"For the love of—" I cut myself off mid-complaint when I see Drew's expression. His smile isn't the perfect politician's grin, which I hate, that he uses during rush events or the calculated charm he deploys on university administrators. This is genuine, almost relieved, like he actually gives a damn that I showed up to this circus.
"Fine." The word comes out more resigned than hostile. "Where's the least objectionable alcohol in the house? And please tell me someone has hidden the good stuff somewhere these freshmen haven't discovered yet."
Technically, I could be outlining my Constitutional Law paper right now. But somehow, watching these idiots attempt to build a slip-n-slide using dining hall trays and dish soap might be... not entirely terrible. At least they are completely outside this time.
The rational part of my brain reminds me that I have approximately seventy-four hours to complete three assignments, prepare for a mock trial that my professor, in his infinite sadism, scheduled for 8 AM on a Monday, and somehow manage to draft my position paper on the Fourteenth Amendment's Equal Protection Clause without wanting to set everything on fire.
Yet here I am, nursing what can only be described as the most mediocre beer ever brewed, tastes like someone dissolved cardboard in lukewarm water and added a hint of despair, watching future lawyers, doctors, and business leaders slide face-first across a plastic tarp like overgrown toddlers who've discovered the magical combination of gravity and poor life choices.
The noise level has reached decibels that could probably register on seismic equipment, and I take another sip of my terrible beer anyway because apparently, self-punishment is my new hobby.
One particularly ambitious sophomore launches himself off what appears to be a makeshift ramp constructed entirely of dining hall chairs. His trajectory suggests he either failed basic physics or genuinely believes he can defy the laws of nature through sheer enthusiasm. The results are predictably catastrophic and somehow deeply entertaining.
This is what my life has become. Standing in a frat house backyard, questioning my academic priorities while watching people voluntarily give themselves concussions for the sake of entertainment. My constitutional law textbook is probably crying wherever I left it.
I waketo the unholy combination of construction work in my skull and death in my mouth. For several disorienting seconds, I can't remember how I got to bed or why my shirt is inside out. Last night comes back in fragments: shots with Gavin after the slip-n-slide debacle, Tyler's impassioned speech about sustainable housing that somehow turned into a drinking game, and Emily forcing water on me before I stumbled upstairs.
A glance at my phone reveals it's already 9:17 AM, and I have three missed calls from my mother. Fantastic. Nothing complements a hangover like Caroline Huntington's particular brand of passive-aggressive concern.
Dragging myself to a sitting position, wincing as the room tilts slightly. There's a text from her, timestamped 7:30 AMbecause of course she's been up for hours, probably already attended a charity breakfast and redesigned someone's garden:
Mother
Caleb, I’m just confirming that you've ordered your tuxedo for the gala. Your father is announcing his education platform that evening, so the entire family must present themselves impeccably.
Mother
James is still your plus-one, yes? Please ensure he understands the dress code.
Resisting the urge to hurl my phone across the room is difficult. I drop it on my bed and press the heels of my hands against my eyes, as if I could physically push the headache out through the back of my skull. How angry will she be when she sees a suit instead of a tux?
The bathroom is blissfully empty when I stumble in, small miracles. Cold water on my face helps marginally. Back in my room, I pull on yesterday's jeans and a hoodie that's seen better days, but it passes the sniff test, then force myself to sit at my desk. Open the textbook. Pretend to be a functional human being who can focus on Contract Law.
Twenty minutes later, I'm still staring at the same page, retaining absolutely nothing. Finals are next week, but all I can think about is the upcoming charity gala and the fact that James is going to meet my family.
What possessed me to tell my mother about him? And what possessed James to agree to come? My mother will dissect every word he says, catalog every imperfection. She'll smile that perfect plastic smile while mentally calculating if he's an asset or liability to the family image.
And James, James who can barely tolerate small talk about the weather, will be trapped in a room full of donors asking invasive questions wrapped in polite concern.Have you always known you were gay? What do your parents think? Are you planning to adopt?
The whole thing makes my stomach churn. Maybe that's the Tequila burning its way out?
My phone buzzes with a text from my mother.
Mother
I called to check on your tuxedo order. Don't forget your fitting appointment today. 3 PM. Bring your friend if he needs appropriate attire.
Friend. As if she couldn't bring herself to type "boyfriend" or even "date." Sighing, I add a reminder to my calendar. The Huntingtons have had an account at Montgomery's Fine Men's Wear since before I was born. Every tuxedo, every suit, every "appropriate attire" moment in my life has been orchestrated through their formal dressing rooms.
"Someone die?"
Looking up, I find James leaning against my doorway, a mug of coffee in his hand.
"What?"
"You're sighing like you read an obituary." He takes a sip from his mug. "Finals stress or family stress?"
"Family. We have a suit fitting appointment at three."
