Ignore it.
Then he clears his throat and says, “I’ve got one more place to show you.”
“Oh?” I say, more so to help move thischemistryalong.
He dusts the salt off his hands and turns the engine on.
I don’t know how much more Xander I can take.
After driving for a while, he turns off Sunset Boulevard and onto Hilgard Avenue, the stretch of road that houses twenty-three fraternities and sororities of UCLA.
And I can’t control it. I’m back in the memory of the night we met.
I can’t see you again. Sorry.
I stare at the text message I’m about to send to last night’s hookup for what feels like the hundredth time in the middle of a frat house living room turned dance floor. My phone says it’s 10:59PM, which is college o’clock for party time. I should know; I’m in my junior year. But I’m no longer in a partying mood. My phone lights up again. For the third time in as many minutes.
Words of warning from my mom, printed on reams of paper, displayed across every bookstore in the nation, splashed across every magazine, flash through my mind:Love and chemistry can’t coexist. She’s right.
I decline the incoming call and hit send.
Note to self: Never fall asleep in someone else’s bed. Never accept breakfast. And nevereverget sucked into morning sex. Italways gives the wrong impression that there could be more. But there’s never more. Sure, he’ll be hurt for a hot minute. But this too shall pass. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I take a deep breath and slip my phone into my jean shorts pocket, then use my thumb to gently press my blackened eyelashes for a spot dry. Time to pull a Houdini.
Before I can make a beeline for the exit, a roar goes up in the corner, snapping me out of my shell-shock. I look over to see a pair of jeans and white high tops floating upside down in the air. Correction: 10:59PMis college o’clock for keg stand time.
“Ash!” a voice calls from across the living room. It’s Leo, one of the hot frat guys from Sigma Chi. “You’re up!”
I try to wave him off, but it’s no use. The peer pressure is strong in this one.
I lift up a single finger as Leo comes barreling up to me like an overexcited golden retriever. You do one hell of a keg stand and you’re treated like frat royalty forever.
“I mean it,” I say to Leo. “One.” Then I’m bailing. Because no matter how many times I have to end it, it doesn’t get easier.
I shut down my heart, which starts racing as my phone vibrates in my pocket. He’s responded to my message. And I’m too scared to read it. Not that he’ll say anything new that hasn’t been said before. Whether they’re begging for another chance or calling me a cold-hearted bitch, it’s nothing new.
Rules be rules.
Post keg stand, I am ready to get out of here. Find a place to read this message alone, in peace. Maybe throw my phone without hitting a drunk frat guy.
As I flee, I notice the makeshift bar out of the corner of my eye and swerve for a quick detour because that beer didn’t even touch the sides. But there’s something somber in the air.
The bartender is a generic frat boy with short blond hair, sunglasses on his head even though we haven’t seen the sun since seven, and a salmon polo shirt that screams nepo-frat-baby. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was conceived here. He’s shaking a cocktail like he’s pleasuring it, distracted by his deep conversation with another frat guy who’s leaning on the bar in a way I can’t see his face. Just a mop of curly hair.
It takes me less than a second to register they don’t notice me. And there’s a barely touched bottle of peach schnapps within arm’s reach. I snatch it and pivot toward the door. Beggers can’t be choosers.
In the warm, late-summer night air, I make my way to the quad and take a seat on a bench, creating enough distance from the scene of the crime so it’s safe to remove the sticky cap of the schnapps, and take a large gulp. I choke. It’s sickly sweet and so thick, it should come with a warning. Not to be drunk fast from a bottle in moments of self-preservation.
Not that I’d heed the warning. I take another large gulp. The quicker I get this down, the faster I’ll stop feeling. At least that’s what I hope.
The burning in my stomach is not from the sugar syrup they call schnapps—it’s a knowing. An understanding.
Love is family. Sex is fleeting. Marriage is a sham.
I repeat it like a mantra until the screaming in my head stops.
“Hey,” a male voice says, interrupting my trip down memory lane. Me, fifteen years old, upstairs in my bedroom listening tothe yelling match between Mom and Dad I wasn’t supposed to hear that went down the night she finally left his cheating ass. Annoyed, I look up and see the unmistakable thick mop of curly dark hair of the frat boy from the bar.Busted.
