Page 12 of Sex Positive

Gripping the strap of her bag, she resists the shiver his voice ignites.

“Absolutely not,” she returns.

He sighs, and his warm breath flutters the loose curls at the nape of her neck. “I need to talk to you.”

Instead of responding, Charlie spins on her heel and retreats from the café. She’d rather forego her afternoon coffee than stand in line with him for one more minute and questioning all her life choices.

The day she met Wesley Quinn, he was wearing only a pair of gray basketball shorts. She’d been at college for about half a second, hadn’t yet broken out of her sheltered, shy, girl-from-Indiana box, and had already managed to get lost in the enormous ten-floor dorm, confusing the west side for the east side. When he opened his door and she was met with a very naked, muscular chest, she squeaked out an apology and promptly fled, hoping never to see the boy with the vivid green eyes again.

Unfortunately for her, the boy—Wesley Quinn, she later learned—was in half her classes that first semester, and on the second day of Psych 101, he plopped down in the chair next to her without so much as an “Is this seat taken?” and immediately struck up a conversation about the best dining hall on campus.

By the end of class, she’d agreed to grab dinner with him—“Whitmer Hall has thebestbreakfast for dinner”—and by the end of the week, they were sharing the same table in the library, walking together back to their dorm each night.

Is it any wonder she fell for him? In hindsight, she couldn’t have prevented it even if she’d tried.

A surprising warmth sparked inside her at his casual use of her surname, at the way he gave her his full attention when she spoke, at the unexpected ease she felt with him almost from day one. He brought her coffee just the way she liked it, forced her to eat and take breaks when she became too focused on her studies and her essential needs fell by the wayside.

She liked spending time with him, liked the way he made her feel. Somehow, he saw all of her. He didn’t judge her for being a small-town girl from Indiana who’d never been in a relationship, sexual or otherwise.

He, on the other hand, was a shameless flirt, surrounding himself with pretty girls every weekend at blowout off-campus parties, and by the time she discovered his true nature, it was too late to protect her pitiful, naïve heart.

After her heartbreak, she discovered who his parents were, and she finally understood why everyone on campus wanted to know him, be friends with him,sleepwith him.

Why there was never any chance he’d be interested in someone like her.

“Rogers.”

Two days after the run-in at the café, she’s sitting in her favorite spot on the library’s fourth floor where she assumed no one would find her when Wes’s all-too-familiar voice penetrates the silence of her noise-canceling headphones. Her traitorous heart riots in her chest, but she doesn’t look up from her laptop, hoping if she ignores him, he’ll take the hint and leave.

But this is Wesley Quinn, and he is undeterred.

Pens and sticky notes lie scattered across the table, an open notebook on her right, her Experiment Journal on her left. The cursor on her Word document blinks, mocking her attempts to craft a step-by-step plan to save The Wild Rue.

So far, her list is broken into three categories: achievable, commendable, and fantastical.

“Achievable” consists of launching a marketing campaign with local media outlets, highlighting the benefits of the clinic as well as requesting donations from local businesses.

“Commendable” consists of contacting state representatives to help create an initiative preventing the crisis pregnancy center from opening in the first place, and offering free STI testing to other colleges and universities sponsored by the clinic.

“Fantastical” makes her want to laugh and cry at the same time; her ideas are absurd and improbable.

National media coverage. A social media campaign. Congressional support. Brand sponsorships. Celebrity endorsements. Some kind of viral publicity stunt.

Carolyn responded to her email saying she’d look through her media contacts, but even in writing, her tone sounded doubtful.

This isn’t an easy solution like the time Charlie’s elementary school hosted a bake sale to raise money for a field trip to Chicago. How is she supposed to get people to care about keeping The Wild Rue open and impress upon them the dangers of allowing a crisis pregnancy center to take its place? What she needs is something viral that can spread across social media, but she doesn’t know the first thing about how to make that happen.

The screen blurs more and more the longer she stares at it, her pulse racing. Something catches in her chest, and she can’t take a full breath.

Why did she agree to this? How could she possibly have thoughtshecould save the clinic?

“Rogers,” Wes repeats. “I know you can hear me.”

The room snaps back into focus. She inhales.

Knowing she will get nothing done until he vanishes from her sight, Charlie shuts her laptop, pulls off her headphones, and, adopting the most impassive expression she can muster, meets his eyes.

“Yes?”