Spencer
A quick survey of the dwindling crowd in my living room shows no sign of Paige. I grab Noah’s arm as he passes. “Where is she?”
“Who? The girl Zac puked on?”
“Yes. Yeah, Paige.”
“She left, man. Right after you hosed her off, her friend came up to her in tears and they beat it out of here. I’m guessing she went back to her dorm or apartment or whatever.”
“What the fuck?” I’m all but shouting now, which is not my usual style. My housemates and teammates all turn in my direction.
“Chill out, Briggsy. What’s got you so worked up?” JD asks.
“Paige. Paige Underwood. She was here and we were playing Jenga. Like you said. Because I had to be fucking social.” I shake my head, aware that I’m not making much sense. “Anyway, Zac tossed his cookies all over her—”
“And you hosed her down with water, made a goddamn mess, stared at her like she was in a fucking wet T-shirt contest, and then turned tail and ran upstairs,” Chase interrupts.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where the hell did you go, Chase? One minute you were playing Jenga with us and then you were gone,” I sputter.
“Yeah, I hooked up with that blonde Kappa sister. What are you, my mother?” He grabs a beer from the fridge and wanders off (again). When the season starts, these guys are going to have a rude awakening.
I must’ve said that last part out loud because Chase turns back, glares at me, and mumbles something about “Mr. Perfect” under his breath.
“Yeah, we probably are,” Chase concedes. “But so are you the next time Paige sees you. What the hell, Briggsy? She was all into you and then you turn her into a popsicle and then ghost? Not cool.”
“I was trying to help. She was covered in puke. Yeah, the water was cold and that was a poor choice on my part, but my main objective was to get Zac’s vomit off of her. So I ran upstairs to get some towels, but by the time I made it back here, she was gone. Did any of you assholes help her?”
“Dude. You were the one handcuffed to her. Seemed like your place.” Andy shrugs and then meows.
I shake my head, because this conversation is getting me nowhere. “I need her number.”
For the second time in the last ten minutes, they all stare at me.
And I can’t blame them. I don’t think I’ve ever asked for a girl’s number for any reason.
But Paige isn’t just any girl.
Vonne gives me a long look, nods some sort of approval and grabs his phone. He shoots off a few texts, and within seconds, Paige’s number is in my phone.
“Thanks,” I say. “And thanks for cleaning up. I—”
“You took care of Zac, and that had to be worse than mopping the floor,” Chase pipes up.
“Mopping the floor?” Herrera scoffs. “Is that what you call it when you toss a bunch of towels down on a mess and then toss them all in a garbage bag?”
“Hey, it worked.” The cocky freshman shrugs.
“Do I even want to know whose towels those were?” Vonne asks.
“Zacarelli’s. Obviously. It was his puke.” Chase looks at us like we’re the crazy ones and goes back to drinking his beer.
“Ok, the mess is cleaned up, there are fewer than twenty strangers in the house, Zac’s good, and you’ve got Paige’s number, right?”
I nod.
“Good enough for me. I’m out.” JD gives a wave and heads out.
The other guys scatter and I’m left alone in the kitchen. Leaning back against the counter, I stare at my phone. Do I call? Do I text?
Why is this so hard? Put me in net with a bunch of 200 lb guys skating hard in my direction, and I’m right at home. But trying to figure out what to say to Paige? I don’t have a fucking clue.
Sure, we had fun tonight, which I totally didn’t expect. She’s as funny as she is gorgeous, which is saying something. And hanging out with her tonight was easy. But I was halfway to drunk, so maybe that had a little something to do with it. And, as I learned last year, alcohol and I do not mix well.
I’m being ridiculous and I know it. It’s not like I’m ever going to ask Paige out. I don’t have time for a girlfriend or a hookup. I can practically hear my dad yelling at me from here. Hockey is the only thing that matters. Hell, even grades take a back seat sometimes. If it’s not getting me a position as a starter on an NHL team, it doesn’t matter. At least that’s my dad’s philosophy.
