Date: Mon, 9 Mar 2015 18:22:51 -0500
From: Jonothan Wolf <jwolf24450@gmail.com>
Subject: English Year Chapter 4
**Standard disclaimer applies. This is based on actual events, although
names, places, and descriptions have changed to protect the identities of
the living. Don't read if you shouldn't because you're under 18 or live in
a backwards area. I appreciate any and all feedback, so please email me at
jwolf24450@gmail.com. Enjoy the story!
There's a certain paranoia that comes with waking up out of a blackout.
`Where the fuck am I?' is usually the first thought to
cross your mind. Sometimes you're safely tucked away in your bed. If your
friends are assholes, as mine proved to be on Monday morning, you wake up
in the bed of a British man.
And you have no clue how you got there.
At that point, the questions come racing through much
faster than the answers. Am I still drunk? How did I get here? What the
fuck happened last night? Of course I'm still drunk. Where is my wallet?
Did I do anything stupid? If I did, was it fun? Did I at least use a
condom?
And the list goes on and on.
When I woke up on Monday morning and realized that my phone
was on Pete's charger, presumably because it had died at some point, I felt
like I had hit rock bottom. I turned around and found that Pete was lying
fast asleep next to me, curled up and facing away from me, one arm under
his head and the other draped just inches away from me.
I crept out of his bed, my head spinning from a mixture of
being drunk and being nauseous. I looked around, attempted to gather my
bearings, and when I couldn't, I sat back down. I pulled my phone off
Pete's charger and decided that back-texting myself would be a good start.
The text chain between Brian, Austin, Hutch, `Berto and
myself started around 1 a.m. and was the best indication of how my night
had gone.
From Austin: Corb, where the fuck are you?
From Corbin: Rivvvv 3. Wheres are yhou?
From Berto: Holy fuck, Batman.
From Austin: Are you alive?
From Brian: Me and Cat are sleeping. Take me off this
chain.
From Austin: Turn your fuckking phone off!
From Corbin: whooooo is a sleeping? Iz sooooo erlzy.
From Hutch: What?
From Berto: Corb, we're coming to get you.
From Corbin: Fuck that! Bitches.
From Brian: Honestly. No more fucking chains. Goodnight
bastards.
From Hutch: So if we go pick Corb up against his will, is
it bro-napping?
There was a lull in the correspondence. At around 3:15, I
got a series of death threats from Hutch and Austin that went a little like
this.
From Austin: If you don't fucking come home right now, I
will find you and kill you myself.
From Hutch: you better not be fucking dead. Why are you not
in your room? Corb, this is not funny.
From Austin: Dude... what the fuck. Where are you?
From Corbin: I'm coming home bitches.
From Corbin: Wheress the house? It moved.
From Corbin: I'm nots commingn home. I'm gnna fuck a
brit. Or not. ORRR will. OR not.
That was the end of my contribution to the chain and my
last outgoing message. The brothers went back and forth for another couple
of minutes trying to decide if they should come get me or not. The problem
was, they didn't know where I was. And from the looks of it, I didn't
either.
The big clue was a missed call from Peter at 2:13, a
returned call to Peter at 2:14, and a text from Peter at 2:27 that simply
said: Are you ready? Downstairs...
My investigation led me to three missed calls from Austin,
one from Hutch, and two from Berto. At around 3 a.m., I got a text from
Amanda asking if I'd made it home. Two minutes after that, I had a missed
call. I talked to Amanda at some point between 3:42 and 3:44. What was said
in those two minutes I'd never know; but I knew what I had to do, and
anyone who's ever been overserved knows how humiliating my next move was
about to be.
"Hey, Mandy Moo," I said five minutes later. I had rummaged
around Pete's room for my pants. I couldn't find my shirt, so I naturally,
I took one of his. I crept out of his room without so much as eliciting a
stir from the Englishman.
"Hey there," Amanda sounded as alert as someone who'd been
up for hours. "How are you feeling?"
"Like death, warmed up," I quoted. Just as I was creeping
up the alley towards my house, I saw a group of freshmen, led by their dorm
counselor and a classmate of mine cross down the hill where my alley
bisected Jefferson Drive.
"And I just registered the year's first walk of
shame. They're going to put me in a caution pamphlet."
"Where'd you end up last night?"
"At Pete's," I confessed. "How'd I get there? What do you
know? What did I do?"
"As far as I know, you didn't do anything except throw up
at River Three," she began. I put my hand to my temple. This was the moment
of truth. "Hutch and Austin drove out to get you. They put you in bed, and
then when they came in to check on you, you'd left."
"I left a note!" I remembered.
"Yeah," she said. I could hear chatter in the background,
and it sounded like she was in the commons. "You left a note. From what you
told me last night when I called you, Pete asked you to go with him and
some other exchange students to Waffle House. You snuck away from the
brigade and went."
