Chasing Lucia

I'm going to die. Actually die. From embarrassment, from the way Freya is looking at me across this tiny café table, from the fact that Charlotte keeps giggling into her oat milk latte.

"So let me get this straight," Freya says, her brown eyes narrowed in that way that means she's in full protective best friend mode. "You went back to his place. You made out. Things got heated. And then you just... left?"

"His roommates came home!" I defend myself, wrapping my hands around my vanilla latte. "It's not like I had a choice."

"But did you want to stay?" Charlotte asks, ever the gentle interrogator.

I take a long sip of my drink to avoid answering. The Pavement is packed with the usual Saturday morning crowd—BU students nursing hangovers, Newbury Street shoppers taking a break, a couple of guys from the soccer team huddled over their phones at a corner table.

"I don't know," I admit finally. "Maybe? I mean, I wanted to keep kissing him. That part was... really good."

"How good?" Charlotte leans forward.

"Like, write-a-50k-word-fic-about-it good."

They both squeal, and several people turn to look at us. I sink lower in my chair.

"But?" Freya prompts, because of course she can tell there's a but.

"But I'm not ready for... everything else." I pick at my napkin. "And I don't know how to tell him that without seeming like a tease. Especially after those texts I sent."

"Okay, first of all," Freya sets down her coffee with enough force to make it slosh. "You are not a tease for having boundaries. Second of all, if Trent Marshall has a problem with you wanting to take things slow, then he can—"

"Freya," Charlotte interrupts gently. "I don't think he has a problem with it. He walked her home, remember?"

"After getting her all worked up in his room!"

"I was a willing participant in the getting worked up!" I protest. "Very willing. Enthusiastically willing."

Freya sighs. "I just don't trust him, Luce. He spent months being an asshole to you. One nice date doesn't erase that."

"I know." I do know. Freya's skepticism isn't unfounded. She was there for every time Trent made me want to scream. She witnessed the cardigan incident. She held my hand through the blackmail attempt. "But he apologized. And he explained. And I believe him."

"You believe him because you want to believe him," Freya says, not unkindly. "Because he's hot and he's good at kissing and he says all the right things."

"Maybe," I admit. "But also because I saw him. The real him. That night in the library, before all the bullshit. And I think that guy is still in there."

Freya looks like she wants to argue more, but Charlotte puts a hand on her arm. "Let her figure it out. If he hurts her, we'll kill him. But let her try."

"Fine." Freya points at me. "But the second—the SECOND—he does anything even slightly asshole-ish, you tell me. Got it?"

"Got it." I'm smiling despite myself. "I love you guys."

"We know," Charlotte says. "Now finish your coffee. We have shopping to do."

"Shopping?"

"You can't keep wearing your ratty BU psych t-shirt to bed if you're going to be sexting college baseball's hottest pitcher." Freya stands, grabbing her bag. "We're getting you actual lingerie."

"I'm not—we're not—" But they're already heading for the door, and I have to scramble to follow them out onto Newbury Street.

I'm lying in bed, staring at the shopping bag from Victoria's Secret that Freya insisted I needed. Inside: one black lace bralette that cost more than my textbooks, matching underwear, and something Charlotte described as "cute but sexy" in a dusty rose color.

I'm never going to wear any of it. It's going to sit in my drawer and judge me for being a fraud.

My phone buzzes.

My heart does that annoying fluttery thing. I've been waiting for him to text all day—he walked me home last night, kissed me goodnight at my dorm entrance (thoroughly, against the wall, until someone wolf-whistled from a window above us), and then... nothing. Radio silence for almost 24 hours.

Oh. Oh no. Here we go.

My face is immediately on fire. I'm also immediately pressing my thighs together, which is extremely inconvenient.

Okay. I need to either shut this down or lean into it. And since shutting it down would require self-control I don't currently possess...

Oh god. Oh no. We're going there. We're really going there.

I'm going to combust. Actually spontaneously combust right here in my twin XL bed.

This is it. This is the moment where I either commit or chicken out. Where I decide if I'm ready to close the gap between the confident girl in the texts and the nervous virgin in real life.

It's like he can read my mind. Or maybe he's just paying attention. Learning what I need.

My heart rate picks up. That sounds ominous.

My blood runs cold. No. No no no no no.

I'm frozen. Completely frozen. He knows. He's known this whole time. And he—

What. WHAT.

Oh my god. Oh my GOD. Trent Marshall has a—he wants to—

He's backtracking. He thinks he scared me off. And maybe he should have—this is objectively bizarre—but instead I'm lying here feeling something I never thought I'd feel about my condition.

Desired. Wanted. Not in spite of it, but because of it.

I set my phone down and stare at my ceiling for the second time this week. Except this time, instead of panicking about what I've gotten myself into, I'm thinking about tomorrow.

About Trent's room. His bed. His mouth on my—

I grab my phone and open the group chat.

Lucia: emergency
Lucia: need outfit advice for tomorrow
Lucia: actually scratch that
Lucia: need UNDERWEAR advice
Freya: IT IS MIDNIGHT
Freya: also FINALLY
Freya: wear the black lace
Charlotte: agreed
Charlotte: also we need ALL the details after
Lucia: IF there are details to share
Lucia: we might just watch a movie
Freya: HAHAHAHA
Freya: sure jan
Lucia: i hate you both
Charlotte: wear the black lace
Lucia: ...fine

I turn off my light and try to sleep. Try being the operative word. Because all I can think about is tomorrow afternoon. Trent's hands. Trent's mouth. The way he looked at me when he said he wanted to taste me.

To be continued...

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