When I open my eyes, she’s smiling at me. Her hands leave me to sign, “Have you seen that couple before?”

I shake my head. “Never.”

She switches to her phone again, knowing what she wants to tell me might be too advanced for my sign language skills. I took it when I was with her during spring break. They’re a homeless couple from the park. Did you know she goes there often to hand out food?

I nod. “She’s always done it. Tommy and I have gone with her a few times, but not for a while.”

We stole a bunch of shoes and clothes from your garage and spent the day handing them out on the streets and in shelters. Sorry. I meant to tell you… She chews her lips, peeking up at me, waiting for my reaction.

I laugh once. “I don’t care.”

She seems to relax. So you really like it?

“I really do, Becs.”

Good. I want to make Grams proud. And you, too. I know how much she means to you.

“Becs…”

She curls her hand around my neck and pulls my face to her bare shoulder, letting me use it to wipe the stupid tears away. I can handle most things life throws at me, but not this. Not the life He seemed to choose for Chaz. “It’s not fair,” I murmur, forgetting for a moment we may possibly have an audience.

Becca presses her lips to mine, soft and warm, and she leaves them there. Not kissing. Not really doing anything but letting me know she heard me.

I’m the first to pull away, eyes scanning the table to find fifteen sets of eyes watching us. I clear my throat and sit up higher, throwing an arm around Becca’s shoulders. “We should celebrate,” I mumble.

I order a round of tequila shots for everyone. Followed by another. Then four more. Until we’re that table at the restaurant. Young, drunk, and obnoxiously loud.

“Are you any good?” Pete yells across the table, his eyes glazed from the alcohol.

“Good?” I ask, leaning forward so I can hear him. “At what in particular?”

He rolls his eyes. “At skateboarding! Are you good?”

I rear back a little, confused by his question. Becca settles her hand on her stomach to ease the ache of her continuous laughter.

The guy next to me, I have no idea what his name is. Let’s call him… Bob. So Bob yells, “He’s a pro skater, asshole. Of course he’s good!”

Ah, so Becca did tell them about me. I was beginning to wonder if anyone besides Pete knew about me or if I was just Becca Owens’s boyfriend from out of town. Not that I’d care.

“I skated once,” he tells me. “Figure skating. On ice.”

The table erupts with laughter.

The That’s-So-Becca girl—Fuck, I should really learn their names—yells, “Not at all the same thing, douche hole!”

“I want to see you skate!” Pete yells, waving a finger between us.

“You can just type in my name on YouTube,” I tell him.

He repeats my words mockingly, and maybe I should be offended, but the laughter around me has me guessing this is just Pete being Pete.

The waitress approaches, asking if we’d like to order anything else. I lean in close to Becca and ask, “Are we here for the rest of the night?”

She rubs my newly shaved head. I don’t know why. She’s been doing it all night. Then she signs, “We normally close out the place.”

I order a few pitchers of beer for the table and another round of shots. “Actually, just leave the tequila bottle here,” I tell the waitress.

She scoffs. “The manager’s going to want you to pay for your meals and drinks and keep a card at the bar before I can get you anything else.”

In unison, everyone at the table moans as they reach for their wallets.

“I got it,” I shout.

Becca grasps my arm. “Sure?” she mouths.

I hand the waitress my card. She stares at the black American Express I just handed her, cocks an eyebrow, and then looks at me. “Yeah, I’m going to need to see some ID.”

I give her my license, used to the treatment.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, spinning on her heels.

“So you actually make money from this ‘pro skater’ gig, huh?” Pete says, using his fingers to emphasize pro skater.

“You’re an idiot,” Bob tells him. “He’s like any other pro-athlete, but instead of major team endorsements, he earns individual ones. Globe, Red Bull, Oakley, Primitive, they all pay him to wear their brands and promote their products.”

I face him, my eyebrows raised.

He just shrugs. “I write the sports column. It’s just general knowledge, right? It’s not like I stalk you in particular.”

“Fucking lies!” the That’s-So-Becca girl calls.

Becca slams one hand on the table, her eyes filled with tears from laughter. She knocks over her drink in the process, and instantly frowns at it. I lean down, my lips to her ear. “You’re a hot mess, Owens.”

“You should teach me to skateboard,” Pete shouts.

I find it hilarious that everyone’s yelling.

He adds, “Skateboarders get all the hot chicks!”

My eyes snap to Becs, who’s still silently laughing. She signs, “He’s drunk. And I’m almost positive he’s gay.”

I cackle with laughter at her response, while the waitress returns with the beers and bottle of tequila and places them on the table. “We’ll keep your card at the bar, just grab it from me when you leave,” she says, squeezing my shoulder.

Becca’s hands are on my head again.

“What did Becca sign?” Pete yells.

So much yelling.

All the phones on the table go off at once. Everyone picks theirs up quickly, their eyes scanning. Then they all laugh loudly. Bob even goes to high-five Becs.

“What just happened?” I shout.

Bob sits back down and shows me his phone and the group message with everyone at the table.

Becca: If that waitress bitch touches my boyfriend again I will cut her. And just so we’re clear, when I say “cut her” I mean, I will throw down and declare war on her ass. I don’t care if he has a black card or not, I can go from Sweet-B to Trailer-Park in less than a second!

I turn to Becca, my grin wide. “Sweet B?”

She crosses her arms. “I’m serious,” she mouths.

“Sweet-B to Trailer Park!” Pete shouts. “That’s fucking gold.”

We drink to Becca, again, and so the night goes. Sixteen college students and me, all sitting at a table, alcohol flowing, conversation loud, laughter constant, and for tonight—just one night—I’m nothing more than Becca Owens’s boyfriend from out of town. And it’s perfect.

Almost too perfect.

33

—Becca—

“What the hell are we doing, Becs? You’re going to get my ass thrown in jail and I can’t go to jail. It’s in my contract and ooh, my mamma will be sooo mad,” Josh says, his words slurred as I slip the key into the entrance of Say Something.

He’s drunk, clearly, which—in theory—is bad timing to bring him here and tell him what I want to say, but he’s leaving in a few hours, and I need to get it out, so here we are.