Page 17 of Sex Positive

A friend? When did he consider her afriend? Surely not in the same way she used to think about him, not after what he said all those years ago. His words are forever burned into her brain like a brand.

You don’t say something like that about a friend.

She opens her laptop once more, tapping the space bar to wake up the screen. Her pithy document of ideas stares back at her, and she rests her face in her palm, glaring at the blank white space.

Male Perspective. Charlie scoffs at the ridiculous name. No one needs a podcast from a famous male celebrity about what it’s like to date people. Theo’s advice isn’t evengood. The one episode she listened to—purely out of curiosity—involved him answering a listener’s question about how to get his girlfriend to put out more. She shut it off halfway through, in no way interested in hearing someone bloviate about sexist relationship expectations when rumors ran rampant that Theo Fox never dated anyone for more than a few weeks.

She can’t believe thousands of people tune in every week—

Charlie freezes, a shock jolting her like she’s been struck by lightning.

On the screen, her cursor blinks in time with the thump of her pulse.

National media coverage. Congressional sponsorship. And—

Celebrity endorsements.

“Fuck,” she mutters. “Fuckingfuck.”

Fingers trembling like she’s about to attempt to defuse a bomb, she adds “Theo Fox’s podcast” under the Fantastical heading.

Theo has a large platform. And as it did recently, she knows about multiple instances where his sound bites went viral on social media.

Is it worth trying to pitch to appearing on a show like that to save her clinic?

She knows the answer before she even finishes the thought.

Because she will do whatever it takes to save it.

Groaning, she covers her face with her hands.

She has to get him to agree first. And in order to do that…

Lowering her hands, Charlie stares into the distance with growing resignation.

She needs to speak with Wes again.

Six

Charlie finds himthe next day, bent over a textbook seated at a patio table in the middle of the Cortez Hall courtyard. The weather is mild enough to sit outside, and a few other students are lounging on the chairs and benches shaded by trees. Sunlight paints his arms, and he’s in a green T-shirt that accentuates his chest. This irritates her in a way she doesn’t want to think about.

Despite her attempts to ignore everything about Wesley Quinn, she’s painfully aware of his class schedule because he, like her, spends much of his time in Cortez Hall, where many courses for public policy and criminal justice majors are taught.

She watches him jot something in a notebook before marching up to him.

“Quinn.”

His head snaps up, his eyes widening in surprise—thatfuckingT-shirt—before he adopts an expression of cool passivity. He lowers his head again, scribbling something else on his paper. “What now, Rogers?”

There are dark circles under his eyes, and his hair is more disheveled than usual. She glances at his textbook, but she can’t determine what it is, and his penmanship is indecipherable from her angle.

“I need to talk to you.”

Capping his pen, he tosses it on the notebook and leans back in his chair. The ghost of a smile paints his lips.

“Oh? And why should I let you after the way you treated me yesterday when I asked—politely, I might add—to talk to you?”

She chews the inside of her cheek, holding back a snarl, knowing she deserves this.