Page 21 of This I Promise You
Her room is the exact opposite of mine. The walls are still white, but it looks like color threw up in here. She has her bed against one wall, the bedding a colorful ikat pattern, I think. Alineof tall bookshelves sits on the opposite wall. They’re color-coded like my closet. Her closet door is closed, though I’m sure it’s full of Prada and Balmain. Gorg silk curtains adorn the window. Art and photos and plants are all over the place. So many plants.
“He told me about this pre-Valentine’s Day party this weekend some frat is throwing for all singles. Queers welcome.”
I roll my eyes, lean against the doorframe, and take a swig of my shake. “How inclusive. Still, you know I don’t party.”
“Still,” she mocks me. “Could be fun.”
“I’m sure y’all will have a blast. GiveEastonmy regards.”
“You really don’t like him, do you?” She leans against her headboard and folds her arms.
“You’re damn right I don’t. And I wouldn’t give a shit if I never saw him again. He’s a fucking douche canoe.”
Huxley laughs. “How elegant.”
I start fussing with the hem of my shorts. There's a thread there and I want to pull it so badly, but I also don’t wanna mess up my $70 Lululemon shorts. I don’t even know why that shit is so damned expensive. “He’s your friend, not mine.”
“Well, if I can befriend you, then anyone can. You gotta put yourself out there more, Paul. Everyone needs friends. Or more…”
I tap my head back against the doorframe. “I’m not everyone. I don’t care and I sure as fuck don’t want Easton to be my friend.Or more. Fuck all if he smells good.” I say the last bit as a mumbled whisper. I didn’t mean to say it at all and I thought I caught myself and changed my volume so she didn’t hear me, but I failed. Her smile is too big.
“So you think he’s cuteandsmells good?” She wiggles her eyebrows.
“Huxley. Lay off.”
“Fine, fine,” she surrenders.
I push myself off the doorframe and head back to my room.
“Ya know, you should still come!” she yells after me.
“Not coming!” I yell back.
“That’s what he said,” she yells back.
“I hate you,” I yell again.
“I hate you more,” she yells again.
That pretty much sums up our friendship.
Easton
Yep, Those Are Greek Letters
I keep telling myself this is more fun than sitting in my little jail cell of a dorm room all by myself tonight, but do I really believe it? Eh. I mean I could be watching some B-grade horror flick or maybe rewatching one of theStar Warsmovies for the umpteenth time, but no. I’m here under the flashing glow of red and white lights with bad pop music blaring in my ears at some girl’s house I barely know with way too many people I definitely don’t know.
I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t come, but tonight isn’t one I want to spend all by my lonesome. Especially with my anxiety pulsing on high alert and my best friend absent. But it’s the day before Valentine’s Day, and of course Aidan left for Greenville last night to spend the weekend with Tyler. SoI’m all by myself. Cool.
The house is small for a party, but that didn’t keep Kylie from inviting so many people that I’m literally squeezing between jumping bodies to get from the front door to the little drinks and snack table. The only place that really matters at a party. And so far I’ve not seen a familiar face yet, which isn’t helping my nerves. I swipe a cold beer from the open ice bucket and pop the top. My only rule tonight is not to get drunk.
I walked here, and it’s less than a mile off campus, but I ain’t walking home at eleven at night drunk off my ass, trying to cross University Blvd. Frogger isn’t a game I want to play in real life. I’m also not calling an Uber while nineteen and drunk. A little buzzed is fine for the walk home, but that’s it. On top of that my MS meds don’t play well with blackout drunk me, so go me!
I take a sip, hoping it’ll make me not regret coming. It doesn’t help. Like, I know none of these people, and dancing? Nah. I know a few TikTok dances and how to line dance, but that’s it. Period. This shit they’re all doing, grinding up on each other—I’d feel like a fool.
I take a deep breath, like I’m about to go into battle, and start across the room. I duck below sloshing, explosive cups of alcohol, wind through a trench of girls trying to twerk up on me, and dodge some dangerously slinging arms. On the other side, I work my way into the next room, hoping it’ll be a little less crowded. Maybe I can find some cute guy to talk to without it looking like I’m trying to flirt. I mean, chances are, in a party this size, there are at least one or two more gays or bis hanging around, maybe some pan guys. Not like that’s going to help me, because I’m not going to ask, but you know.
The next room is about the same, a tiny bit less crowded, but still more people than I like. I scan the crowd and find a few possibles right off the bat. Closest is a Rudy Pankow look-alike—I love OBX—with swooping blonde hair and all, then along the edge of the room is a more brooding figure, taller and thicker. Like Paul. No, not like Paul. That’s not what I mean. Whatever. I start toward blondie, trying to ignore the god-awful music. But the moment he looks my way I divert my gaze and slide right.
