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A nerd masquerading as a god.
”
“Sorry. I’m not very chatty. Don’t take it personally, okay?” I steal my bottle back. “Okay, I won’t. But if you don’t feel like talking, at least entertain me in other ways.” She plants her hands on her hips. “I propose we make out.”
Happy New Year’s Eve.” “Garrett Eve,” her boyfriend corrects. “Dude,” Hannah retorts, “give it up. I’m not calling it that.”
In college, I’ve made more of an effort to be social, but deep down I’m still the guy who wants to remain invisible.
“I was about to ask you what it meant.” He stares at me in horror. “I’ve become my worst nightmare.”
My new neighborhood is a vow of silence convent compared to the Kappa house at Brown.
“Exactly. Safe place. We all manscape here—or at least we all fucking should if we consider ourselves fucking gentlemen,” Hollis chides.
“Pain in the ass, those Roselawn guys.” “I literally just said I went to Roselawn,” Hunter protests. “I repeat—pain in the ass, those Roselawn guys.”
I see a ditzy blonde who got kicked out of one sorority and banned from another, who’s always on academic probation, whose father had to call in a favor to get her into college, whose brother called another one in to find her a place to live. I see a screw-up.
“Don’t do this to me, Summer.” “Do what?” “Bring me into the den of Satan.”
“Forget I said that,” he begs. “Please, please keep poking me. Poke me all night long.”
“You’re turning out to be the most disappointing best friend of all time.”
“To the fiery pits of Lucifer? No fucking way.” Jee-zus. Do all Briar hockey fans think Harvard is Dante’s Inferno, or is it just the weirdos in my life?
“Any last words?” Fitzy asks. “I never learned how to ride a bike.”
“Just ignore me. I’ve decided I’m going to be the crazy lady who talks to herself in class.”
“Good morning! I’m Erik Laurie and I’m sorry to inform you that you will be enduring my unbearable presence for the next four months.” Laughter ripples through the hall. “Just joshing,” he says with a hearty chuckle. “I’m a fucking delight.”
It’s a hoe-mance for the ages.
Sunshine, I finish silently. Just like her name, Summer is sunshine.
He’s sporting what I like to call Exploding Ovaries attire—gray sweatpants that ride oh-so-low on his trim hips, and a tight white T-shirt that shows off his tattooed arms.
OK good. It was there before I sat down so I assumed it wasn’t me. Just making sure, though. You and I aren’t meant to be, sweet Fitzy. I’d eat you alive
I feel the stupid need to justify why I have a boner. Or rather, had, because the poor fella has retreated like a Confederate soldier.
Hearing Dean (whose nickname in college was ‘Dean the Sex Machine,’ for chrissake) put on a Puritan tone and glare in disapproval is the ultimate irony.
The fucker doesn’t throw a punch. He knees me in the balls.
“I’m not having kids with you,” I wheeze at Summer. “I don’t want to be part of your insane family.” “Oh hush, sweetie. It’s too late. I’ve become attached.”
