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Then back again.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

Everyone knows.

He leans back like we’re just two friends having a nice little chat and not one girl actively holding herself together with acrylic nails and grace.

“I can be your new hashtag,” he smirks.

I stare at him.

He does not flinch.

“Excuse me?”

“One upgrade package,” he says, gesturing vaguely to himself. “Bigger arms. Faster forty. Better truck capacity. I can be your new hashtag, Texas.”

I almost laugh.

That’s how annoying he is.

He says things so stupid they circle all the way back around to nearly funny.

“I would rather date a dishwasher. Especially since we haven’t spoken since we made out with two skanky juniors in a hot tub.”

He puts a hand over his heart.

“Cold.”

“You smell like wet shoulder pads and ego.”

“That sounds made up.”

“It should.”

I glance pointedly at his chest. “And yet.”

He looks down at himself, then back at me.

“You lie—I smell elite.”

“You smell like if protein powder became sentient and got a DUI.”

That actually gets him.

He throws his head back and laughs, loud enough that the baseball player across the room looks over.

It is, unfortunately, a good laugh.

Warm.

Un-contained.

Annoyingly real.

I hate that too.