“Will Chapman.” Behind Will is a man who makes up in bulk what he lacks in height. Will turns to see who the voice belongs to.
With a drunken, arrogant laugh he says, “And who the fuck are you?”
I feel my shoulders tense, Will’s reckless tone like oxygen feeding the impending fire.
“Herboyfriend,” he points to the blonde girl Olivia and I saw talking to Will, currently cowering in the right corner of the bar, her pink crop top barely covering her breasts. Black mascara drips down her face as she cries, embarrassed by the scene brought on by her jealous boyfriend. Will laughs harder.
“It’s always the short guys who get the most jealous.” Still laughing, Will slaps my chest as if to ask if I agree. I grit my teeth, not wanting to get involved in Will's latest conquest. “Don’t worry man, nothing was going to happen there. I always say hi to my fans,” he winks at the girl whose expression is the picture of embarrassment. My jaw clenches further. Apparently, Will didn’t come to fuck this girl, he came to fight her boyfriend.
The brick wall of a man in front of us clenches his fists so hard his knuckles have gone completely white. Struggling to quell his anger, we watch him attempt a calming breath. Trying to be the bigger person the guy says, “Whatever” and begins to turn.
“I was a little worried when you got back that I wouldn’t be swimming in it.Clearly,I was wrong. That girl was dying to leave here with me. Who knows, she still might.” Will directs this to me, but considering his volume it’s clearly intended for the jealous boyfriend's ears.
His face turning from a strawberry blush to a deep beet red, the stout wall manages three quick steps back in our direction. Sensing his alcohol fueled fury, I step in front of Will.
“Listen, man,” I say, shifting my face into the responsible, level-headed mask I’ve been known to wield. “He’s just?—”
One of those tightly clenched fists flies through the air, knocking into my cheek before skipping off my cheek bone. My assailant tumbles forward and catches himself on a stray bar stool. The pain instantly erupts through my cheekbone.
I feel Will before I see him as he steps toward me and the idiot who picked this fight. As if he recognizes his mistake, the dumbass puts his hands, now unclenched, palms out in the air. Will gives me a cocky smile, as if to say‘See? This guy is a moron,’and I shake my head. At the same time, I feel what seems to be one of the stout man’s friends grab my shoulders.
Will's smile is large now and if there’s one thing to know about how we were raised, it’s that we never back down from a fight. A small smile flits across my own features as my adrenaline spikes. This isn’t the first bar fight my brother and I have gotten into. Nothing brings on a sense of camaraderie like a common enemy. Grant steps in as a few more of the smaller man’s buddies move into what feels like a storm of fists. I feel blood trickle down my mouth and can sense that a black eye is forming as I grab a random man by his shoulders after he tackles Will. It feels like no time has passed when security finally breaks us up. But looking around, Grant and Will are almost as beat up as I am. Lucky for them, it seems their faces weren’t affected.
The red and blue flashing lights coming in through the bar’s windows snap me back to reality, enough to see Will on his knees doubled over as if this was the funniest thing he’s ever seen. Grant can’t keep himself from laughing, either, as we watch the smaller man get cuffed for starting the ‘riot,’ which is what the group of girls now flocking to Will told the police. I sigh as I extend my hand to Will, helping him up off the floor, the girls surrounding us like we’re heroes, when in reality the fight was totally our fault to begin with.
Will rubs his hands on his jeans, his knuckles bloody.
“Thanks for stepping in, but don’t make it a habit.” His tone is weary as he shakes off the remnants of adrenaline the fight left behind, and I feel a pang of sadness. It’s times like this where I miss my little brother, wish we had a closer relationship, or some semblance of a relationship in general.
“Yeah, sure. Won’t happen again.” I hear the defeat in my own voice as I watch Will leave the bar.
9
Olivia
Sitting in my early, Monday morning seminar, I’m hyper aware of rifling hands, rapidly clicking pens, and floppy notebooks hitting the tables. Topics in Women’s Literature doesn’t start until 8:45, but I’m here at 8:30 to suss out the most advantageous seat. Professor Delphi rarely teaches undergraduate seminars anymore, spending most of her time at Astor with her carefully selected circle of graduate students. While I was intrigued by the reading list, I was even more excited by the prospect of entering her orbit. A recommendation from Delphi, a woman publishing the kind of books that get you a meeting with the president, carries the weight of one library donation. At least.
The room is in the new English wing of Astor, funded in part by a hefty donation from the Newhouses. Three creamy ivory walls are interrupted by a series of four long paned windows conjoined to form the front of the seminar space, while the wall behind me is crowded with faculty publications and a heavy wooden door, engraved with the Astor Lion insignia. Above the door is a thinly framed clock with intricate hands. I check the time— 8:38. A few more students file in, and I see a red headed girl throw a sidelong glance at me and the seat I occupy. My eyesnarrow and I shoot her a tight-lipped smile as I place my tote on the seat next to me. The early bird gets the worm, bitch.
I pull my legal pad out of my tote, placing it on the mahogany table in front of me. I’m dating the top right corner of the sheet when I hear a heavy door shut at the front of the room. A tall woman in chunky loafers strolls in, slamming her messenger bag onto the chair by the podium at the front of the room. Brushing her tawny bangs out of her face, she glances up from a freshly acquired notepad.
“Topics in Women’s Literature?” she asks, scrunching her eyebrows at me.
I sense the girls around me freeze, and I answer “Yup” before the red head beats me to it. Delphi smirks at me, and I know I’ve already scored a point.
“Great,” she continues. “It’s 8:40, but we’re going to get started. We’ve got a lot to cover, logistics to figure out, and I like to get out of here early. Driving around here is unbearable after 10:30.” A few students chuckle nervously, obviously unsettled by Delphi’s cavalier attitude. “Okay… who can tell me what theythinkis the first femin?—”
The back door creaks open and heavy footsteps audibly mar the wooden floors. Determined to appear focused, I keep my eyes glued on Delphi. I start sifting through early feminist pieces of literature:Wollstonecraft technically… but maybe Christine… the french one?The City ofwhatever? Shit.I already know red-head is about to score a point. I’m managing the intense competitiveness surging through me when I hear a familiar voice.
“Sorry, my schedule said 8:45. It won’t happen again,” the faceless voice remarks softly, obviously self conscious about the masculine echo emanating from where he shuffles toward the front. I feel myself shiver recognizing immediately who that velvety deep voice belongs to.
“Oh, I started early. I just gave my ‘Let’s get out of here early spiel.’ And now I’m doing my ‘guess the earliest feminist work’ bit, so you haven’t missed much. Just grab a seat… if you can find one.” Delphi flashes a crooked smile at the intruder, and I glance at the empty seat next to me.Please let there be another seat. Please don’t fill the air and space around me with all of your voice and scent and warmth and sarcasm and wit and?—
“Here’s free! I think I recognize you from the other night?” the redhead squeakily offers. My jaw unwillingly tenses and I pointedly flip the pages of the syllabus that just landed in front of me.
I’m registering the absence of a response when I hear a low chuckle next to me.
“I think I’ll sit here, but thanks.” Ben responds as he slowly presses into the seat I’d so valiantly guarded just minutes before.
