“Tate Farris?” Tex asks over his shoulder.
I nod. “I reacted… poorly.”
His expression darkens and he curls his bicep with enough force that I wonder if he’s picturing Tate’s neck snapping in the crook of his elbow.
Last year, Tate lived down the hall from me and Julian. He slept in the dorms as a formality but spent most of his time at 1919 Hemphill, which is essentially a frat house for a fraternity that you can’t just decide to join. The house is owned by the Carmichaels, an old Wexley family. They bought the place back in the sixties for theirtwins to live in while they were in school. The boys invited their closest, wealthiest friends to join them and the house immediately became iconic for its exclusive and oftentimes lewd parties.
As the first male Graves in my family to attend Wexley in decades, and with one of Tate’s former stepfathers being a Carmichael, me, Julian, and sometimes Tex got into the habit of escaping there as well. It was a relief to be out of the dorms. There was plenty of alcohol, drugs, and willing sexual participants.
Tex and Julian stopped going after we heard a rumor about a scoreboard in the basement, which lists each of the residents with a number beside their name of how many first-years they’ve hooked up with. You had to be escorted down to the basement by a resident, which is why it was just a rumor. It didn’t help that both Tex and Julian found Tate to be a dick.
I asked Tate about the scoreboard, but he swore it was nothing more than a story.
I was invited to move into the house for the following fall semester. I said yes, which triggered a huge fight between me and Julian.
I stopped sleeping in our dorm altogether and started crashing at 1919 Hemphill.
Then one night I walked in on something I wasn’t supposed to see. But thank fuck I did.
She was a freshman and he was a junior. Nothing had happened yet from what I could tell, but she was so out of it that she couldn’t even tell me her name. Why sleep with someone who is that comatose when you’re in a house full of people who just want to get laid? You couldn’t walk in a straight line without finding somewhere to put your dick.
I was furious with the guy in question and Tate, too, because he hardly seemed to care, but most of all, I was pissed at myself. I’d fucked up all over again.
I got the girl into my car and was able to get into her phone to call a few friends she’d recently texted.
I went back the next morning and snuck into the basement while everyone else was still asleep. As real as the bones in my body, there it was. The scoreboard. I got into it with Tate when he threatened to sue me for backing out of my rental agreement. I told him to fucking try.
Beside me, Julian crosses his arms, dropping all the sarcasm and playfulness. “You can’t let him near Clover.”
“I know. Trust me, I know.” I’ve gotta change the subject before I throw a dumbbell through a window. It’s not just the thought of her with Tate. It’s the thought of her withanyone. I can still feel her body relaxing into me as I kneaded the shampoo into her scalp. The smell of that conditioner, too. Fuck, I’ve already bought six more bottles online, because I can’t tolerate the thought of her running out. I would have never done anything with her in that moment, but being in the shower with her even while I was still clothed had me so painfully hard. Maybe I really am no different than shitbags like Tate.
Tex watches me in the reflection of the mirror with his jaw set. At least if I do something rash, I can count on these two to help me hide the body.
After a few more reps, I try to lighten the mood for my own sake. “Did you know girls only use a couple tampons a day?”
“No way.” Julian shakes his head. “I for sure thought it was at least a box a day.”
“They should be changed every four to six hours,” Tex tells us with certainty. “To avoid toxic shock syndrome.”
I duck down to wipe my forehead with the sleeve of my shirt. “That sounds like a garage band from Portland.”
CHAPTER 17
Bennett
Clover switches her shift at the library so we can attend the next Married Mixer. We missed the last two because I was with my mom and then Clover was sick.
“Have you gone to one of these Midnight Yells before?” she asks as we head to the meeting point. Sandra and Greta are strolling a few feet ahead of us, huddled together against the late-night chill. They’d both joked about being out past their bedtime.
“I’ve been a few times,” I tell her. “One time when I was little, actually, I came to Midnight Yell the night before a game with my mom.”
“Did you?” she asks through a shiver. “I wonder where me and my mom were.”
“I don’t know. It might have been when your mom was dating that mechanic.”
“Oh my god,” she says. “Your mom hated him. She used to call him a Mario Brother.”
“It was the accent and the mustache,” he says. “And yeah, I think she was just always a little scared that your mom might meet someone and move out.”
