standing."

I turn to frown at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She checks to make sure Laurie is still on the phone, before sniping, "Don't

you get tired of using your looks to get ahead?"

"What are you talking about? I'm not using anything."

"You've got Laurie wrapped around your little finger. He drools every time

you walk in the room. He acts like every word you say is worthy of a Pulitzer. I

swear, if he wasn't already on his feet, he'd give you a standing ovation every

time you opened your mouth."

I clench my jaw so tight my teeth start to hurt. "It's not like I'm asking him

to do that. I'm actually interested in the material we're discussing."

"I'm sure you are." She rolls her eyes, tucking a strand of pink-streaked hair

behind her ear. "Maybe if you spent less time flirting and more time learning,

you wouldn't have gotten kicked out of your last school."

"Uh-huh. Have a good day, Nora."

My hands are trembling as I stalk off. She is such a nasty person. I can't

believe Fitz liked her enough to go out with her.

I wonder if she gave him a blowjob and he ignored her afterward too.

The reminder floods my belly with the heat of embarrassment. Sexual acts

don't generally embarrass me, not even the ones in high school that occurred

when I wasn't quite sober. But Fitz has made it this way for me. By not even

acknowledging that it happened, he's caused me to feel like there's something

shameful about what we did.

I try to push the negative thoughts from my mind as I exit the building. Once

again, it's cold outside. I swear, February's even chillier than January. But at

least it's shorter.

Still, I don't know how much longer I can take this. I might skip out for a

week and fly to our place in St. Bart's, write my essay while lying on a beach

chair and sipping pina coladas. Hmmm. Actually not a bad idea.

On the walk to my car, I scroll through my phone contacts. I really do need

to secure my models. I require twelve bodies. Six males, six females. Brenna

would laugh in my face if I asked her to put on a bikini and strut down a runway.

But I do know some girls who might say yes. My Kappa sisters. Or rather,

former sisters, but that's semantics.

Sorority girls crave attention, and most of them have no issue with skimpy

clothing. Besides, I have a feeling Bianca might agree out of guilt alone. I think

she genuinely felt bad about the way Kaya handled the whole living situation

last month.

I don't have Bianca's number, so I pull up my profile on MyBri, the college

social network. She's not on my friends list, but you don't have to be friends

with someone to message them. I send a quick note explaining what I need, then

close the app.

For the men, I hadn't been kidding about the football player angle. Nobody

wants to see Speedos and swim trunks on scrawny guys with their ribs and

hipbones jutting out. Gotta have the abs, baby.

I call my brother, who actually answers despite it being the middle of the

school day. "Hey," I greet Dean. "You're not teaching a class?"

"Snow day," he replies.

"Aw, it's snowing over there? We got a few flurries this morning, but it's

cleared up." I pray that whatever blizzard has hit New York doesn't decide to

pop over to Massachusetts.

"Yeah, the weather's shit here. What's up, Boogers? What do you need?"

"Are you still friends with any of the Briar football players, or did they all

graduate?"

"I still talk to a few."

There's a skip to my step as I reach my Audi. "Perfect. Can you get me an

introduction?"

"What for?" he asks suspiciously.

"I need models for my fashion show. I was hoping to recruit some hard

bodies."

He snorts in my ear. "If even one of them says yes, I expect a front-row

ticket to the show so I can get my heckle on."

"Deal. Most of them live on the same street in Hastings, right? Elmway?

Elmhurst?" I remember Brenna pointing it out when we passed the

neighborhood on the way home from a Briar game.

"Elmhurst," he confirms. "Rex's house is your best bet. He lives with a

bunch of clowns who like to show off their muscles."

"Perfect. I've got some time now, so I figured I'd drive over. Can you give

me one of their numbers?"

"There's no fucking way you're going to a football house alone." Horror

drips from his every word. "Let me call one of my boys and ask them to meet

you there. I was just texting with Hunter, so I know he's around."

His overprotectiveness makes me roll my eyes. But I suppose it's sweet.

