“International Affairs. You sit in the very back. I’m in the very front.”
Lo turns his head a fraction to catch my gaze, his eyebrows rise likedo you hear this guy?Yep, been there already. “Right.” Lo opens a cupboard and pulls out a bottle of Baileys Irish liqueur for his coffee. “You’re the guy who sets the curve.” He says itlike it’s a bad thing, but he doesn’t see Connor beaming beside me.
“I’m tutoring Lily for her econ exam tomorrow.”
Lo shuts the cupboard, and I see his neck flush red. He hesitates before facing us fully, leaning against the sink.
“You know about the exam, right?” I ask Lo. I can easily see that he forgot.
“Yeah,” he says into his mug, taking an extended sip.
“Are you in the same class?” Connor looks all too eager. “I do group tutoring too.”
“I’m maxed out on studying. You help Lily.” Lo finishes off his coffee way too quickly. Then he opens the refrigerator and grabs a carton of eggs, preparing his hangover cure.
Connor nudges my shoulder. “Back to work. You’re at a sixty, minimum. I need you pulling out an eighty average on these problems.”
“But I thought we’re just trying to get me to pass.”
“I always deduct ten points for nerves.”
The blender cranks up, and Lo hunches over, using his arm to hold the lid and his other to support his weight on the counter. In effect, he looks about ready to melt into the floor or fall asleep again.
He barely acknowledges me. Maybe he thinks I cheated on him. I don’t even know how much he trusts me around other guys. We rarely leave the apartment to test those boundaries.
Or maybe it’s just guilt—at not being coherent to answer my phone calls. I suppose that makes more sense.
After Lo concocts his hangover cure, he disappears back into his bedroom. I try to concentrate on studying, and then the Chinese arrives. I sigh at the sound of a food break.
“How long have you been dating him?” Connor asks, using his chopsticks to grab a noodle from the container. He has perfect chopstick-form. I wouldn’t be surprised if he spoke seven different languages too.
I stab my orange chicken with a fork, stalling as I decide which answer to give him. The fake one:Three years.The real one:Three weeks.
I have yet to lie to Connor, and I’d rather not start. “We’ve been friends since we were kids, and we moved in together when we started college. But we just started dating a few weeks ago.”
“Wow, your parents must be pretty cool to let you live with a guy friend. Mine have strict serious-relationship-only requirements. Like marriage serious. They don’t want any girl mooching off of me until I put a ring on it. So Sadie’s my only female companion.”
“You’re single then?” I sip a Diet Fizz.
“Happily,” he says with a nod. I try to imagine what type of girl Connor would seek, but she seems unfathomable—like a hazy picture with only her brain showing. Regardless, he has plenty of options. Very attractive, extroverted girls fondled him at the highlighter party. I guess being good looking, approachable, well-dressed and friendly goes a long way. Even so, he recognized their flirtations but never participated in them.
“Are you gay?” I blurt without thinking. What’s wrong with me? I busy myself with a big bite of orange chicken, stuffing my mouth to fill the awkwardness.
He shakes his head, not insulted. Nothing ruffles him. “Girls. Definitely girls. But you’re not my type. I like someone who can intellectually spar with me.”
I need to start a drinking game. I’ll take a shot every time Connor finds another creative way to call me dumb. On second thought, I’d probably die from alcohol poisoning.
After we finish our Chinese, I clean up and Connor instructs me to type and retype my notes until it sinks in. Being on the computer is dangerous. While the silent minutes tick by, I sometimes forget Connor hovers beside me. The subconscious urge to log onto porn sites creeps into my fingers.
When I was much younger, my downward spiral began with small compulsions, like mustering the nerve to click into an X-rated site. Gradually, I started moving forward. Porn sites became dirty chat pages, five minutes became an hour, and I obsessed about my next opportunity to surf the internet—like a young boy’s fixation withHaloandCall of Duty. Porn is my time bandit, stealing days from me, causing me to be late to family functions and class. Even though I feared my sisters finding out—or god forbid, my mother—I returned without pause.
I lose sleep to my behavior, and still, I can’t stop.
“I don’t hear typing,” Connor scolds in a light tone.
I pound the keys loudly, hoping it’ll incite him. He blithely resumes “grading” my problem sets, which just means he’s scribbling a bunch of red marks all over the paper.
The last video I watched involved my favorite couple: Evan Evernight and Lana Love. They role played—Evan as the cop, Lana as the speeder. He climbed out of his car in his full, blue police uniform, fingers hooked on his belt. And then he set a meaty hand on her silver Lexus, bending down into her space, her window lowering.