"Oh," I sighed, relieved. It could have been a lot worse
than that. "Did I sound like I was having fun?"
"Yeah, I guess. You don't remember our conversation at all,
do you?" she asked as I made my way up the steps of the house.
"Are you even asking me that? I'm walking home with one
shoe and no shirt. I have no concept of what time it is, and I feel like
I've been hit in the head with a baseball bat. Of course I don't remember
our conversation."
"Well, when I called, you told me that you'd gone to Waho
with Pete and that you were going to try one more time to see if he liked
you. You said that you were going to flirt with him at his apartment, and
if he asked you to stay the night, you'd know. You sounded frustrated,
Corb. You said you'd wish he'd either stop flirting with you or else make a
move. Shit or..."
"Or get off the pot," I finished. I remembered telling her
those exact words. "That's what I said."
The paranoia surged back in a wave just then, as I opened
the door to my bedroom.
"Wait, was he there for the conversation?" I asked. My room
was a total train wreck.
"No," she said. I sighed again. "You were in the
bathroom. You told me you'd checked under every stall to make sure no one
was listening."
"I'm pretty sure Waffle House only has one stall."
"Whatever," she said. "Listen, I completely understood what
you were saying and where you were coming from. You and Pete have this
crazy dynamic."
"So I'm not insane," I said, sitting on my bed, and
grasping for any form of validation. Now that the general public had seen
how Pete and I were, I was convinced they'd agree with me. The guy was into
the idea of getting into me. Whether he knew it yet or not was yet to be
seen.
"No, you're definitely still insane," she chastised. "But
you're not wrong. I dunno. I don't think he wants to date you or
anything. I just think he's more open with you than he is with anyone
else. Including me, and that fool drank me out of house and home
yesterday."
"So I'm not wrong to go after him," I said.
"Did he invite you to spend the night?"
"He must have," I replied. "I spent the night."
"Well then it doesn't matter what advice I give you, does
it?" It really didn't. She didn't even have to finish the thought, but she
wouldn't have been Amanda Price if she hadn't. "You're going to do what you
want, Corbin."
And she was right. I would proceed on, even if it meant
doing so as delusional as ever. My plan the day before hadn't worked in
helping me move on, but it did work in bringing Pete in closer. He had been
worked up about not getting to play fifty-five. He'd clearly been affected
by seeing me with the Frosh. I'm not sure who broke down first, but it was
now clear that we'd spent the majority of the night together... at least
long enough for Amanda to get a read on the dysfunction junction that was
our non-relationship.
And yet, we still hadn't hooked up. I may have been blacked
out last night, but I would have remembered a kiss. I would have known if
I'd came at some point. And surely, I would have remembered if he'd fucked
me.
I ran my fingers through my hair and decided to do what I
always do when I'm riddled with the Morning Shame. I took a shower, got
dressed, and decided to be productive.
I walked to the student center, stopped at the kiosk to
email my advisor about a good meeting time. I knew she didn't take on
freshmen advisees, so I was sure she'd be free all week. I also replied to
an email from Alexandria telling her I wouldn't be able to see advertisers
with her that day because of mandatory fraternity stuff. I knew she'd know
I was bullshitting, especially if she'd been at River Three, but I didn't
care. I then proceeded into the student store to buy my books. Four hundred
and eighty dollars later, I returned to the house with a stack full of
books to face the firing squad.
"Do you plan on sleeping in your own bed at all this year?"
Hutch asked, his sarcasm and snark being much too much for how my head
felt.
"I do," I replied quietly, walking past the guys configured
in their usual spots in the Great Hall. The area smelled vaguely of Chinese
food and I felt like I was about to vomit. "In fact, I plan on going to
take a nap... in my bed... right now."
"Are you not going to say anything?" Austin asked. I looked
at him. "About last night?"
"Oh," I stopped short of the stairs. "Thank you for picking
me up. Thank you for worrying about me. And..." I trailed off.
"How about `I'm sorry for being a jackass'."
I wasn't entirely sure how I'd been a jackass. So what I'd
left after they'd put me to bed... I was safe, I was with friends, and
nothing had happened. They were the ones that had decided to freak out. But
instead of getting hostile, I simply loosened my face.
"You guys, I really am sorry for being a jackass," I said
as sincerely as I could. I'm sure none of them bought it, but it still got
them off my back and let me escape upstairs otherwise unscathed.
I fell asleep in my clothes almost immediately after
hitting the sack. It was like the effort it had taken to walk to campus and
buy those books had paralyzed me. What felt like an eternity later, I was
woken up by a loud knock at my door.
"Hey, Corb, are you decent?" It was a girl's voice. It took
me minute to recognize it as Meghan Simpson's voice from the girl's
volleyball team.
