Page 146 of Rhodes

Deuce points at him. “That is because you own four shirts.”

“I own nine.”

Jo turns to me. “Are you packed?”

“Basically. I will throw my toiletries in after my shower in the morning. So, yeah.”

Her mouth drops open.

“What?”

“I'm just impressed with your preparedness. Who are you?”

“I have matured.” I grin, finish my sparkling water, then dump an ice cube into my mouth and chew it.

The bubbles sting the back of my throat. There is too much lime because Jo always puts two wedges in my cup, even though I only ask for one.

Deuce starts talking about a trip his family is taking after Christmas, and Nash argues with him about whether skiing counts as a vacation if you have to exercise during it.

Two girls from my environmental science class stop at the table on their way out, and I stand to hug them goodbye. One of them, Sally Martins, is going to London for the semester and has spent the last three weeks pretending she isn't terrified. She promises to send pictures and makes me promise to keep her updated on Professor Fink, who she hates.

By the time I sit again, Deuce has stolen my seat. Jo is yelling at him, which I appreciate.

“Move,” Jo says, cutting an eye at him.

“There are other seats.”

“That is Tilly’s seat.”

“Tilly can sit here.” He pats his knee. I give him the death stare. He stops patting it.

“Never mind,” he says, then slides over. Then his entire face changes. “Well, look who decided to remember where his friends live.”

Something in my stomach drops before I even turn around, because in my gut I know. Then he walks up to the table, his hands resting on the edge, and smiles as he greets his friends.

For half a second, my brain refuses to put him there. This side of town belongs to a version of my life I haven't thought about much lately, and seeing him inside it is like somebody took an old photograph and dropped a living person from my past into the middle.

He looks good. His hair is a little longer on top than it was in the spring, and he's traded the college uniform of jeans and a T-shirt for dark pants and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up. The veins along his forearms stand out when he pushes against the table, and the top two buttons of his shirt are open just enough to show a strip of skin at his chest. His jaw is rough with the start of a five o'clock shadow.

He's not wearing a tie or jacket, but his expensive shoes and watch tell me he probably does during the day.

Then his eyes land on mine, and we both freeze for a nanosecond.

“Hey, Tallulah.”

Oh, God. I didn’t think him saying my full name like that would still get me. This is not good.

“Hey, you.”

“Holy shit,” Nash says, pulling him away. “I thought you'd gotten too big for your britches to show your face in here.”

“It's called adulting, Nash. You should try it.”

There is nothing strange about his voice. That, alone, might be the strangest part.

Deuce gets up next and grabs him by the shoulder, pulling him into one of those half-hugs men do when they want everybody to know they would rather be punched than admit they missed each other.

“Sit down and have a beer. Seriously, where have you been? Are you still in New Orleans? You better say no, because if you are and you don't answer our texts for a beer, then we're going to have to take this outside.”