“Philosophically,” I repeat, wondering what girl has his panties in a bunch. He’s been obsessing over these rules since the start of the year. He must’ve fucked someone over the summer and can’t get over it.
“Also––” He drops his voice further. He leans in. “I can hear them. Through the wall. I can hear them, Blue.” He puts his head in his hands. “I’ve heard things I can’t unhear. I’m scarred.”
I laugh through my nose. I don’t mean to. It happens.
He looks up. “Don’t laugh at my pain, Golding. I’m a victim in that house.”
“You’re a menace in that house.”
I take a sip of my drink. He finally leans back and grabs his. We watch the game on the TV for a second. Stanley turns back.
“Seriously, though. What’s the play? Are the rules still rules, or is it open season?”
“I don’t care about the fucking house rules.”
He nods slowly. He drinks. “Cool. Okay. Cool. I’m still gonna give Reeve shit about it though.”
“I assumed.”
“He gets so mad. The other day, I told him to keep her quiet at night, and he put me in a headlock and choked me out, even though I was tapping out.”
I grin. “Was Lucy there?”
“No, but I’m starting to see her as one of us, you know. Like Lucy is officially an unofficial resident of Hawthorne House in everything but name on the lease.”
“You like Lucy?”
“I love Lucy.” He says it without performance. “That’s the problem, Blue. She’s one of us now. But it breaks all the fucking rules. I’m all fucked up in here.” He points at his head. “I’m a man of principle. I have stood by Rule One since I was a freshman. And now Lucy is bringing us coffee, Blue, she brings us coffee, and I’m supposed to be mad about it?” He shakes his head. “I’m not.”
I sip my beer, and he moves on to Rowan. He thinks Rowan is suspicious of him. Rowan thinks Stanley’s going to be the next one to break Rule Three on account of Stanley flirting with a teammate’s sister at a tournament last month.
“I didn’t flirt with her.”
I question that entirely. He flirts with everyone.
“I was being nice.”
“Eh,” I huff. “You probably flirted.”
“There’s a difference between flirting and being nice.”
I stare at him, deciding that he’s too defensive about it. “You flirted.”
“I —” He stares at his wing and takes a bite. “Okay,” he says, mouth full. “I flirted a little.”
A guy at the end of the bar starts yelling at the TV. Stanley turns. Looks at him. Turns back. “That guy needs a hobby.”
“He has a hobby.”
“A different hobby.”
For about an hour, I almost managed it. I almost managed to sit at this bar with this idiot and not think about anything. The wings are good. The beer is cold. Stanley is doing the only thing he was put on this earth to do, which is run his mouth, and my body is, slowly, against its will, starting to come down. Then we finish the wings. Stanley pays. I protest.
“You pay everywhere we go,” I say.
“Family discount, Golding.”
I glare at him.