"Fine. Tell him I'll see him in thirty."

BUT IT'S NOT HUNTER'S RANGE ROVER THAT PULLS UP BEHIND MY AUDI THIRTY

minutes later. It's Fitz's beat-up sedan.

My brother sent Fitz to meet me?

Ha.

If Dean had so much as an inkling of what Fitz and I did in the locker room

this weekend, he never would've dispatched him to Elmhurst Avenue.

I don't know which one of us looks more uncomfortable as we approach

each other. Fitz's hands are shoved in his coat pockets, and his eyes don't quite

meet mine as he says, "Hey. Dean sent me."

"I figured." My tone is probably harsher than necessary, but—

It is absolutely necessary! Selena assures me.

True. He did come in my mouth and run away.

"You, ah, had class this morning? History of Fashion?" he says awkwardly.

He's making small talk?

Is he for real?

"Yes, Fitz, I had class," I say. I shift my tote to my other shoulder and march

toward the driveway of the detached Victorian we've parked in front of.

According to Dean, there are, like, eight football dudes living here.

"How's the essay going?"

I stop in the middle of the paved drive. "You mean the one you agreed to

help me with?" I can't help but snipe.

Unhappiness clouds his expression. "I'm sorry. I know I dropped the ball.

I've been…"

"Busy?" I supply.

"Yeah."

"And don't forget about the headaches," I say sarcastically. "All those

terrible, terrible headaches you've been suffering from."

Fitz lets out a quick breath. He lifts his hand to run it through his hair, then

halts when he remembers he's wearing a Red Sox cap.

"Don't worry," I mutter, gulping down the bitter taste in my mouth. "I've got

the essay covered."

We resume our walk up the driveway. His legs are longer than mine, so he

shortens his strides to match my pace. "Are you sure? Did your prof approve the

thesis? Give you any notes?"

At the mention of Laurie, I momentarily forget that I'm pissed off at Fitz.

"He made a few suggestions, but I was so eager to leave, I didn't fully listen to

what he said. I'll read over what he wrote in the margins when I get home."

Fitz studies my face. His own expression is inscrutable. "Why were you

eager to leave?"

"Honestly? He makes me uncomfortable."

A frown tightens the corners of his mouth. "In what way?"

"I don't know. He's very friendly." I pause. "A little too friendly."

"Has he tried anything?" Fitz demands.

"No. Oh no, he hasn't," I assure him. "I… I don't know. Maybe I'm being

overly sensitive. I get a weird vibe from him, that's all."

"Always trust your gut, Summer. If something feels off, it usually is."

"My gut isn't exactly the most accurate barometer," I say flatly. "I mean, it

told me to track you down in the locker room this weekend, and look how that

turned out."

At the mention of what went down this weekend (me. I went down this

weekend. On him), Fitz's expression fills with regret. "I'm…" He clears his

throat. "I'm really sorry about that."

I don't know how to respond, because I can't figure out what he's

apologizing for—that he disappeared after I blew him, or that it happened in the

first place.

"You're sorry," is what I finally say.

"Yes."

I wait for him to expand on that. When he doesn't, my anger returns in full

force, spurring me to brush past him and stomp to the front porch.

The door flings open before I can even ring the bell, and a huge black guy

with a shaved head appears in front of me. In a split second, the excitement in

his eyes transforms into grave disappointment. "It's not the pizza!" he shouts

over his shoulder.

"Motherfucker," someone curses from inside.

The big guy peers past me. "Fitzgerald? That you?"

Fitz reaches the porch. "Hey, Rex. How's it going?"

"Shitty. I thought your girl was the pizza guy, but she ain't got pizza."

"Sorry." I'm trying hard not to laugh.

Fitz seems to be doing the same. "You realize it's barely noon, right?"

"You saying you can't eat pizza at noon? Boy, you can eat pizza whenever

you want to eat pizza. Noon, midnight. Dinner time. Breakfast time. It's fuckin'

pizza."