"Hey, Corb. It's Meghan! Can I come in?" I sat up and
rubbed my eyes. Meghan was one of the sweetest girls on campus. She was
involved in everything, played a varsity sport, was a clutch Theta, and
still found time to look cute.
"Yeah," I croaked. "Come in."
She waltzed in with a little girl of about 8 years old in
tow. I looked from Megan to the girl, and then back again, utterly
confused.
"Hi," I greeted, more of a question than a statement.
"Hey," she replied. "Glad to see you're doing alright."
"I'm great," I faked through a pounding head and a dry
mouth. "What's up?"
"Well, Alyssa here wanted to meet you. She loved your
message last night, and is really grateful that you're taking one of her
kittens off her hands."
"A kitten," I said slowly. "Off her hands... Hi Alyssa."
"Hi Corbin," the little girl lisped. "You sounded really
funny on the phone message. But I knew what you were saying."
"You did, did you?" I asked. "And what was that?"
"That you were sad that we couldn't afford to take care of
the kittens and we'd have to let them go. And that you would be proud to
take one."
I was shocked to the point of my jaw coming open and
hanging there. When the fuck had that happened? When in the world had I
left a message to a little girl saying I would adopt her cat? Why on earth
would Meghan, who was supposed to be a friend of mine, allow this to
happen?
"Well, that's perfect then," I said, forcing myself to
smile. "Meghan, can we talk? In the hall?"
"Of course. Alyssa, doll, you stay right in here okay? And
don't touch any of Mr. Corbin's things."
"Okay," the little girl sat down on my couch, and I briefly
wondered what assortment of fraternity germs would seep through her skin on
contact.
"What is going on?" I asked once we were out in the hall
and the door was closed.
"Look, buddy, I tried to stop you from leaving the
message."
"You dialed the number!" I stopped just short of shouting.
"You told me to. You said that it wasn't fair for strangers
to get the kittens when you could provide a good home for one. And you
wanted dibs before someone else snatched up all the cats." At one in the
morning? Someone was going to snatch up all the cats at one in the morning?
I thought. How drunk had I been that that was my reasoning?
"And you believed me? I live in the frat house for crying
out loud! I cannot have a cat." Meghan blinked.
"It's done, Corb. You can't tell that little girl that you
were drunk and didn't mean it. When I talked to her this morning, she was
absolutely beaming at finding a good home for one of her kittens."
"Meg, I can't take a cat. Our house mom would kill me. The
guys will kill me."
"Corb..."
"No," I said. I knew what she was about to do. It was what
all girls did to get their way. Her lips turned downward and her eyes
became more oval. I swallowed. I couldn't take on a cat, no matter how much
she guilt tripped me. What had I been thinking last night? Was this my big
attempt at getting laid? Did I think a frat cat would help me accomplish
that?
And it was only when I searched my memory for a motive did
it hit me. There was a reason I'd cornered Meghan Simpson. There was a
reason I'd struck up this conversation, listened to her babble about her
Big Sister volunteer program, listened to her tell me how her little sister
needed to find a home for her impoverished cats.
"Oh shit, the mixer. What about the mixer?" I blurted
out. "Did you talk to your social chair yet?"
"I did," Meghan replied. "Right after we made our deal and
you made the call. She said that if y'all send out a formal invite, hire
outside security, and get her to co-sign all of the university documents,
she'll guarantee 70 percent attendance."
That's what it had been. I had traded a cat for a mixer. I
had done this for the house. They wouldn't care when they voted me out of
dodge for harboring a cat, but still. In my drunkenness, I was still the
social chair.
"The deal is set," Meghan said. "And that little girl in
there is excited to find a home for her kitten."
My hands were tied. I shook my head and swallowed.
"Where's the cat?" I resigned. Meghan smiled, gave me a hug
and a kiss on the cheek and walked back into my room.
"The kitten is going to love living here!" Alyssa
exclaimed. "Look at this view!"
I have to say, it was heartwarming to see how excited the
little girl was to find a decent home for one of her kittens.
"Does this cat not have a name?"
"Not yet," Alyssa said, much too perky for my
liking. "We're not sure if she's a girl or a boy yet, so we haven't named
her. And she's super tiny, so I've been calling it Tiny."
"Well, where is this fabulous cat?" I asked, trying hard to
remain pleasant.
"She's downstairs with Hutch and Roberto," Meghan
said. "They said we should probably come up to you first."
Good call, I thought. The two girls followed me down the
stairs and out to the front porch, where Robbie and Hutch were bonding with
the littlest cat I'd ever seen. He or she was clearly a runt. It's eyes
were barely open, and the kitten looked tired. Her fur was thin and black,
with traces of grey and white. As I picked it up in one palm, I couldn't
help but think that the cat looked like an old man.
"Hi there, Mister," I said, taken over by a natural sense
of humanity. "I guess this is your new home."