I type and re-type a text about twenty times before I give up and just call. Maybe I’m old school, but tone is so hard to convey over text. I mean, I could type Where are you? But then I’d look like a stalker.
The call goes to voicemail after five rings and I’m too chickenshit to leave a message.
Paige
“So, the trick here, friends, is to extend the line out and up.” My right hand is steady as I look into the camera, almost using it as a mirror to apply a flawless cat eyeliner. “So now, all you need to do is draw out that top line to meet the bottom one. See how that makes a tiny triangle? That’s exactly what you want. We’re just going to fill in that space a—”
“Hey, bitch! You dressed?” The cheerful sound of my roommate’s voice has me turning my head and—yep—drawing an inky black line all the way to my temple.
“Dammit, Emma!”
“Shit. Sorry. We’re grabbing lunch at the Biscuit and then Lily’s taking us for a Target run. She’s still a freaking mess over Jordy, so I told her my life would be incomplete without more of those sticky hook things. She needs to put actual clothes on and socialize, and I need to shop. It all works out. And, not to be mean, but you should fix your eyeliner before we go. You look a little unhinged, babe.”
I roll my eyes in response. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that, Em. What time are we leaving? I’m gonna need at least an hour to fix this,” I say, pointing to my left eye, “re-film, and edit. Besides, you’re not even wearing clothes!”
She’s standing in a bra and thong in my studio, which, okay, is just my closet, but still.
“Pretty, right?” she coos, doing a little twirl to show off the lacy blue lingerie.
“So pretty,” I say, wiping at the errant eyeliner on my face with a damp cloth. “But shouldn’t you wear a little clothing? I mean, I know it’s technically still bathing suit season, but I think you’re stretching that definition a bit.”
It’s Emma’s turn to roll her eyes. “Of course. That’s why I’m here. Can I borrow that black halter top? And do you still have Lillian’s flowery babydoll dress?”
Nodding, I rustle around in my closet/studio and spot the dress hidden amidst a pile of boots. It must’ve fallen off the hanger. The top will be a tougher find. Over half my closet is black… “Hmmm. Wait! I think I hung it up…” I rifle through some cardis and blouses and yes! Victory. I hand it over like the trophy it is. “Here you go, gorgeous.”
“Thanks, Paige! Meet you back here in an hour?”
“Perfect. I still need to figure out what I’m wearing.” She nods sagely, sympathizing with such a weighty decision.
Really, it’s no chore. I pull on a pink sundress, slip my feet into slides, and get right back to filming.
After I’ve finished my eyes without any interruptions, I pull back from the camera a bit and smile, pleased with the outcome. “How easy was that, loves? Three minutes, a little patience, and look! A perfect cat-eye. Gorgeous.” I nod approval to my viewers and throw in my trademark wink.
A quick glance at the timer on my phone tells me to wrap it up. “All right, Pretties, I’m signing off. Be good to each other and be good to yourselves!” I blow a kiss into the frame just before I stop filming.
Leaning back in my fluffy desk chair, I play the video back a few times to add in graphics and text. This part takes time, but I’ve learned over my years of vlogging that it’s important. These splashes of color, the graphics that fit my brand, and my quirky sayings help separate my videos from random make-up posts on Youtube.
And don’t get me wrong, I’m not throwing shade. A couple of years ago, that was me: up late at night, bored out of my mind, and putting my face on for the masses of Youtube to watch. But I like to think I’ve learned a few things since those early days. Like, for example, bronzer should be applied with a gentle hand.
I cringe when someone reposts an old video of mine, but I try to remind myself that it’s all a learning process, right? So maybe I went a little heavy-handed on the contouring in 2018. I mean, really, who didn’t?
