“Shh,” I laugh and pull her close, and then I don’t want to talk about him to her. Sometimes when I write I don’t want to talk about my subject: I protect it and nurture it in my heart before I pound the keys and then it’s out.

It’s different with this man. I can’t bear to share him at all. Not even with my friends. I don’t understand why I feel like putting a bubble around us where nobody can have an opinion and nobody can take him away. Not floozies or his lifestyle, and not my friends. “I did have luck but nothing happened. You know those guys—they just flirt.”

“Oh, well, flirt back harder.” She winks and walks past.

Fuck. I groan and slump in my desk when Valentine walks by with much the same tune.

“Platinum blonde? People are asking on his social media. I know of only one platinum blonde . . . so speak now, platinum blonde. In fact, give me a few tips for tonight’s date.”

“Valentine, you have a date? Wow, love is in the air. Boy or girl?”

“Female. I’m taking her to greasy Chinese to make sure she knows how to pig out properly. I hate having dinner with a little stick. Which is why it’s so hot to dine with a man. Nothing gets me going like a healthy appetite.”

I keep surfing the internet, researching.

“Did you know penguins are monogamous?” I ask.

“Yes, I was among that tribe once but have rebelled. See, I’m no longer going to be restrained by traditional dating rules, and neither should you. Oh, wait, you don’t date. Do you?”

I smirk. “Just because you didn’t change my mind doesn’t mean nobody else can.”

“See! You ARE dating him.”

“NO! NO! Just . . . silence, please. You need to go and . . . meditate. To your desk. Shoo!”

I field questions all day, pretending that last night didn’t give my little world a little too big of a shake.

17

NIGHT

This Sunday, at another neighborhood campout, I’m still thinking about the club as I scan my phone for new links about him. Strange. He’s been rather socially quiet lately. There’s hardly been any big party he’s been linked to since that after-party he refused to allow me to attend.

I notice in the back of my mind that there have been about five guys parading in and out of the park, setting up what I think is the biggest-ass tent I’ve ever seen in my life. Everyone is settling into their sleeping bags, snacking on nuts and berries or marshmallows. I turn to look at the big-ass tent again and wonder what the hell is going on.

“Hey, do you know whose tent that is?” I ask the girl settled next to me, a frequent campout attendee named Rio who’s organizing her stuff next to her sleeping bag.

She turns to look at the big-ass tent situated at the edge of the camping site and shrugs lightly. “I have no idea, but whoever’s in that tent really wants to make a statement.”

I laugh a little and turn back to my sleeping bag. The men haven’t come back in like ten minutes, so I think the tent is finished.

I place my sleeping bag next to Rio’s. The sun is setting, and everyone seems to be winding down. Deciding I need to tune them out and try to relax and gear up to hunt you-know-who next weekend, I take out my earplugs and listen to some music, lying down on my back and looking at the sun drift in through the leaves of the trees. Occasionally a gust of wind comes, and I feel it cool my skin and move my hair.

I breathe in deeply, enjoying the feel of grass beneath my flimsy sleeping bag. I’ve had it for years now. I took it to my first sleepover in seventh grade, and I’ve been using it at these campouts, so over the years it’s lost a lot of its cushion, but I refuse to get rid of it.

Rio taps my side and I sit up for a moment, reaching out to take a marshmallow from her hand, and in my peripherals, I see a dark figure. I turn around and see Malcolm Saint getting out of his car, swinging a duffel bag over his shoulder. I feel like my heart just tripped inside my chest. I turn to look at Rio and see that everyone is glancing at Malcolm and whispering in each other’s ear. Great.

Rio stares. “This is not the kind of candy I expected us to have at the campout.”

I gulp and focus on chewing the stupid marshmallow in my mouth.

Malcolm makes his way over to his tent, admiring his employees’ handiwork and placing his duffel bag on the ground. He scans the crowd, looking for someone, and I feel my heart stumble again. Everyone’s trying really hard to act normal, but I can sense their attention is fixed on the six-foot-plus man in black slacks and a white shirt standing next to a big-ass ten-person tent. Like Rio’s, their faces display open amazement as they speculate and probably start catching on to who that man is.