The cat meowed feebly and I brought it up to my shoulder. I
looked at the guys.
"We have a cat," I said meekly.
"That's what it looks like, doesn't it?" Roberto said,
clearly less than amused.
"I'll go get my keys," Hutch added, clearly reading my
mind. We needed to go get supplies, and I was about to ask him to take me.
We said bye to Alyssa and Meghan, who thanked me again for
doing what I'd done. We shook on the deal one more time and they left,
probably to surprise another unsuspecting idiot with another runt cat.
"I cannot believe you," Berto started in as soon as we got
in the care. The cat, who had been settled and calm on the porch, freaked
out in the car for whatever reason. He wouldn't stop meowing, and hissing,
until finally I held it really tight on my chest, like a baby. I could feel
it trying to claw me, but it's claws were soft. The cat's breathing
intensified as Hutch drove towards Walmart until it eventually tapered off
and returned to normal.
"It's okay, Mister Kitty," I repeated over and over,
essentially ignoring Roberto.
"What were you thinking?" Berto asked.
"It's okay, Mister Cat."
"Clearly, he wasn't thinking," Hutch answered for me. "Did
you see him last night? He would have agreed to adopt a baby in that
state."
"I blame Meghan for letting you have the cat, I really do,"
Roberto said.
"Listen, ass—" I moved my voice to a whisper so the cat
wouldn't hear me curse. "Listen assholes, I agreed to take the cat so that
Theta would mix with us. Sue me. Kill me. It is what it is."
"And now you have a cat," Roberto couldn't let it
go. "Congratu-fucking-lations."
I sighed deeply. As we walked around Walmart, collecting
the necessary tools one needs for a cat—litter box, litter, food, treys,
carpet cleaner, beer, etc—me calling the cat Mister Kitty began to
stick. It didn't matter that the cat could very well be a girl. By the time
we made it home, Mister was its name.
The cat had another mild freak out as we walked back into
to the house and up to my room. We made sure our house mom was nowhere to
be found as we smuggled Mister up the steps. Twenty minutes later, the guys
abandoned me with a sleeping cat and a stocked room.
To Pete: Did I really agree to adopt a cat last night?
I texted him because I had nothing else to do. I was tired,
but with afternoon setting in, I knew I'd have to rally. The guys would be
coming around to make plans soon, and I'd be expected to participate. I
lied down, surfed the Internet for cat raising tips, and waited for Pete to
text me back.
To Corbin: I think you said something about it at Waffle
House. Which gave me intense shits this morning, by the way.
To Pete: That might have been the beer too...
I resisted texting him right away, and instead waited the
standard three minutes before doing it. After I hit send, I waited. I
watched my cat, and I waited.
To Corbin: What are you doing? How'd we end up last night?
To Pete: I slept at your place. I'm a wreck. I'm tired, and
I'm thinking about having a beer to ease my head.
To Corbin: Does that really work? I think that's verging on
alcoholic.
He texted me almost immediately after I'd sent mine. I
stood up and cracked open my fridge. I had a slice of pizza on a napkin,
and about six beers I'd stolen from the 55 stash.
To Pete: The best way to detox is to retox.
I cracked open a beer and sat back down. Mister looked at
me as I made a creak in the bed. I looked back at the cat, and actually
said out loud: "Don't judge me."
To Corbin: Can I join? I'm bored, but I can't muster the
energy to accomplish anything.
To Pete: Come over.
I looked at my watch. It was just after two. Since I had
woken up at Pete's earlier that day, I had managed to buy my books, adopt a
cat, and take a nap. If it all went to shit at that point, it would still
be a remarkably productive day.
Pete knocked and let himself in about ten minutes later. He
looked fresh and showered, if his eyes weren't still a little bloodshot.
"Hey," I said, faking the energy it took to greet him. I
stood up from my bed and moved to the couch, where Mister had claimed the
left arm rest corner as his own.
"Is this the pussy?" he asked. The question jolted me. I
looked at him tower over me as he gazed down at my cat.
"Yeah," I replied. "Mister, meet Pete."
He picked her up gently. The cat barely stirred as he
palmed her and sat down next to me. I watched the little kitty look around,
lick it's lips and then resume its nap, purring steadily in Pete's hands.
"She's so little," he smiled. "Is it a boy or a girl?"
"I don't know," I yawned. I felt like that cat right
then. Tired, and wanting a man to hold me.
"I think this cat is dehydrated. Or malnourished."
"Yeah," I replied. "And I'm pretty sure she has worms
too. I'm taking her in to the vet tomorrow to get shots and find out what
else is wrong."
Pete nodded. I sipped my beer, already feeling the
effects. My mind was clearer, my stomach less fussy, and my throat was
rehydrated, making my day-long croak resemble an actual voice.
"Want one?" I asked, pointing at my beer. Before he
answered, I stood up and glided to the fridge.
