“You write all those dirty stories.” I take a few more swings and manage to finally connect one with his shoulder.
“Dirty, not romantic. Fucking I get, feelings are still a mystery to me,” he says. I dodge his next swing, and we circle each other, which I’m sure is designed to both distract me and get me to pay attention to my footwork. “You and Rocky really seem to have something good going though. Don’t fuck it up, alright?”
“Great advice.” I chuckle.
I don’t want to fuck this up. He’s right, wedohave something good going. Something real. At least it feels that way. I just needto show him I can fit in with his smart friends too. If I can manage not to embarrass him Friday, then maybe I’ll be able to hold on to him.
I try the fake out again, and this time Fender isn’t ready for it. He stumbles back and I let out a victory whoop. If I can land a punch on Fender, I can do anything, even impress Percy’s friends… and hopefully Percy too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
PERCY
I’m notsurprised to find Public School—the most popular bar just off campus—packed on a Friday night. The fact that everyone just spent the week turning in essays or taking midterm exams only makes it rowdier. I came here a few times during undergrad, and stepping inside now, I’m reminded why it’s been a handful of years since my last visit. The floors are sticky and a girl who doesn’t look old enough to drink immediately bumps into me. Thanks to Butch’s insistence that we work on my fast twitch muscles over the past couple of months, I manage to jump back fast enough that the red slushie drink in her cup spills onto the floor instead of all over my clothes.
She slurs an apology, and I give her a tight smile in return. Maybe I should text Butch and tell him there’s been a change of plans. We could go for a jog in the park or pick a different bar far,faraway from campus, where adults hang out instead of barely legal children who can’t hold their booze.
“Percy!” I hear my name over the crowd, and I crane my neck to see John, along with a few other PhD students—Lanie, Marcus, and Bruce—sharing a booth.
Ugh, too late to turn around and get the hell out of here then. I weave around tables and swaying bodies until I reach the little group. While almost everyone else in the bar is downing beer or dangerous, fruity mixed drinks that are bound to leave them clutching a toilet before the night is over, John, Lanie, and Bruce each have a glass of wine in front of them, and Marcus is drinking what looks like Scotch.
Another drunk bumps into me and I stumble the last few feet towards the table, catching myself on the edge of the booth with an awkward laugh. Marcus gives the drunk a stern look and Lanie shakes her head, then takes a small sip of wine.
I’m tempted to ask why they picked this bar instead of going a few blocks away where we could have found somewhere quieter and more sophisticated, since they’re obviously not here to soak up the college vibes. If I wanted to be generous about it, I could assume that it’s the anthropology major in all of us, wanting to experience the culture even if they don’t want to participate in it. But I have a feeling that the looks and the headshaking are the true appeal. To come in here and feel superior for a few hours over a couple of cheap yet overpriced drinks.
John gives me a not-at-all-subtle once-over and a slow smile forms on his lips.
“I thought you said you were bringing someone along. Did that fall through?” He glances around like I might have an invisible companion who’s about to shimmer into existence.
“He’s on his way.” At least that’s what the last text Butch sent said. Not going to lie, part of me wondered if he suggested meeting here instead of coming together so he could bail at thelast second, but I’m choosing to believe that he wouldn’t do that. I look towards the door, and I spot Butch in the throng.
My stomach flutters the way it always seems to any time I set eyes on him or even think about him. It only takes a second for him to spot me, and as soon as he does, a big, goofy smile stretches across his whole face. I wave, even though I know he sees me. He points at the bar, and I nod, then turn back to my friends. Or maybe colleagues is a better word? Cohorts? Peers? Friends just sounds like a strong way to describe the passing interactions I’ve had with any of them. Lanie and I co-TA’d a class together last year, but even then, almost all of our conversations were about the professor or the students. I don’t even know what she’s writing her thesis on.
I snag a couple of empty chairs and drag them over so we won’t have to squish into the booth, and Butch appears with a pitcher of beer and a stack of plastic cups.
“Everyone, this is my boyfriend, Butch,” I introduce him. “Butch, this is John, Marcus, Bruce, and Lanie. They’re all getting their PhDs in anthropology as well.”
“Nice to meet you, guys. First round is on me,” he says, setting everything down on the table and cranking up his friendly grin to a thousand.
For a second, I’m too focused on the way Marcus barely holds back a look of derision at the pitcher of beer to notice how Butch is dressed. But as soon as I do, I have to blink several times to make sure I’m not seeing things.
He shrugs off his jacket and instead of his usual gym-appropriate attire, or even the jeans and T-shirt combo I’ve seen him wear several times, it looks like he’s raidedmycloset. Well, except for the fact that all the clothes actually fit him—kind of—and mine definitely wouldn’t. He has on a light-colored polo shirt, stretched tight across his chest and straining to contain his biceps, like if he were to flex the whole thing would just burstinto scraps of confetti. The khaki pants he’s wearing fit better but still look odd as hell on him. Not to mention the loafers he finished the look with.
“Butch, what?—”
He cuts me off with a quick kiss. “So, this is a college bar, huh?”
“A bit cliché, right?” Marcus chuckles and swirls his glass, the ice clanking against the sides, before taking a sip.
“Totally,” Butch agrees, pulling two cups off the stack and pouring beer into them. He hands me one and then glances around the table. “Anyone else?”
“I think I’ll stick with wine,” Lanie says. That at least sounds polite compared to the way John simply snorts at the offer.
“Where did you go to college, Butch?” Bruce asks. “I’m guessing not U of C if you’ve never been to Public School before.”
“Oh, uh…” Butch takes a sip of his beer and clears his throat.
I put my hand on his arm and give Bruce a tight smile. “Butch was smart enough not to put himself into a quarter million dollars of high-interest debt. Unlike the rest of us.” I throw in a laugh so I sound a little less bitchy.
