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.

I take his hand and lead him through the dim light of the Say Something warehouse and to the bottom of the staircase that leads to the rooftop. “Who first?” I sign.

He tilts his head, confused. Then he nods once. “You’re pretty. And you have pretty hair and pretty eyes and a pretty ass so you should go first, so I can watch your pretty ass.”

Surprisingly, we make it to the top without any casualties. Especially considering we spent the entire climb with both of his hands on my ass.

I pick up the battery-operated lantern I keep in the metal box by the door and move to the middle of the rooftop. Tugging his hand, I sit on the ground, my legs crossed, waiting for him to do the same.

“Seriously, Becs, it’s almost four in the morning. What are we doing here?”

“I wanted to talk,” I sign.

His face scrunches and he rubs his jaw. “We couldn’t do that from the comfort and warmth of your bed?”

I shake my head. “Josh,” I sign. “I feel like I owe you an explanation… about the operation and everything that happened this morning.”

He clears his throat as he scoots closer to me, his knees touching mine. “Okay, babe,” he says, his tone sobering. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

I point to my phone, knowing I’ll struggle signing it.