“You’ve got this,” I tell myself. “You absolutely, definitely, completely have this.”
I don’t have this. But I’m going to pretend I do.
I dry my face on the hand towel, take one more steadying breath, and open the bathroom door. And freeze.
Elliot is standing in the middle of the dorm room, holding a pair of my tighty-whities. He’s singing, his voice surprisingly melodic despite the flat delivery.
“What the?—”
Gerard joins in, grabbing another pair of my underwear from somewhere—how did they get into my drawer?—and draping them over his head like a bonnet as he sings about Doris Day and Rock Hudson. Drew is cackling so hard he can barely breathe, but he manages to stumble to his feet and add his voice to the impromptu performance, telling Elvis to keep his pelvis far away from him.
Jackson—my best friend, my roommate, the person I trusted the most—completes the quartet, his arm around Drew’s shoulders as they belt it all out together. I find Nathan in the corner, filming it all with his phone.
The song eventually ends with a flourish. Gerard strikes a pose. Drew takes a bow. Jackson is doubled over laughing. And I stand in the bathroom doorway, mouth hanging open, in shock that my friends desecrated both my underwear drawer and my dignity in one fell swoop.
“Are you making fun of me?” I finally manage.
Elliot lowers my underwear, his expression shifting to mild offense. “Some people are so touchy.”
“You went through my drawer!”
“Gerardwent through your drawer. I simply utilized what was presented to me.”
“For a musical number!”
“It seemed appropriate given the moment.” Elliot tosses the underwear onto my bed with surprising delicacy. “Consider it a palate cleanser. You looked like you were about to have a crisis in the bathroom.”
“Iwashaving a crisis in the bathroom! And now I’m having a different crisis out here!”
Gerard removes my briefs from his head, at least having the decency to look slightly sheepish. “We were trying to lighten the mood, bestie. You seemed stressed.”
“Besides, Sandra Dee is a classic,” Drew says, as if that explains anything.
“Greaseis cinema,” Jackson adds.
I start laughing. It’s not a dignified laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep and refuses to stop, the kind that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water. I sink down against the doorframe, clutching my sides, and the laughter keeps coming.
“He’s broken,” Drew observes.
“That’s the spirit!” Gerard beams. “Laughter is healing!”
“I think he might be crying,” Jackson says, peering at me with concern.
“I’m not crying.” I wipe my eyes, still giggling helplessly. “I’m just—you’re all insane. Completely, utterly insane.”
The evening continues in that vein—crazy, overwhelming, and somehow exactly what I needed. But I make a mental note to get a lock for my underwear drawer, all the same.
33
OLIVER
“One-eighty,” Kyle announces, sliding another plate onto the barbell. “You ready?”
I roll my shoulders, positioning myself under the bar. The metal is cool against my traps. “Born ready.”
“That’s not an answer. That’s a bumper sticker.”
I ignore him, bracing my core and lifting the weight off the rack. The first rep is smooth—down, pause, drive through the heels, up. The second follows. By the third, my quads are burning in that satisfying way that tells me I’m working.