"It's fuckin' pizza," I echo solemnly. Then I stick out my hand. "I'm

Summer Di Laurentis. I forced Fitz to bring me here because I need a favor."

"I'm intrigued. You're forgiven for the pizza snafu." Rex holds the door

open for us. "Come inside. I'm cold." We enter the house, and he gestures to the

scary amount of coat hooks and shoe racks in the front hall. "Ditch your gear.

We're playing Madden. You want next round, Fitz?"

"Naah, I don't think we're staying that long. Are we?" he asks me.

I shake my head. "I'll be quick. I need to get home and work on my paper."

We follow Rex into a massive living room with a U-shaped sectional that is

currently bearing the weight of four football players. I estimate about eight or

nine hundred pounds of muscle.

"Fitzgerald!" one of them exclaims. He waves his game controller. "You

want in?"

"Another time," Fitz answers.

Rex flops down in an easy chair and gestures to the only other free chair. "Sit

down, cutie. Summer, you can stand." He laughs loudly at his own joke before

saying, "Kidding. Fitz, your ugly ass can remain standing."

I sink down on the chair he indicates and find myself drowning in brown

leather. This is the biggest armchair on the planet. I feel like a toddler trying to

sit in the big-people chair.

Rex introduces me to his teammates, and it's hard to keep up with all the

names and positions he spits out. Turns out they're all offensive players—two

tight ends, a running back, and a wide receiver. Rex is also a receiver. "Lockett,

Jules, Bibby, C-Mac. This is Summer Di Laurentis. She needs a favor."

"I'll do it," one player says instantly. Jules, I think. He's really cute, with

chin-length dark hair, dimples, and a diamond stud in one ear.

I grin at him. "You don't even know what I'm asking."

"Doesn't matter. Ain't none of us gonna say no to a face like yours," drawls

C-Mac, who has dreadlocks and the cutest baby-face I've ever seen. If it weren't

for his tree-trunk biceps and huge pecs, I'd think he was fourteen years old.

"Girl, for real. You could be asking me to let you wax my balls and I'd say

yes." This comes from Lockett, the smallest guy in the room. And by small, I

mean he's probably five-eleven instead of six-five, and one-hundred-and-eightypounds instead of two-fifty. As in, a normal-sized human male.

"Oh." I swallow my laughter. "Well. I mean, that's a big commitment."

Rex snorts.

"If you agree to help me, there is a chance I'll be handling your balls,

though."

"What!" Fitz sputters, turning to scowl at me. "Dean said you just needed

models."

"Dean?" Lockett leans forward, recognition filling his dark eyes. "Oh shit.

Dean Di Laurentis? Heyward-Di Laurentis? You're Dean's sister?"

"Yup. And I need six models for my fashion show," I explain to the football

players. There are only five of them in the room, but if at least two or three

agree, I'm sure they could recruit the number I need. "We'll have to take

measurements and do some fittings. And like I said, I might accidentally touch

your junk. Sorry in advance."

"Never apologize for touching a man's junk," Rex tells me.

Bibby, a tight end with a bushy red beard, looks curious. "What would we be

modeling?"

"Swimwear."

"Dibs on the Speedo!" Lockett says immediately.

C-Mac's hand shoots up. "Dibs on the thong."

I'm surprised at how easy this is. But in case they're pulling my leg, I offer

more details to judge their sincerity. "The show is a month from now, right

before spring break. I'm still in the design stage, but if I get a commitment from

you, we'll take measurements in the next few days and start fittings in a couple

of weeks. We'll also do some runway coaching—"

"I don't need runway coaching," Lockett interrupts. "I've watched America's

Next Top Model."

"Same," Jules chimes in. "Tyra's got nothing on me."

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Yup. These are exactly the guys I need.

"So you're in?" My gaze conducts a sweep of the room. "All of you?"

Everyone nods. "We'll be there," Rex promises.

"She needs one more, though," Bibby says. He glances over at me. "I'll ask

Chris."

