In Too Hard (Freshman Roommates Trilogy, Book 3) by Mara Jacobs Page A

my raised knees and thighs.
    “No,” I said, also for about the thirtieth time since we’d started. “You tell another one. You’re the storyteller after all.”
    “You don’t have to be a writer to tell a story about past New Year’s Eves. Just pick one.”
    “But you have so many more to choose from than I do.”
    He grinned and—corny as it sounds—my heart literally skipped a beat. “Ooh, was that an old man dig? Need I remind you that I’m still under thirty?”
    “And yet still an old man to me,” I teased, then wished I hadn’t when I saw his grin slowly vanish from his face.
    “Yeah, there is that,” he said.
    I started shaking my head, feeling my hair sliding on the pillow propped beneath me. “I’m kidding. It’s not an issue. At least not for me.”
    He watched me for a long time, like he was looking for a tell or something that I might be lying. “Honestly,” I added.
    It was weird, discussing obstacles to our relationship, when, well, there was no relationship. Not really. Not yet.
    But the more we talked, the more we laughed, the more we looked meaningfully at each other as we said good night… Yeah, there was something there, even if it was undefined at this point, even to us. Especially to us.
    But so there would be no objection that he could obsess about (did guys even obsess like we girls did?), I drove the point home. “I’m nineteen, almost twenty. I was old for my class.” A little lie, but he didn’t need to know I had missed nearly all of eighth grade and needed to repeat it. “And, let’s face it, I’ve probably lived more of a life growing up where I did, than most of these other freshman girls.”
    Reminding him I was a student probably wasn’t the smartest tactic, but after a while he just smiled and said, “So, since you’ve got all this life experience, your turn to share a story. New Year’s Eve or not.” I opened my mouth to argue, but he quickly added, “I feel like I’ve done all the talking.”
    I shook my head. “No. And even if you have, I’ve enjoyed it.”  
    Just as I was about to argue more, a roar went up from outside on his end, loud enough for us both to hear. “Jesus, it’s almost midnight already,” he said. The sound now became a discernible countdown. “When did we start chatting?”
    “Around eight,” I said. It had been exactly 8:03, but who was counting?
    He turned his head toward his window, then got out of his chair and picked up his laptop. “You can’t see Times Square from here, but we’ll be able to hear it,” he said walking with his laptop—with me—out onto a terrace that seemed to span the entire length of his parents’ apartment.
    “Wow,” I said, getting a touch of sea sickness as he moved the laptop around, finding the best place to settle, which apparently was a table and chairs set of some type. “You have a terrace door in your bedroom ? Soooo Upper East Side.”
    He shrugged. “Yeah, it is nice. But you should see my apartment. No terrace. No rooftop pool. None of that shit. It’s totally starving artist.”
    But he wasn’t starving, had never starved, never really struggled. According to “Forbes,” royalties from Folly still topped the mid six figures even five years after publication.
    Yeah, Montrose didn’t know what a true starving artist was.
    It was darker outside, but a light was on further down the terrace behind him. They had reached the final ten seconds by the time he’d sat and had me steady.
    (Like I was ever steady in his presence!)
    “Explain again why you’re here with me and not down there?” I said, meaning Manhattan in general, Times Square in particular.
    “God, the thought,” he said, doing a mock shudder. “You’re from New York, you know what a zoo it is on this night. I guarantee you, ninety percent of the people out there tonight, at least in Times Square, are tourists.”
    “We are not both from New York. At least not the same New York.”
    He waved a hand of