“She can party too.”
“Who’s holding it?”
“The Rhos.”
“I think she’s had enough of Greek life for one year. It’s fine. We were going to grab pizza. She’s paying ‘cause we won. Feel free to bring Hailey with?—”
“Look at you two, all domestic,” he baits.
“Pecan, don’t make me regret this conversation!”
He winks. “Your secret’s safe with me, baby.”
I shoot him a warning glance, but I know he wants to hurt her as little as I do.
Sophomore year in high school aside, when he thought with his dick too much.
Trust me—this version actually has his libido undersome semblance of control.
He asks me once again if I wanna meet him at the party, but I flip him off.
In the end, I’m one of the last guys in the locker room, the others are talking about the frat party or heading to Dopie's, and I just wave them away when they ask me along.
If I didn’t know Dyers was unpopular, tonight confirmed it.
I get zero shade for beating the shit out of him.
As I head out, my shoulders feel lighter and it has nothing to do with that fight either.
I didn’t realize how much liking Denny inthatway was a burden.
Confessing to Father Canard obviously lessened the load.
Until I see her.
Sitting on the bench outside, painting her nails in the half-dark. AirPods lodged in with those dumb silicone bands I always tease her about so they don’t fall out of her ears, humming away to that pop violinist she loves.
My reaction is why I can’t film that stupid video.
That ache inside me—god, it’s unrelenting.
Was it always there?
Was I just too blind to notice it?
I look at her now and all I see is how much of her I don’t have.
That I’ll never be able to access.
Not just sex. Buther.
Denny.
My Denny.
Only… not.
Goddammit.