"I shouldn't," he said. "I'm taking it easy tonight."
"Me too," I said, handing him a cold one. "But it'll help
the hangover, trust me."
I sat down and looked at him make the decision. Which he
did. To drink. He popped open the can and took a sip. I could tell he was
feeling the same way I was. A shower couldn't hide the shame.
"So matriculation tomorrow," he said. "What's that like
here?"
Upperclassmen matriculated on the Tuesday before classes
started. Freshmen were walking the line as we spoke.
"Basically, you just register that you're here. If you owe
any money for tuition or whatever, they tell you then. You get your key
card if you've lost it. You update your address, you reset all of your
university passwords, and you get your schedule and meal plan details. Then
everyone goes to buy books."
He pointed at the sack right next to my couch which clearly
had a ton of academic material in it.
"I already know my classes, so I bought my books
today. Didn't want to risk missing out on the cheap used versions."
"Maybe I should do that," he said. "But I'm not sure what
classes they've given me."
I shrugged. It really didn't matter. It had been more about
me wanting to feel accomplished for the day rather than getting a head
start on the line. In actuality, waiting until after the first class was
smart. That way, you could see how devoted the syllabus was to the reading
and if anyone in the lecture hall was game enough to share. Oh well, I
thought. If I needed to, I'd return them.
"You never answered my question last night," Pete asked out
of the blue. I turned to him, finished my beer and set it down on the
coffee table.
"What question?"
"When we were about to go to sleep. I asked if you'd hooked
up with the freshman you were talking to last night."
I couldn't remember him asking me that. Truthfully, I
didn't remember anything after the pre-party and the several shots that I
took.
"Why'd you ask me that?"
"I don't know," he said. "Why'd you ask me if I made out
with McKenzie?"
Touché, I thought. Only, he knew exactly why I asked him
that, and if he didn't, he was as dumb as a box of hair. "He seemed to
like you," Pete concluded.
"So you can pick up on romantic feelings?" I asked
sarcastically. I was trying to dig myself out of the corner he'd put me
in. What if I told the truth and he thought I was some sort of slut? What
if it was a turnoff for him to see me going around with strangers? What if
he was one of those guys that liked to get to know his sexual partners
before he fucked them? And I'd messed up everything by being impatient.
"Just tell me..."
"Why do you want to know?" I teased, trying my damnest to
keep my tone light and playful. He didn't need to know I was trying to make
him jealous. That defeated the purpose of making him jealous.
"I don't really want to know," he said. "I'm just
curious. If you're embarrassed, then no worries."
His accent was dripping with reverse psychology and I
wasn't about to get turned around.
"Alright then," I answered plainly. I stood up and pulled
two more beers out of the fridge.
"You're a little slut, then," he said, taking my omission
as a confession.
"No," I replied, sitting down and propping my feet up. I
noticed that my cat was fast asleep on Pete's leg, going up and down as it
breathed. It was a Kodak moment if I'd ever seen one.
"If you don't tell me, I'll assume you did, and I'll assume
you're ashamed, so I'll assume you're a slut."
"Hooking up with one freshman does not a slut make," I said
defensively, allowing him to turn me around. "If I did, in fact, hook up
with the freshman."
"The Freshman," he emphasized. "Oh wow. He gets a `the' in
front of his name."
Little did Pete know that he had one too.
"You're the asshole," I countered.
"I'm teasing," he said. "You told me last night that you
did hook up with him."
I shot him a look.
"I did not." My neck hurt from how quickly I'd turned to
face him.
"You did so."
"Fine then," I stonewalled. "Then you already know."
"You said you'd tell me what y'all did," he continued. "But
then you passed out."
I shook my head. I knew he was lying. He had to have
been. Why would I say that? Why would he ask that? Why would he have not
taken advantage of me sleeping in his bed, holding a conversation? There
were way more `why's' that I liked, but there was really no way around
them.
"Why are you asking me all of this?" I asked, hoping he'd
answer correctly.
`Because I don't want you hooking up with freshmen.' That
was the only answer that would suffice. If he was going to give me a hard
time about spreading it, he'd have to offer me an alternative, or else it
was none of his business.
"Because it's no fair that you have a freshman. I want one
too," he replied. My stomach sank. I attributed it to the hangover, and
took another drink of Natty Light.
"Then get one," I said with more attitude that I had hoped.
"Help me get one," he said, leaning close to me. I could
tell he was trying to be funny, but I wasn't in the mood. "Help me get a
freshman."
"You don't want a freshman," I said confidently. "They're
trouble, and apparently they're obvious."
"So you did hook up with him."
I shot him another neck binding look.
"You just said..."
"I was lying," he answered, laughing. "And you fell for
it."
"I hate you," I said. I pushed his shoulder.
"You don't."
"I do," I replied. "I fucking hate you."