I have no idea who Chris is, but I reply with, "Sounds good. Thank you."

He shrugs. "Anything for a Di Laurentis."

Rex nods fervently. "Your brother used to chill here all the time. He was

good friends with a lot of our seniors."

"I know." Before I can stop it, a lump of sorrow rises in my throat. "Beau's

death hit him pretty hard."

It hit me pretty hard too, but I don't say that out loud. Beau Maxwell played

quarterback for Briar for three seasons and died in a car accident last year. After

I'd heard the news, I'd locked myself in my room at the Kappa house and cried

my eyes out. Dean doesn't know this, but Beau and I made out once. It was a

stupid drunken thing, and we both swore we'd take it to the grave because

neither of us wanted to deal with my brother's wrath.

My heart squeezes painfully as I realize that Beau really did take our secret

to the grave.

"Beau was good people," Rex says gruffly, and the mood in the room grows

somber.

"Anyway." Fitz clears his throat. "We should be taking off."

"I'll start a group chat for us on MyBri," I tell the guys. "And thank you so

much for doing this."

They don't let me leave right away—first, each one has to swallow me up in

a bear hug, while Fitz watches with resigned eyes.

"Does every single hetero male on this planet fall in love with you on sight?"

he mutters when we're outside again.

"No. Some fall in lust." I spare him a pithy look. "And some fool around

with me and then pretend it never happened."

He halts about five feet from our cars. "I'm not pretending it didn't happen."

"No? So you're avoiding me for no reason, then? Just for funsies?" Gritting

my teeth, I bulldoze past him.

He catches up to me as I reach the Audi. "Summer. Come on. Wait."

"Wait for what?" I snap. "For you to decide that I'm worthy of your time and

attention?"

His brown eyes widen. "What—"

"Isn't that what it boils down to?" I cut in, bitterness staining my tone. "I'm

not someone you want to spend time with."

"That's not true."

"Fine. I'll amend that. I'm okay to hook up with, but I don't deserve a

conversation about it afterward."

"Stop saying those words," he growls. "Worthy. Deserve. That's not what

this is about."

"What's this?" I burst out, my frustration levels skyrocketing. "Seriously,

Fitz. What is this? You rub up against me outside Malone's, and then you drive

away. I get on my knees for you in the locker room, and then you disappear for

two days. I have no clue how you feel about me at all. So forgive me for

assuming that you don't want me." My mouth twists in a humorless smile. "Why

would I ever think that, right?" Sarcasm creeps into my voice. "I mean, a guy

runs for the hills after I blow him. That means he's super into me, right?"

Guilt flickers in his eyes at the mention of the blowjob. But he remains

maddeningly silent.

I grind my molars together. Soon they'll turn to dust, that's how pissed off I

am. "I have a date with Hunter this weekend," I find myself declaring.

That gets me a response. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and then he mutters,

"Since when?"

"He asked me last week." I hit the key fob to unlock my car. "And you want

to know why I said yes? Because it was really frigging nice to be asked on a date

by someone who isn't, I don't know, ashamed of me."

Fitz exhales slowly before speaking. "I'm not ashamed of you," he murmurs.

"I'm just…"

"You're what?"

"I'm bad at expressing myself."

"Bullshit. You're the most articulate person I know."

"Not when it comes to sharing feelings." He sounds as discouraged as I feel.

"Feelings? Oh, you mean you have those?"

Every muscle in his face goes taut. It's the only outwardly discernible sign

that my accusation upset him. His expression is completely shuttered. "I'm not

good at this shit, Summer." The words are hoarse, strained.

"Good at what?" I clench my fists in exasperation. "It's not that hard, Colin!

You either want to be with me, or you don't." My fingers tremble on the door

handle. "So which is it?"

He hesitates.

He actually hesitates.

A ball of hurt clogs my throat. I gulp it down best as I can. "Wrong answer,"

I mutter, and then I get in my car and slam the door.