I remain rooted in place, my gaze following the three of them as they head in the direction of the house. Their comments replay in my mind, and a tiny voice somewhere in the recesses starts shouting and cheering. Because, this plan? It’s working.
But from the way I can still feel the heat from Camden’s lips against mine, and how the musky scent of his cologne is stillinvading my senses, it might be working on the wrong person too.
Unfortunately, Lexi was right.
After grabbing dinner and spending a couple hours on my course work, I wind up in bed with my sketchbook andSolo Levelingplaying on my laptop screen. While it’s a little annoying to be this predictable, it’s also nice to have the house completely to myself, what with Bailey at work and the other three out at the party.
I’m God knows how many episodes deep with not a damn clue what time it is when my phone buzzes beside me on the bed.
Glancing down, I find a voice memo from Camden waiting for me, and the sight makes my stomach do an odd little twist. Then again, it’s likely just from the brief transcription showing beneath it, already giving me the faintest idea of what I’m about to hear when I hit play.
“Hi, boyfriend. I, uh… I hope you’re not asleeping right now. I don’t think you are. You stay up late a lot. Do you even sleep? I never seen it happen.” He pauses, and I hear a little hiccup before he starts laughing. “Ah, it’s weird calling you my boyfriend. It’s weird asking you to come get me. Did I ask that already? I think so. But if you can call me, maybe?” He pauses again, and this time, something more like a giggle comes out before he starts singing “Call Me Maybe” by Carly Rae Jepsen.
Very loudly, and extremely off-key.
There’s a little bit more incoherent talking—maybe a conversation between him and someone else—before the recording stops, and the only thing I can do is stare at the screen, not sure what the hell it is I’m feeling.
Dumbfounded by the sheer chaos of his drunken ramblings, for sure. There’s definitely a bit of irritation in my stomach aswell, though that’s simply because I’ll have to leave the comfort of my bed to go get him from the party. But before I honor his request to call him, I can’t stop myself from rewinding the audio to listen to his poor rendition of 2012’s most annoying pop song a couple more times.
It’s endearing, funnily enough. Kinda cute, even, which is entirely unexpected.
I try to push the thought from my mind as I hit the call button on his contact, tapping my fingers on my sketchbook while waiting for him to pick up.
“Lil Reed, hi,” he slurs, answering the phone on the second ring. “What did I do to owe this pleasure of your calling?”
From that sentence alone, I realize he’s far more drunk than I initially thought.
“Uh, you asked me for a ride. And told me to call you.”
“I did do that, didn’t I?”
I bite back a laugh. “Yeah, you did. Can you tell me where you are so I can come get you?”
There’s a pause, then him grumbling something under his breath before he says, “Uhm… I am sitting on the curb. Outside of the house with the weird letters. You know, why are letters like that? Makes it harder for dyslexics like me. We don’t even donormalletters.”
Once again, it takes all of my mental fortitude not to bust up at his adorable, drunken musings. The only way I manage this time is by focusing on the task at hand: picking him up from this party.
Swapping to speaker phone, I pull up my Maps app and notice all of the frat and sorority houses are on the other side of campus. There’s alsoa lotmore of them than I initially thought.
But which one is he at, again? Kappa Sig, right?
Fuck it, it doesn’t matter. I’ll drive the length of Greek Row to find him if I need to.
“I’ll be over there in fifteen minutes. Can you do me a favor and stay right where you are?” I ask.
“Yes siree, Bob. I will—”
The phone suddenly goes dead in the middle of his sentence. At first, I think it’s because he accidentally hung up, which wouldn’t be a surprise when he’s this intoxicated. Except, when I go to call him back, it goes straight to voicemail, and that can only mean one thing.
His phone died.
Shit.
I’m off the bed and down the stairs in less than a minute, and I make the drive to Greek Row in ten rather than fifteen. The entire time, I silently pray to whatever deity might hear me that Camden listened, staying put and not wandering off without a working phone.
As I creep down the street, I do my best to make out the silhouettes walking around outside the line of houses, not knowing where I’ll wind up finding him. He’s certainly not outside the Kappa Sig house, which is where Iswearthey told me the party was.
Luck seems to be on my side, though, because a few houses from the end of the block, I finally spot a familiar form donning a hoodie and denim jacket. He’s sitting on the curb in front of the Phi Mu house, his blond head slumped over his knees like he’s asleep. Or more likely, just finished throwing up.