"Shh, no hatred in front of the child," he looked down at
the cat, which was now snuggling in the nook that Pete's crossed legs
created. Just below his crotch.
"Someone's crotch has a fan," I observed.
"It's the most action I've gotten in a while now," he
smiled at me. No wonder he was so fucking weird. He was classic case of
cute boy with no skills syndrome. He didn't know how to close the deal. He
could hold his own enough to get someone interested, but when it was time
for him to make the move, he choked. He'd choked twice on me now, and not
in a good way.
"We should get you laid then," I said simply.
"With who?" We locked eyes. I stared at him, refusing to
move first. He knew what I was implying. I knew that he knew what I was
implying. There was no fucking way around it. And yet, we both chose to
play the game.
"You're right," I joked. "It might be hard to find someone
who'll do you."
"Oh, you're a mean boy, Cady Heron."
I laughed out loud.
"You did not just quote Mean Girls," I said, laughing
uncontrollably.
"I did," he smiled. "Say crack again."
The voice he used to mimic an American accent was
priceless. The fact that he was quoting one of the gayest movies of all
time was even better.
Now would have been the perfect time to pop the
question. It'd be easy breezy.
`So are you, or aren't you? Are you gay? Or just really
good at being European? What's the status of your sexuality?'
But I didn't. And I didn't. In that moment, I decided I
wouldn't ask him, and the reason was complicated. It wasn't that I didn't
desperately want to know. I did. I wanted a lifeline. But what I didn't
want was a rejection. I didn't want his answer to ruin my hope. Without a
definitive answer, I could still pursue someone in a way I hadn't been
compelled to do in over a year. I wanted to chase him. I was having fun
doing so. And so I resolved to continue the flirt as long as it was
enjoyable.
And it was. For the rest of the afternoon, we hung around
making jokes and getting under each other's skin. At one point, I confessed
that I owned Mean Girls and we decided to go downstairs and watch it,
leaving Mister upstairs to guard the beer fridge.
I can only imagine what Hutch and Haley thought when they
walked into the TV room in the basement and saw two guys sharing a couch
and a case, watching Mean Girls and cracking up like school children.
I spent that night hanging out with Pete and his
international friends, all of whom couldn't believe I'd survived last. I
learned that the reason I went home with Peter is because his German friend
and fellow exchange student insisted I not try to walk up the fraternity
stairs.
"I thought you'd surely fall to your death," the guy said
as I tried to figure out how his dark features fit into my preconceived
notions of what a German was supposed to look like. Light hair and blue
eyes.
I also learned that night that Pete spoke fluent German,
could understand French but couldn't speak it, and was half Irish.
"My hair used to be strawberry blonde," he confessed. "It's
gotten darker as I've gotten older."
"Then the real question is this, Mr. Peterson," I said in a
creepy voice. "Does the carpet match the drapes?"
Of all the people in the room, only Pete and German James
got it. And they cracked up accordingly.
"Wouldn't you like to know, Mr. Corbin Crowley," Pete
replied in one of his many variations of an American accent. That one was
him doing an American gay, which was decidedly English with a little bit of
a lisp and extended vowels.
The night was casual and fun. I realized that in the group
full of people I didn't know, I stayed close to Pete the entire time. I
wasn't nervous around the folks at the International House, but I was more
comfortable closer to the guy I'd come with. Even if we were yet to come
together.
The only time it got awkward was when Pete challenged me to
an arm wrestling competition.
"Oh, come on, Mr. Crowley," he said, sitting down and
taking the pose. "You know you want to."
The girls that lived at the I-House egged me on. I took a
sip of whatever sangria concoction the two girls from Spain had put
together.
"I don't arm wrestle," I said with a smile.
"Sit down, Nancy, and take my hand," Pete said
aggressively. "Scared?"
"I'm scared I'll beat you and you'll never speak to me
again."
"Nothing will make that happen," Pete said, almost
earnestly. We locked eyes, and I realized we'd just had a moment in front
of a room full of people. "Come on!"
"Okay, okay," I replied. I sat down opposite him, put my
arm up and locked into his. The feeling was electric. Competitive and
electric.
Had I been playing with normal intensity, he would have won
easily. Pete was a surprisingly strong guy. However, I wanted to make the
moment last. The eye contact, the hand-to-hand contact. The electricity
that flowed between us. So I looked at him, licked my lips, and bit my
tongue. He licked his lips back at me, and I shook my head while cracking a
smile.
"Ready, Mr. Crowley?"
"No," I said. "Give me one..."
I shifted quickly and then applied pressure to his arm. He
was caught off guard and I gained a few inches on him.
"Cheater!" he shouted. He managed to catch the force I'd
applied just before he lost. I ground into my seat and put as much force on
him as possible. We locked strength right in the middle, neither of us
willing to give ground. He was stronger, I could tell. But I was
determined.