I add a few touches before I feel like I’m ready to post. I love my followers, all 1 freaking million of them, and I want to give them my very best. My phone buzzes again, but this time, it’s Emma, asking for my silver hoops. Immediately after, I get a text from Lily, asking if I’ll do her eye makeup before we leave. Of course I say yes. I live for this stuff.
Another buzz on my phone makes me think someone else needs their hair or makeup done, but no such luck. It’s my mom. And I love my mom, but...it’s fair to say we don’t see eye-to-eye on many things. But, she’s my mother, so I pick up.
“Hey, Mom. I’m heading out with my roommates soon. What’s up?” I’ve learned the hard way that I always need to establish my out at the beginning of the conversation.
“Hi, darling. I won’t keep you. We’re meeting Nathan and Megan for dinner tonight, so I want to wrap things up at the office, too. You know your brother was just promoted, of course.”
I didn’t know this. “That’s great—I’ll text him.”
“And Sophie is busy as ever. How she and David manage to spend time together is beyond me. But, of course, climbing the career ladder at one of the state’s premier medical centers isn’t easy.”
“Of course not.” It also can’t be easy dating her weasel of a boyfriend, but I keep that part to myself. Jake and I can’t stand the guy, but everyone else—including Sophie— thinks he’s amazing, so we keep the trash talk to ourselves, mostly.
“And, of course, Jake is already earning accolades in med school. But enough about everyone’s success. Let's talk a minute about you.”
Just so we’re clear, my success will not be part of the conversation. That’s because, according to my mother, I have none to speak of.
“We’ve set you up with a tutor, Justin. I’ve emailed you the schedule and you’re not to deviate from it. Justin also has instructions to report to your father and me each week regarding your progress.”
“Mom—”
“Don’t “Mom” me. You barely studied for your LSATs all summer and it’s a very difficult test. Do you know what some students would do for a private tutor? Be grateful, Paige.”
“Of course,” I acknowledge. “Thank you.”
“And it goes without saying that since you’ll be spending so much time preparing for the exam, you won’t have any time to take videos of your makeup routine.” She says this last part as though I have a social media channel solely dedicated to something as one-dimensional and uninspiring as choosing the right cantaloupe at the grocery store.
“I’m sure I’ll find some time,” I say, unwilling to budge on this. My channel—and my fascination with all things hair and makeup—have always stymied my parents.
My mother sighs. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with your test prep or your grades,” she warns.
“Of course,” I say in the same tone I’ve been using to placate my parents since I was about ten. “Sorry, Mom, the girls are here and we need to get going.”
“All right, dear. Talk soon.” And with that, she hangs up. And I sit alone in my bedroom trying to shake off the bad mood I’ve been in since the party at the hockey house two nights ago.
Soon enough, I hear the girls in the hallway.
“Lex Vonne is my boyfriend,” Emma declares loudly and inaccurately.
“Uh...you know he has a girlfriend, right?” I ask, opening the door.
“Don’t shit on my parade, Paige.” She frowns and strolls right into my room. “And can I borrow that lip gloss I like?”
I huff out a laugh. “ Which one?”
She pouts momentarily, grabs a gloss from my nightstand, applies it, and looks in the mirror. Satisfied, she begins rooting through my jewelry box for a pair of hoops. “Hey, Derek Meyers is single, right?”
“Yeah, he’s a free agent,” Lily replies. “See what I did there?”
We collectively roll our eyes and I concentrate on doing Lily’s eyes as the conversation veers back to who’s datable on the hockey roster this year.
Em leans toward the mirror to put the earrings in. “There’s Meysy. And Stillman, the forward. He’s single, I think.”
“And don’t forget the goalie. He’s one fine hunk of man,” Lily pipes up. “I mean, yes, all men are dirtbags, but I can still recognize that he’s hot.”
And that’s my cue to steer the conversation elsewhere. I have nothing against Spencer, per se. I’m surely not the only girl to make out with a guy only to be ghosted less than an hour later. But still, I'd rather not think about what might have been.