“Sorry?” Katie’s uncharacteristically loud voice indicates she’s got a good buzz going on.
“He’s a dud!” Barrett spits from over my shoulder. “Fuck this place.”
Katie’s jaw drops at the first inkling of a scandal and she immediately starts saying her goodbyes. Barrett gives a wave to Emma, who’s sitting on the front porch with a few guys, and calls to her that we’re leaving.
I totally regret coming here. Did I miss something—some subtle cue that Colson isn’t as interested as I thought he was? It’s a party with free alcohol, it’s not like they’re short on warm bodies to cram into this dump.
Soon, Katie and Emma run up to join us as we start down the sidewalk toward Barrett’s car.
“So, what happened?” Katie gasps, slowing down.
“He was all over some other ratchet hoe,” Barrett snarls, digging her keys out of her jeans pocket.
“What?” Emma hisses, jerking her head in my direction.
I can no longer stave off the tears welling in my eyes as my chin begins to tremble.
God, are you kidding me? Don’t do this now.
I turn away to suck in a breath and compose myself, trying to bite back the rising lump in my throat.
Pull it together, he’s not worth all this.
But nothing gets past Barrett. She sees my jaw clench and my mouth twitch as I swipe a finger under my eye.
“No, Brett,” she drapes her arm around my neck, “no, no, no…”
Katie picks up on what’s happening and leaps to my side, hooking her arm in mine, “Oh, hell, no,” she says angrily before softening her voice. “It’s going to be OK, Brett,” she coos, “seriously, Colson’s a fucking asshole. It’s probably for the best. He doesn’t deserve someone as amazing as you.”
I’m completely humiliated. And worse yet, Colson is the only reason I made the rest of them come here. Meantime, I’m starting to feel the effects of chugging an entire beer in less than 30 seconds.
Katie cranes her neck, peering back at the house, “Who’d you see him with, anyway?”
“Some Theta with dark hair and a lot of contouring,” Barrett replies as she brushes her hair out of her eyes.
“Theta…” Emma murmurs to herself, “oh, that was definitely Dacia Ferguson. I saw her go in when we got here.”
“You mean Roto Rooter?” Katie snickers.
I jerk my head up, “What?”
“Yeah,” Katie tosses her empty Solo cup in a trashcan along the curb, “I know about her. She has a system,” she nods like she’s about to impart some major knowledge on us. “Dacia’s pre-law, planning on going to Harvard or some shit, and she’s so paranoid about accidentally getting pregnant that she only takes it in the ass.”
I stop dead in my tracks, “Nuh-uh!” I shoot Katie a skeptical look.
Emma screws up her face and cringes, making her eye twitch, “That poor girl.”
“Poor girl, nothing!” Katie shoots back. “We were tailgating next to her at the Michigan game last fall and she was bragging about letting Casey Lesser, Nick Rogan, Taylor Higgs, and Jamie Hollingsworth run a train on her in her room at the Theta house the night before. Casey confirmed it. Her ass is—” Katie blows a puff of air from between her lips and splays her fingers out to imitate an explosion.
I lose it right there on the sidewalk and erupt in laughter. Barrett grabs my arm to stabilize herself as we both stumble down the sidewalk, cackling uncontrollably. Katie saunters along behind us, no doubt thinking something along the lines of, I told you so.
“If he’s hanging with Dacia tonight, maybe you dodged a bullet,” Barrett gasps.
“God...” the humiliation sets in once again, “can we just forget this?”
Barrett clicks her key fob and unlocks her red Volvo a few feet ahead of us, “Easier said than done. He’s gon’ learn,” she snickers, “Brett Sorensen doesn’t forget anything…”
●●●
It’s a curse, it truly is.
Whether minor irritations or deep disappointments, events remain in my brain long after they should’ve exited into the ether. Some people wish they could remember the fond memories that inevitably fade with time. I wish I could forget the warnings and humiliating moments my nervous system clings to without my consent. But, if I did, I might not be as discernable and I might make more mistakes. Which is why when Colson walks into class the following Tuesday, I’m prepared.
He scans the room until he sees me sitting on the opposite side in front of the windows. I know what he’ll do. He’ll walk across the room to the desk on my right, drop his backpack on the floor, and sit down.
Except this time, when he reaches the desk, I plant my foot on the edge of the metal rack underneath and kick the entire thing across the floor. It screeches across the tile, catching on the leg of another desk and spinning around before crashing into the glossy white cinderblock wall beneath the whiteboard. A few students jerk their heads up. Some continue watching to see what happens while others avert their eyes and lower their heads again in an effort to avoid witnessing a potentially awkward exchange.
Colson looks down at me, unsure of what just happened. I lean back in my chair and glare at him, tilting my head and daring him to say something. It’s much easier to look someone in the eye when you harbor nothing but disdain for them.
Choosing to say nothing, Colson reaches for a desk in the next row and scoots it forward to replace the one I launched to the front of the room. He sits down just as the next wave of students enter the room, followed by Dr. Selter, who immediately launches into a tirade about the pitfalls of film adaptations. I would be the star participant in discussion today if I didn’t want to smash my laptop over Colson’s head.
Instead, I stare straight ahead, stewing at the audacity Colson Lutz has to come in here and sit down next to me like nothing happened. I’m so busy seething that I don’t even realize it when he slides my notebook right out from under my elbow. He scribbles something at the top of the page and slides it back onto my desk, nonchalant as ever.
COLSON: Are you OK?
The answer is no. And maybe I should leave it at that—with no response. But I can’t leave it at that.
ME: Fuck off
