Saturday feels too faraway.
I know. But it’s coming.
Try to sleep, okay? I’ll keep my volume up. Text me if you need me.
Okay. Night, D.
Night. Sweet dreams.
I set the phone down and roll onto my side, curling around the ache in my chest. The photo is still open on my screen—him smiling and his hand on the pillow like it’s casually waiting for me to decide if I want to fill that space. I don’t close it. I just lie there in the dark, breathing slow and letting the quiet certainty settle deeper.
I’m not straight.
He’s probably known that for a long time.
And he’s been waiting for me to catch up.
Chapter 9
TheKappaSigmaSpringFling is already in full swing when I push through the front door. This isn’t my usual scene, but I try not to let it show. The house is packed and bodies are shoulder-to-shoulder in the living room, with red Solo cups everywhere andbass thumping so hard the floorboards vibrate under my sneakers.
Beer, sweat, and too many competing colognes form a fog that almost chokes me as I step through the crowd. Someone’s shouting lyrics off-key to whatever is blasting through the speakers, and a group near the makeshift bar is doing shots with theatrical cheers.
Professor Silkoff kept me longer than I expected, so I’m an hour later than I’d hoped to be. I scan the room, searching for blond hair and that easy, lopsided grin. It takes a second, but I find Eric by himself, leaning against the wall with a cup dangling from his fingers. The dark sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows, displaying a deep tan from all the work outside.
He’s taken advantage of his time here by drinking, if his flushed cheeks and glassy eyes are any indicator. I pause for a moment and soak him in, noticing that subtle edge of loneliness I always spot on him when he thinks no one’s looking.
The second his gaze lands on me, though, the shadows clear and that big, loose smile spreads across his face like the sun breaking through clouds. He pushes off the wall and walks toward me, swaying just enough to tell me he’s well past tipsy. The crowd parts around him like he’s magnetic, and he reaches mewith a laugh. It’s high-pitched and absolutely ridiculous, nothing like his usual deep, dry chuckle.
“Hey, man,” he slurs, words thick with amusement. Another of those strange laughs escapes him, and it’s so unexpectedly endearing my chest tightens.
“Hey. Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s okay, but Ithink,” he says, punctuating it with yet another goofy laugh, “that I’m drunk.”
“You think?” I deadpan, already reaching for the Solo cup in his hand.
He makes a delayed, halfhearted objection, but I pluck it away before he can grab it back. I bring it to my lips and take a long pull, expecting it to be beer. Sweet, sharp liquor burns my nose and makes my eyes water as an entire mouthful of it rolls down my throat. I want to gag, but I force myself to swallow.
Eric’s gaze is locked on my throat the entire time I drink. It lingers like a physical touch, and when I lower the cup, his eyes flick up to mine, pupils blown wide in the dim light.
“Dude!” I rasp. “What the fuck was… Ugh!” I thump my chest once, hard, trying to clear the burn, then retch again. “What the fuck was in that?”
Eric snags the empty cup back from me and stares inside. “That, my friend, was four shots of Southern Comfort I’d been sipping on. Congratulations, now you’re drunk too.”
“Aww, fuck, dude,” I say as dread hits me with the same potency as the alcohol. “You know I don’t drink much.”
Partying was never an option when I was younger, not with the watchful eye my father kept on my behavior. Anything that threatened his reputation wasn’t allowed, and I was never brave enough to test those boundaries.
But then college started, and I shed his oversight.
Freshman year, I took full advantage of the newfound freedom and drank way too much at a party. The next morning, I woke up in the campus playboy’s bed with no memory of the night before. He swore we only made out, and was irritated enough for me to believe him. Pair that with the dozen or so pictures I saw of me dancing with strangers, and I was embarrassed enough that I never even told Eric.
It was a hard lesson on my limits with alcohol, and one I’ve tried not to repeat.
Another ringing laugh erupts from Eric, deep from his belly this time as he catches the apprehensive look on my face. He stumbles closer and slings an arm around my shoulders, urging me toward the back porch. “Come on, sit with me for a while. It’ll pass.”
The porch is mercifully quieter than the chaos inside. Cool spring air cuts through the haze of booze and sweat, and clears some of the nausea alreadychurning in my gut. Only a handful of people are out here—mostly couples making out in dark corners, though there is someone hanging over the railing and trying not to puke.
