Page 3 of Mac Meyers Needs Me

The table goes silent for a beat until Cammie cough-chokes on her drink.

I’ll be your bad girl any time I think, but don’t say.

The thing about Mac is that no girl has ever confirmed sleeping with him or doing anything beyond kissing. Anyone he’s ever dated—however briefly—has remained suspiciously quiet about what does or doesn’t happen behind closed doors.

Which obviously just adds to the mystery that is Mac Meyers. Tilton Hockey star. Epically hot, and literally the nicest guy I know. It’s better that we’re buds. I have no interest (mostly) in dating someone inside my friend group. Besides, he’s in his final year and I’m in my third. It’s a terrible idea to get involved, especially with someone who might end up on the other side of the country next year if he secures a pro hockey contract, or even if he plays for a farm team.

Chase and Cammie might be couple goals, but the chance that more than one of us in our friend group could end up in a lasting relationship is tragically low. Better to stay friends than make things awkward when someone decides it’s not the right fit.

Half an hour and two more interruptions later, we end the game. I have an early class and can’t afford to be tired. I excuse myself to the bathroom before we leave, and when I come back, Mac’s hands are on his hips and his dimple is tucked away behind a frown.

“What’s going on?”

“My hoodie is gone!”

“You were literally just wearing it.” I would’ve noticed if he wasn’t because his forearms are an absolute delight.

“I hung it on the newel post. I was going to take it to my room after I said bye to you guys.” He motions to the empty post with both hands. “But it vanished.”

“That’s like what, the fifth one?” Brody’s lip twitches.

The sixth. At least that I know of.

“I don’t know, but that one was my favorite!”

“That’s what you get for being everyone’s number-one fantasy,” Chase teases.

“It’s not funny, man. I love that hoodie. I’ve had it since high school. It’s irreplaceable.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry, Mac.” I mean it, too. I would hate to lose my favorite hoodie. My parents bought us all matching ones on our last vacation together. I try to only wear it at home, and only once a week to preserve it. I’ve already had to perform light surgery on the right cuff. Callie’s grown out of hers, so she has our mom’s now, and I have our dad’s. For a while they smelled like them, but that’s faded, and now they’re just a reminder of what we had and lost.

“It’s not your fault.” He reaches for me and I brace for impact.

This is my favorite part of the night. Mac is a great hugger. His arms circle my waist and mine link behind his neck. He lifts me off my feet. I can’t help it; I giggle and then he squeezes and it turns into a wheeze reminiscent to a squeaky toy. I huff his aftershave for a second and imagine what it would be like if he didn’t let me go. If he held me like this all night long, preferably shirtless.

And then he sets me back on my feet and pats my back, not quite like I’m one of his bros, but still. Then he hugs Enid, and Cammie, and chest bumps Chase, so the special feeling melts away like a snowfall in April.

I remind myself that it’s better this way. I’d rather have a solid friend group than a boyfriend who could break my heart.

CHAPTER 2

FEE

Iglance over my shoulder, making sure I’m alone before I slide the printout from my portfolio bag and quickly tack it up between two large posters advertising the spring dance showcase and this semester’s production. Sometimes my prints stay up for only a day, sometimes a week or two. Eventually the proud thief will tag me on my socials, showing off the thoughtful placement in their dorm or apartment bedroom. The stickers I leave in secretive places, like the gender-neutral bathroom before a busy lecture. Those end up on binders and tablets and laptop covers.

It’s my little rebellion. The art I produce outside of the classroom is different. It is raw and emotional. It’s where I put all the feelings I don’t want my classmates to see. The little pieces of darkness that still live inside my heart after my parents died need a canvas, and a voice, and this feels safe.

I make a right down the next hall and duck into the women’s bathroom. Three stalls line one wall. I slip into the far empty one and add a new sticker to the underside of the purse holder, beside two others from previous months. I bite my lip as I read the comments around my lunar cycle collection. Last month I illustrated a rainbow-haired girl lying on her bed, cat functioning as a heating pad on her tummy, the comforter pattern swirling blue and red beneath her, and a maxi pad functioning as a sleep mask. The new one features a quarter moon with his eye cracked as an angsty teen pulls on his nightcap, her skirt made of rose petals dripping blood. Praise surrounds the previous months in shouty caps, hearts and exclamation marks.

I bet this is how Cammie feels when she posts a new fanfic chapter. Putting my art up anonymously, especially where I’m not supposed to, gives me a thrill. It’s my private signature, and no one can connect this version of me with the sister of one of the Terror coaches, Toronto’s professional hockey team.

I tack up three more posters, different from the bathroom art. These ones are comic book inspired; this month’s scene depicts a girl pining over a guy who never notices her, and the girl never notices the guy who isn’t her fixation, pining over her. Like the lunar cycle, this one is a series, too. Task finished, I slip out the back door of the drama building and head for the dining hall, where I’m meeting Cammie for dinner.

My heart does a pirouette and a stag leap when I spot her sitting with Mac at one of the many tables. He’s an unexpected and pleasant surprise.

I carry my tray over and take the seat next to Cammie, across from Mac. “How’s it going?”

Mac opens his mouth, but before he can speak, a girl plops down beside him. “Hey, Mac!” She turns to us. “Hi! I hope I’m not interrupting.”