The house was empty, so I took the chance to blow off some steam. Gianna always made it clear what she wanted, and today, it was me. But as soon as our time was up, I was already timing how fast I could get her out of here.
For some reason, I didn't want her and Pinky crossing paths. Pinky was different—shy, reserved, and awkward in a way that felt real. That one day we talked, it wasn't like the lazy, surface-level conversations I usually had. It felt... comfortable. She actually listened. She'd make a good girlfriend. No—scratch that. A great friend. That's it.
"Alright, Gianna. My parents are coming home," I lied, helping her off the bed.
She sat up, her brows pulling together suspiciously. "Seriously? Whatever," she muttered, pulling on her bra and Gucci dress. She swiped a glossy red tint across her lips before turning to me. "Make sure you text me on Insta next time. My dad's been checking my call history."
"Will do," I said, walking her to the door.
The second I opened it, my heart dropped. There was Pinky, hand hovering above the doorbell.
Gianna spun around, her voice sharp. "Did you rush me out just to bring some skank into the same bed we just—"
"Stop," I interrupted, my tone firm as I stepped between them. "She's my partner for a project. Now, leave. This is exactly why I said no feelings. You're acting like my girlfriend, which you are not."
Gianna glared at me, then at Pinky, before storming off. I could feel the awkward tension in the air as I turned back to Pinky, who looked mortified.
"Uh, can I get you something?" I asked, trying to salvage the moment.
"Water," she said softly.
I nodded, leading her inside. She went to the couch while I grabbed a glass from the kitchen.
When I handed it to her, she took a small sip, pulling out her computer. "I think we should read more chapters and discuss our interpretations," she said without looking at me.
Her voice was polite, but distant. Guilt gnawed at me. "I'm sorry she called you that," I said quietly.
"Skank?" she asked, finally glancing at me.
"Yeah."
She shrugged. "I know I'm not one. Plus, she doesn't know me."
Her calm, matter-of-fact response caught me off guard. She went back to reading, and for some reason, I couldn't stop watching her. There was something about the way she carried herself—confident in her own quiet way—that intrigued me.
After an hour of reading and talking, the sound of the garage door opening sent a jolt of panic through me.
Oh, no. My parents.
I'd brought girls home before, but never when my parents were around. To my mom, I was still her little boy who had never brought a single girl home.
"HONEY, WHOSE CAR IS PARKED OUT FRONT? I DON'T THINK KYLE—" My mom's voice echoed as she entered the house, but she stopped mid-sentence when she saw Tasha.
Tasha stood up nervously, looking at me and then back to my mom.
"Oh," my mom said, her curiosity piqued. She walked further in, calling over her shoulder. "Honey! Come here!"
Isla appeared next, her hand clamped over her mouth, trying to suppress a Cheshire grin. "You're in trouble," she whispered, delight clear in her voice.
Tasha took a step forward, addressing my mom with a polite smile. "Hi, Mrs. Pierce. My name is Tasha. I'm Emmett's partner for our AP Literature project."
My dad came in carrying a bag of takeout, setting it on the dining table.
"Well, hello," my mom said warmly.
I glanced at her, already regretting this moment. Her expression practically screamed wedding bells.
"Hey, I think we've done enough for today," I said quickly, touching Tasha's shoulder to steer her toward the door.
My mom raised a hand to stop me, her eyes narrowing. "Don't be rude. Didn't I raise you better than this?"
I sighed, pulling my hand away.
"Would you like to stay for dinner?" my mom asked, ignoring my subtle head shake and mouthed no.
"Oh, no. I wouldn't want to intrude," Tasha said, looking to me for help.
But then my dad chimed in, sealing the deal. "No trouble at all. If my wife says stay, you should stay. We've got plenty of food."
Tasha hesitated, then nodded. My mom beamed, looping her arm through Tasha's and leading her to the table.
Isla smirked at me as we sat down, clearly enjoying the spectacle. My dad unpacked the food while my mom struck up a conversation.
"So, is my son making you do all the work? Just let me know, and I'll smack him," my mom said, half-joking.
Tasha laughed softly, shaking her head. "No, he's been a great partner."
"Not when he stood her up for their first meeting," Isla tattled, earning a glare from me.
"You what?" my mom said, her face pinching into a grimace.
"Something came up," I said quickly, trying to smooth things over.
"He's always been like this," my mom continued. "He starts things and doesn't finish them. At least he stuck with sports."
"Speaking of sports," my dad interjected, "you ready for the game on Friday?"
I nodded, grateful for the distraction. "Yeah, I'm ready. We're taking down our rivals."
My mom smiled, her tone softening. "I remember his first little league game. He couldn't even throw a football. I was so scared he'd get hurt."
"But I told her he'd be fine," my dad said proudly. "And look at him now."
Isla snorted. "I remember him getting flattened like a pancake."
Tasha laughed, and I shot Isla a look. "Shut up, Isla. I remember your first middle school cheer outfit. They had to get you a medium top because your chest got stuck in the small."
Isla glared, dragging a finger across her throat in mock warning, but everyone laughed.
When I glanced at Tasha again, her expression had changed. Her eyes were glassy, and she was blinking rapidly, trying to hold it together.
"I... I need to use the restroom," she said, her voice cracking as she pushed her chair back.
"Is she okay?" my mom asked, concern written all over her face.
I frowned, watching her hurry out of the room. Something wasn't right.