Yeah. Awkward is one word for it. It all started at what was supposed to be just a party at Lennie’s apartment at River Crossing.
I was taking up a corner of the couch, trying to look like I wanted to be there. Parties are hard for me. Elevated emotions, guaranteed rejection and desperation, especially as people get drunker. As someone trying not to feed on any of that, Jesus, it’s like waving a tray of freshly crisped bacon under a starving person’s nose.
Carter was on the other end of the sofa, the quiet guy watching the crowd with me. The one with the shoulders that pulled at the fabric of his flawless button-down and jeans that did nothing to obscure the muscle in his thighs. I learned later that he’s a runner.
When two very drunk girls stopped directly in front of the couch, I watched, fascinated, as one imitated the other with posture and gestures. Hand up by the collarbone. Fingers tugging at the end of hair. Left leg tucked behind the right. Whatever one did, the other followed suit a moment later.
“Classic mirroring,” I said aloud, delighted. It was completely subconscious behavior, meant to bring about a connection between two people or help the second one feel a sense of belonging. I’d read about it, but it was always more interesting to see in person. And so pronounced in this case.
“Lowered inhibitions,” the guy on the other end of the couch added, startling me. When I glanced toward him, he tipped his chin toward the red cups in their hands.
He was right. Most people, as adults, will catch themselves imitating and stop, but alcohol would interfere with that.
“Yeah,” I said after a moment, impressed. Expertise and a mutual interest? It was intriguing… and not going to lie, kind of hot.
“I’m Jo,” I said.
“Carter,” he responded.
After the girls drifted away, Carter asked me about attachment theory, and we ended up talking about Carr versus Ainsworth and Bowlby. And modern mating rituals, which veered a little more into anthropology and sociology but still. That somehow led to a discovery of our mutual obsession with sports movies and a heated argument about them.
I’d rolled my eyes, shifting to face him. By that point, we’d moved to sit next to each other on the couch, his leg a solid line against mine. “They’re dramas in sports clothing for people with daddy issues,” I said. Something I knew more than a little bit about. “The sports aspect just makes them more acceptable forthose with fragile masculinity. It’s okay to cry about pseudo-daddy Gene Hackman giving you advice about getting over your fears, in the same way it’s okay to cry if your favorite team loses. But it’s not all right to express your emotions without that safety net of sports.”
“I completely disagree,” Carter said, shaking his head. “Look, if the story doesn’t function without the designated sport to trigger lessons about growth or connection or whatever the desired theme is, it can only be a sports movie. You couldn’t have these same stories about, I don’t know, learning to be a telephone lineman.”
“But you’re making my point for me. It has to be sports because that’s where it’s acceptable for traditional men to be ‘in their feels.’ Period.”
He’d arched his eyebrows, whether in response to my phrasing or my argument.
Before he could interrupt, though, I’d continued. “Imagine if the coach character in any one of these movies was a woman. If you’re right, that shouldn’t change anything. But it does.Et voilà.Not sports movies, but daddy dramas.”
Carter had scowled at me and opened his mouth to argue. But at that point, one half of the couple making out on the other end of the couch—I wasn’t sure when they had arrived—had turned around and tapped Carter on the shoulder, asking us to take our “weird-ass argument somewhere else. Also,Rudyis a fucking cinematic masterpiece.”
Which is how the laundry room happened. And might have continued, if we hadn’t had the first day of classes the very next day.
Seeing Carter at the front of my Psych 306 class, seated behind the desk reserved for Dr. Stephens’s TA, should have ended it. I felt my heart stop, a description I always thought was hyperbole untilthat moment. Then again, I’ve never been called Ms. Trelane by anyone who’s had his tongue in my mouth.
But the flash of accusation across his face made it even worse. He clearly thought I was playing some kind of game. Or worse, that I had deliberately sought him out at the apartment party the night before, for some kind of advantage. Or possibly just to fuck with his life.
That was our second argument, on the balcony of a different party. One that I went to, I admit, for the purposes of trying to find him to have that conversation. Lennie was more than happy to tag along with me. It just bugged me that he might think I was capable of such shitty behavior. Also, he would be grading my papers that semester.
“I didn’t know, okay? How could I have?” I demanded, when I found him, alone on the balcony, leaning against the railing with a cup of beer and staring out over the parking lot.
“You introduced yourself as Jo,” he said tightly, without looking at me. “Your name on the roster is Jocasta.”
“I don’t call myself that,” I argued. “I hate the name.”
“Why?” he asked, turning to face me for the first time. He didn’t seem angry anymore, just… cautious.
I sighed. “If you tell me that it’s a normal name in England, I’m going to push you over this railing.”
His mouth quirked upward at the corners. “Itisa normal name—”
I opened my mouth to object.
“—if you’re unaware of its origin,” he finished.
I leaned against the railing next to him, keeping a careful three feet of space between us. “My mother is a classics professor. I assure you she knows.”
