Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends #2) - Sara Ney Page 0,55

out.”

And light, with no bugs. Although I could eat again, I follow her to the patio doors and the balcony beyond. It’s small but has a few chairs and a tiny table. I imagine she comes out here in the mornings for coffee or to watch the sun rise.

Or like, to fuck.

I can picture banging out here at night—risky but private, depending on how dark it is outside and how many lights are shining from the surrounding house lamps.

Maybe even sex against the sliding door? Her ass cheeks pressed against the glass—believe it or not, I’ve never screwed anyone against a window, not even at a hotel, though I could totally get into it.

Is that weird?

Hollis leads the conversation, which surprises me. “I’m assuming Noah told you what happened.”

I nod, pulling out a chair across from her and plopping down. It’s cold and uncomfortable, an intricate metal contraption that looks pretty but feels like hell against my back. “He did and I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine. Marlon is a jerk.”

“Jerk. Asshole. Douche. Prick.” Take your pick. “How do you feel?”

“Shitty.” She’s playing with the ends of her sweater, fiddling with the cuffs, which are a bit too long. “I know none of it is true, but it still makes me feel crappy—that’s what breakups do. I’ve never felt right about ours because he always made me feel like less of a person.”

Then why the fuck are you wasting time worrying about it? “Are you still hung up on him?”

“No!” She pauses. “I think what I’m…‘hung up on’”—she uses air quotes around the words—“is how taken advantage of I felt and how easily I let him.”

I can relate. “That’s one of the reasons I haven’t been in a relationship since I was in eighth grade.”

She looks up at me as if suddenly remembering that I have the same shit happen to me on a daily basis, people wanting something from me, wanting to be seen with me. Autographs, appearances. Some paid, some free—it’s all the same, and occasionally? It feels shitty.

“You haven’t been in a relationship since middle school?”

I lean back, recalling it fondly. “Stacy Blinkiwitcz. She and I were in the same algebra class and I used to stare at her all the time because I was fascinated by her braces. She used to wear these overalls all the time, with a t-shirt underneath, and the t-shirts were different colors depending on her mood.” Hollis laughs at my memory. “Anyway, I slipped a note into her locker because my parents wouldn’t let me have a cell phone. Folded it up into a triangle and all that shit, asking her to ‘go with me.’”

Another laugh and Hollis relaxes, her horrible day beginning to melt away.

I go on. “So we go together, which was really just passing notes back and forth. I’d tell her she looked good in her rolled-up jeans and denim jacket, or that I liked her new kicks, and she would ask about my games.”

“What happened?”

I shrug. “There was a dance, and I remember her telling me while we were slow-dancing to whatever boy band happened to be popular at the time—she was like, ‘Trace, I think you’re super cool, but Alan Owens has a car.’” I shoot a peeved look at Hollis. “I did not have a car.”

“What eighth grader has a car?”

“Alan was a freshman, but he’d been held back in kindergarten, so he had his license.” I pause for theatrical flair. “And a mustache.”

That part is a lie—Alan did not have a ’stache, but it’s funny and adds a lighthearted element to the story. Alan did indeed have a car, the little fucker.

“Had you and Stacy even kissed?”

“No. I got robbed.”

“What’d you do after she told you she was dumping you?”

This is by far the worst part of the story. “I cried.” Then I hasten to add, “Just a little! It wasn’t like, sobs or anything.”

Not really…

Tripp found me in the boys’ bathroom crying in the last stall, pounded on the door and called our mom to come get us from the payphone in the lobby.

“Oh you poor thing.” Hollis leans forward to pat me on the cheek and I do something totally stupid.

I lick her palm.

“Ew! Trace! That’s disgusting!” She wipes the saliva onto the sleeve of her sweater, but she’s laughing and smiling, and isn’t that what counts?

“I could eat you up.”

She swats at me, batting like a cat. “I want to hear the rest of your story, the part