Chapter Three
What Am I Doing? (Lucia's POV)
Okay. So. I just agreed to go on a date with Trent Marshall.
Trent. Marshall.
The same Trent Marshall who made my life a living nightmare for six months. The same guy who tried to blackmail me. The same insufferably hot, cocky, baseball-playing menace who has haunted both my waking hours and—I'm not proud of this—several very detailed fantasies that I may or may not have written down in a password-protected Google Doc at 2 AM.
"You WHAT?" Freya's voice cracks through my phone speaker. I have her on FaceTime, and her brown eyes are approximately the size of dinner plates. "Lucia Maria Garcia, tell me you did not just agree to go out with that—that—"
"That devastatingly attractive asshole who's been obsessed with me for months?" I finish, lying on my bed and staring at my ceiling. My Developmental Psych notes are scattered around me, completely abandoned. "Yeah. I did."
"Oh my god." Charlotte's face appears next to Freya's. They're having a girls' night at Freya's off-campus apartment, and I was supposed to join them, but I'd claimed I needed to study. "This is happening. The enemies-to-lovers arc is actually happening."
"It's not enemies to lovers," I protest weakly. "It's... I don't know what it is."
"It's exactly enemies to lovers," Freya says. "You've literally threatened to castrate him. Multiple times. I've witnessed at least three of them."
"He deserved it!"
"I'm not saying he didn't," Charlotte says in her quiet, reasonable way. "I'm saying that the fact you're going out with him after threatening his manhood is very fanfiction of you."
I groan, covering my face with my hands. "Don't say that."
"Why? It's true. You literally write this exact dynamic in your—"
"CHARLOTTE." My face is burning. "We don't talk about that."
"I can hear you spiraling from here," Freya says. "Luce, listen. Do you actually like him, or is this just because he's hot?"
I think about that morning in the library. Sophomore year. The way he'd looked so lost, so vulnerable, so different from the cocky baseball star everyone else saw. The way talking to him had felt easy. Natural. Like I'd known him forever.
"I don't know," I admit. "Maybe both?"
"Okay, that's honest." Charlotte adjusts her glasses. "So what's the problem?"
"The problem is that I have no idea what I'm doing!" I sit up, hugging a pillow to my chest. "I've never—I mean, I know how to write about this stuff, but actually doing it? I'm going to be a disaster."
"Wait, hold on." Freya leans closer to her camera. "Lucia. Are you telling me that you, master of smut, writer of extremely detailed and frankly impressive sex scenes, have never actually—"
"I've kissed people!" I defend myself. "I've done... things. Just not... all the things."
"Oh my god." Charlotte is trying not to laugh. "You're a virgin who writes porn."
"I prefer the term 'inexperienced creative writer,'" I mutter, face absolutely flaming now. "And this is exactly why I'm panicking! What if he expects—what if he thinks—"
My phone buzzes. All three of us freeze.
"Is that him?" Freya whispers, like Trent can somehow hear her through my phone.
I glance at the notification.
"Oh my GOD he's texting you about thinking about you?" Freya squeals. "Lucia, this boy is GONE for you."
"I have to go," I say quickly. "I'll text you guys later."
"Use protection!" Charlotte calls out as I hang up.
"WE'RE JUST TEXTING!"
I stare at Trent's messages. My heart is doing that annoying fluttery thing again. This is ridiculous. I'm a rational person. A psychology major. I understand behavioral patterns and emotional regulation and—
My fingers are already typing.
I actually laugh out loud. That's so stupid. So cheesy. And yet—
Damn it. He's right. And the fact that he's noticed this about me is doing things to my heart rate that are probably medically concerning.
I freeze. What am I—is he—
Okay. Okay. This is fine. I've written this scene approximately two hundred times across various fanfictions. I know how this works. In theory.
I look down at myself. I'm wearing my rattiest BU Psychology t-shirt (the free one they gave out at the department fair), a pair of shorts with a hole in them, and I'm pretty sure I have Cheeto dust on my fingers from the snack bag I demolished an hour ago.
This is not sexy. This is the opposite of sexy.
But if I've learned anything from writing smut, it's that confidence is everything. And also, sometimes the gap between reality and fantasy is what makes things hot.
Oh. He's flustered. Trent Marshall, Mr. Confident Baseball Star, is flustered. This is... powerful information.
This is technically true. I am wearing a t-shirt. The fact that I'm also wearing shorts is just... an omission. Not a lie.
Oh. Oh god. This is happening. This is actually happening. My face is so hot I could probably fry an egg on it. My hands are shaking as I type.
There's a longer pause this time. I can see the three dots appearing and disappearing. Appearing and disappearing. He's typing and deleting. Typing and deleting.
Good. Let him squirm. I have approximately 47,000 words of smut writing experience. I am not intimidated by—
Oh my god. Oh my GOD. Trent Marshall is sexting me. And he's... he's actually good at it?
My breath actually catches. I'm lying in my bed, in my ratty t-shirt, heart pounding like I've just sprinted across campus. This is insane. This is—
I realize I'm pressing my thighs together. Oh god.
Jesus Christ. I need to... I don't know what I need. Water? A cold shower? A priest?
There's no response for a full minute. I'm starting to panic. Did I go too far? Was that too much? Oh god, I've ruined—
My heart is actually trying to escape my chest. This is it. This is the moment where I either commit to this or chicken out.
I close the text thread and immediately scream into my pillow.
What did I just do? What did I JUST DO? I just sexted Trent Marshall. I, Lucia Garcia, twenty-one-year-old virgin who has never done more than make out with someone at a party, just engaged in explicit texting with the hottest guy on campus.
And I was... good at it? He seemed into it. He definitely seemed into it.
My phone buzzes with texts from the girls' night chat.
Freya: okay you've been quiet for 20 minutes
Freya: what's happening
Freya: LUCIA ANSWER YOUR PHONE
Charlotte: she's probably sexting him
Freya: OH MY GOD IS SHE
Freya: our little girl is growing up
Charlotte: i'm so proud
Charlotte: also mildly concerned but mostly proud
I type back quickly.
Lucia: i hate you both
Lucia: also yes
Lucia: also i think i'm dying
Lucia: also i need you to help me pick an outfit for friday because i apparently promised things with my texts that my experience level CANNOT cash
Freya: DETAILS. NOW.
Charlotte: emergency outfit planning session tomorrow at 2pm
Charlotte: my room
Charlotte: bring all your underwear options
Lucia: I HAVEN'T AGREED TO ANYTHING
Freya: but you're thinking about it (;
Lucia: ...shut up
Charlotte: bring the underwear
I throw my phone onto my nightstand and stare at the ceiling again.
Four days until Friday. Four days until I have to actually follow through on all the confident, sexy energy I just projected via text message. Four days until I have to face the fact that I've been talking a big game but have absolutely no idea what I'm actually doing.
I'm either going to have the best night of my life or completely humiliate myself.
Possibly both.
To be continued...