"Give up," I clenched.
"No, you," he said. "I could sit like this all day."
"Oh yeah?" I asked.
"Yessir."
We went back and forth, exchanging advantages for a solid
thirty seconds. I could tell he was getting fatigued by the light pink
shade his cheeks were turning. When he realized that I wasn't quite the
Nancy he'd expected to beat, I saw him buck up and focus. And then he
pulled out the big guns.
"You're not going to win, Corbin," he said to me, his voice
soft but sinister. A second later, I felt his hand clench me just above the
knee. Our eyes were still locked, and I watch him lick his lips and give me
a dirty gaze. He slowly pushed his hand up my thigh, until...
"Whoa!" I said, backing up. A second later, he slammed my
hand down onto table.
"Cheater!" I screamed.
"No way," he replied, raising his arms and taking in the
applause.
"Did no one else see that?" I asked.
"See what?" German James asked.
"That! He cheated!"
"Oh, you Americans are poor, poor losers," Pete goaded. I
shook my head.
"I can't believe this."
"Let's rematch, if you think I cheated."
"No!" I answered. "I'm not getting cheated and felt up
twice in a row." He laughed at me, and went in to the kitchen to get more
sangria. I followed him, upset that'd he'd cheated, but not upset that he'd
thrown down the sexual gauntlet.
It was moments like that that had me convinced I wasn't
wrong about Pete. I couldn't be. There was no way I had imagined the look
on his face. And if the guy was acting to win an arm wrestle, then he was
good and I was screwed.
After hanging out at the I-House, Pete and I went back to
my room so he could play with Mister. I watched him warm up to my cat, that
I still wouldn't fully trust until it was cleaned and medicated. Pete
helped me locate a spot where the cat had clearly peed. He taught me a
trick to training them.
"Look at the pee, Mister," he said sternly. "No. Not
okay. Not good, okay?" Then he carried Mister to the litter box and said:
"This is where the pee pee and the poo poo goes."
I tried hard not to laugh as he repeated it over and over,
shoving my cat's head into the carpet and then into the litter while I
scrubbed the spot down and Febreezed. I used his trick for four days, and
by that very Friday, my cat was potty trained. That's all I want to say
about cat pee, litter training, and any other sort of feline bodily
function.
When we settled into my room, I poured us a couple of
vodkas with Crystal Light and sat next to Pete on my couch. Mister was
quick to settle in on his favorite spot... between Pete's legs, right under
his crotch. I looked down at the cat and laughed.
"What?" Pete looked at me like he was paranoid... like he
had a huge zit on his face.
"Nothing, it's just... my cat loves you... your
crotch... your... whatever."
"Your cat loves my package," he said with a sexy eye. "What
do you have to say about that?" I wanted to tell him that Mister wasn't the
only one that loved it.
"I think you're full of yourself," I said, reaching over
and picking up the cat. I have to admit, I put my hands closer to his
package than was necessary, but he didn't move or seem to mind. I gently
placed Mister onto my crotch, and we both watched as a second later, the
cat looked up at me and then went back to sleep.
"You're not special, sir," I smiled.
"Whatever," he leaned his head back and sighed. "So I guess
this fantasy land ends soon, doesn't it?"
"Basically," I told him. "Are you ready to start school?"
"I've started so many schools so many times, I'm always
ready."
"Well there's still a couple nights left," I reminded him,
turning my head and looking him in the eye. "There's the Sigma Chi White
Party tomorrow night. Technically, it's invitation only before ten."
"Are you taking your frosh, or can I tag along?"
I wanted to ask why he was so hung up on that. Why did it
matter? Why did he feel the need to bring it up, yet again? He's the one
that had made out with McKenzie Sutton. He's the one that wasn't
reciprocating my advances. I wasn't going to punish myself because of his
jealousy. Fuck that.
I was suddenly really annoyed with him, but I swallowed
hard, and tried not to show it.
"You can come along if you want," I replied evenly.
"Do you want me to?"
I turned to him again.
"Dude, in the last four days, have I said no to your
company once?"
When the words left my mouth, I heard how bitchy they
sounded. I also heard how pathetic they sounded. I'd known the guy for four
days, and yet it felt like we'd been hanging out forever.
In retrospect, I realize four days isn't that long. I've
had oil changes that lasted longer than my relationship with Pete up until
that point. And yet I had put this undue pressure on him to make a
move. Maybe it would have been prudent to step back and ease things up. But
I didn't. I continued to fall, and like a ball tossed over the edge of a
cliff, I continued to gain momentum.
"Alright then," he said, turning to me. It was almost like
we'd survived our first spat. It wasn't a fight by any stretch of the
imagination, but he'd gotten on my nerves for a brief stretch, and I'd
overcome my feelings of annoyance by looking at his face.
