I call my boss and offer the most classic of excuses as to why I can’t finish my shift that evening: Lady trouble. My (male) boss immediately tells me to go home, quick, and to take Sudafed. I thank him profusely rather than asking him what, exactly, he thought Sudafed did for “lady trouble”.

Truthfully, I would probably have jetted back to my apartment and changed if the pizza-catastrophe was the only disaster of the evening.

Given what happened with Sebastian, though, I want to go home and replay the moment where he kissed me over and over, both so I can remember it, and so I can hate myself for botching it. I’ve never been kissed like that. I never even knew just kissing could make me feel like that.

My roommates— there are three of them in the suite— are home, watching trash television with largely untouched textbooks spread out on the coffee table in front of them. They swivel their heads towards the door in surprise when I walk in.

“You’re home early,” Maddy says. “Wait— oh my god, what are you wearing?” She looks delighted, which doesn’t surprise me— Maddy is easily delighted by anything that might be the teeniest bit scandalous. I haven’t known any of my roommates very long; we were all strangers when we moved in together. We get along nicely, though— we clearly have varied enough interests that we’re not going to be besties, but we get lunch together now and again, and no one is stingy about letting someone else borrow shoes or bronzer.

“It’s been a very long, very weird night,” I say, shaking my head and chucking my purse and pizzafied clothes onto the ground.

“It’s way too early for a walk of shame,” Emily says, frowning. “But that’s definitely walk of shame attire.”

“Shame, but not what you’re thinking. I was delivering pizza in that stupid outfit to the house all the senior football players rent, and while I was there managed to trip over some girl and fall into about twenty of them. It was like a slip-n-slide, only instead of water, it was pizza grease,” I say, shrugging.

The three of them have gone totally motionless, watching me over the back of the couch like someone clicked the “pause” button on them. I’m about to get freaked out by the stillness when they slowly turn their heads to look at one another, then back at me.

My third roommate speaks, voice careful. “And how did you end up wearing that jersey?” Becca asks. Maddy’s eyes look almost cartoonishly hopeful.

I shrug, but I might as well tell them a little about what happened, since there’s no way I’ll get through the story without blushing. “There was a guy there— the only non-douchebag there, actually. While the rest of them were laughing and taking pictures, Sebastian was a decent human being and let me use the bathroom to change and gave me one of his jerseys to wear out. My actual clothes are totally disgusting—”

“Holy shitballs,” Emily says, her eyes wide and jaw dropped. My other roommates are wearing matching expressions, and I can see that Maddy is actually digging her nails into Becca’s arm.

“Ouch!” Becca finally snaps, and bats Maddy’s hand away. Maddy jumps in surprise.

“Oh! Sorry— but, right, holy shitballs,” Maddy says, springing to her feet and rushing over to me. The other two are quick behind her. Maddy stares at the jersey shamelessly, then reaches out and gingerly touches the sleeve. “Oh my god, it’s real. It doesn’t feel like that cheap crap at the bookstore.”

“No way. You can’t be serious,” Becca says. She’s hung toward the back of the trio, like the jersey makes her too nervous to get close to it.

“Like, did he just chunk it at you and say, “there’s the bathroom Papa Pig”, or did he like, give it to you?” Maddy asks, flattening her hands in front of me in a way that demands detail.

Here it comes— the dreaded blushing. “He gave it to me. He was nice— he helped me upstairs and to his room—“

“To his room?” Emily shrieks.

“Yeah, and then he got it out of his dresser—“

“Out of his dresser?” Maddy says, her fingers shaking.

“And then handed it to me—“ I pause, waiting for one of them to repeat my words. No one does, but Maddy smacks me, impatient for me to finish the story. “And went in the bathroom to change. And he said I looked nice in it.” There— that’s enough of the truth, isn’t it? Because I’m definitely not telling them about the kiss.

“Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god,” Maddy says, clutching her chest like she’s having a heart attack. Even Becca, arguably the least dramatic of my roommates, looks like she’s seconds from squealing. “I cannot believe you parlayed a job at Papa’s Pig into not only meeting the freaking star of the football team, but getting his clothes and getting hit on.”

“I’m sure it was nothing,” I lie, blushing harder and tugging on the hem of Sebastian’s jersey bashfully.

“I cannot believe this happened to someone who doesn’t even care about football. Do you even realize what it would mean if you showed up at a game wearing that? People would lose their minds. Sebastian Slate never has girlfriends. At least, not any serious enough to give jerseys to,” Maddy says. She’s pacing now, talking with her hands and getting loud enough that I bet the neighbors will pound on the wall at any moment.

I frown, unsure I heard her correctly. “Wait, what did you say his last name is?”

“Plus, he’s rich. And he’s basically from a football dynasty. He and his brothers are all going pro, I’ve heard. The young brother had pro scouts after him his sophomore year of college,” Maddy goes on.

“Wow, you know a lot about the Slates,” Emily remarks, impressed.

“Everyone knows a lot about the Slates!” Maddy says, flailing again. “I mean, it’s impossible not to. They’re like the SEC’s own little tabloid section.”

“Slate. He’s one of those Slates,” I say slowly, making sure I’m fully understanding. “Like, he’s one of Dennis Slate’s sons?”

“Hey, you do know something about football!” Becca says, nudging me. I know she means to make me feel better. She’s nice like that. She can’t possibly know that confirming the fact that tonight I was kissed by Dennis Slate’s son, is a nightmare. No, it’s worse than a nightmare, because I liked it. I liked being kissed, I liked him near me, I liked him looking at my body—

I swallow, and for the second time that evening, find myself frozen, too overwhelmed with emotion to move. Thankfully, it hides the fact that I feel like I might get sick. I knew one of the Slate boys went to Berkfield. I assumed he played football, given who his father is, but the football team itself is huge, and it isn’t like I run into them all that often. It didn’t even occur to me, in fact, that I might be walking into Sebastian Slate’s house tonight. How had it not occurred to me? What’s wrong with me?

Guilt is thick and heavy in my throat, and I mentally scream a thousand apologies into the air. For going into the house. For not remembering. For letting him kiss me. Oh, god— for wearing this jersey. I smile weakly at my roommates and hope that’s enough of an exit, then sprint for my room. I yank the jersey off and fling it across the room, where it lands on my desk edge before sliding off to the floor. I breathe deep, trying to count each inhale and exhale to three.

It’s fine. It’s fine. It was an accident, that’s all. I was just thrown by someone at that house being nice to me. It doesn’t mean Sebastian is actually a nice person. It doesn’t mean I actually liked him.

He’s one of the Slate boys, after all. I would never actually like someone whose dad killed my aunt.