"Do you like Old Dominion?" I asked him softly out of
nowhere. I didn't want the conversation to end, and I thought if there was
too much of a lull between topics, he'd tell me he needed to go home.
"I'm starting to," he replied. "You're awesome, and I like
Amanda a lot. It's an interesting place."
"And the girls are easy," I kidded. He scowled at me for a
split-second, and then shrugged his shoulder. I felt bad for bringing up
his make-out again, and in typical fashion, it wasn't until I'd said myself
did I realize why he kept bringing up the frosh.
It wasn't that I was jealous. It was because, up until
then, making out with McKenzie, no matter how insignificant, was the only
flaw I could pinpoint in a guy that I genuinely was starting to like. And I
was obsessed with that flaw.
"The guys are too, it seems," he responded.
"Fair enough."
"But past all of that easiness," he said, looking at me
again. "Do people on this campus actually date?"
I pursed my lip upwards and thought for a second.
"I guess most people do," I said. "After a while, they get
it out of their systems. They kiss enough toads, and eventually, they get a
prince."
"How many toads have you kissed?" I cut my eyes at
him. Slowly, I released my gaze and formed a smile.
"Nice try," I said. "But if you must know, I guess it is
possible to fall in love at OD. At least that's what I preach in my
column."
"Have you?" he asked. It took me a second to dig out the
meaning from his inflection. "Have you fallen in love before?"
I thought for a second. There were two guys I could say I'd
fallen in love with, and none of them went to Old Dominion. One was a good
friend of mine back home, a guy I'd known forever and who had always been
my partner in crime. The love I had for him was almost so intense, it
verged right back onto platonic.
The other was the cadet. Michael Loggerman.
"No," I lied simply. Convincingly.
"Come on," he said, turning his body towards me. We both
had our heads tilted back onto the rest of the seat back. I
shrugged. "There's got to be someone."
"Have you?" I asked.
"No sir," he replied. "This isn't about me. You're in the
hot seat."
I took in a deep breath.
"I guess..." I hesitated. "There's a guy that goes to VMI
that I've been into for a couple years," I confessed.
"VMI?"
"Virginia Military," I explained. "It's in Lexington, a
couple of towns over."
"And he's in the military, this guy?"
"He's training, or studying, or whatever they do there," I
replied. I wasn't sure exactly what the curriculum was. All I knew was that
the cadet wrestled, went to rugby matches, and strung me along.
"And he's gay?"
"He's... ambiguous," I swallowed.
"You'll have to explain."
"The cadet and I have a weird and complicated
relationship. I'm totally into him and he knows it," I shrugged. "Actually,
when I say it, it's not that complicated."
"Why don't you go after him?"
"I have. I do. And we hook up every once in a while, when
it's convenient for him. And then I realize he's an asshole and not worth
it, and then he calls me and we rinse and repeat."
"So if you all hook up, then he is gay."
"He's either gay or a good actor," I said. I sat up and
gently put Mister on the couch between Pete and I. I stood up and refilled
my Solo cup. "When we're together, just the two of us, he says there's
something different about me. He'll say that he's not gay, but there's
something about me that puts him on, you know?"
"Yeah..."
"And then we'll do things. We'll make out, we'll touch each
other. I'll blow him, or what have you," I confessed. I was spitting out
words like a waterfall, probably edging myself closer and closer to the
friend zone. "But there's a line that he won't cross, and I've tried to get
him to a million times."
I shrugged. Pete looked at me like I was a puppy with a
missing leg.
"But you like this guy?"
"I liked him. I don't know. I can't explain it. I do... I
like him alot. And if circumstances were different, I think we'd be
together."
"What circumstances?"
"If he were more open with himself, everything would be
perfect."
"And what if another guy comes along while you're waiting
for him to be open with himself?" Pete asked. That was the question of the
ages.
"I think I'm mature and adjusted enough to forget about the
cadet if an equal or greater option presented itself," I deadpanned. I shot
the words directly into Pete's face. I couldn't have been clearer in
directing the meaning of the phrase.
"Then why wait?" he asked. "You deserve someone that makes
you feel adequate."
Pete could eclipse the cadet. Easily. I'd been on campus
for four days, and I hadn't even told the cadet I was back. I had been
preoccupied from day one. In a way, even just the idea of Pete had cast a
shadow on a guy I had hoped for for far too long.
And in an even bigger way, I was falling into the same
trap. Pete was emotionally unavailable, and our last four nights together
had made that perfectly clear. What was also clear was the fact that I
didn't care. I was content torturing myself around a guy I was falling hard
for, unwilling to accept that nothing past friendship was going to
happen. And why?
Because I was willing to tell myself the same lie about
Pete that I'd said about the cadet for two years.
It was better to have him close, if not as close as I
wanted, than to not have him at all.
As always, all feedback is greatly appreciated. Email me at
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