"Thought you were gonna ditch and get away with a free coffee," Christian hands me a tedious red cup at the front door of Kappa Epsilon. His playful grin contradicts his salty greeting. I'll get judged so hard if I tell him I don't like drinking, but this entire night is going to be the incarnation of acting, so I fake-drink-the-straight out of whatever he's given me. A concoction I hope isn't spiked. Rational anxiety. I swear, if I don't receive an award for my immaculate acting tonight, the system is rigged like decaf coffee.
"I was going to ditch and get away with a free coffee. How'd you get the lawn littered already? Damn."
"You know," he begins, weaving us through sticky, heated bodies with so much sweat accumulated we're navigating Niagara Falls, "passing the Childhood Best Friend Protocol is built on the foundation of you not being an asshole."
"My asshole-itis happens when your asshole-itis happens."
He stops at the archway to the living room with a childlike frown. "When my asshole-itis happens?"
"Isn't pressuring me into coming here total asshole-itis?"
"It's total Childhood Best Friend Protocol."
"What about sending periods as paragraphs for the sole purpose of my misery? Is that not total asshole-itis?"
"Periods as paragraphs are totally grammatically acceptable."
"Well, I disagree. What about the total asshole-ity of you existing?" You shouldn't be insulting someone like him, even if it's just a joke.
He whines, "Hey," like he dragged out his texts. I think the phrase 'extra as fuck' is applicable to describe this man — or rather, child. "You're doing the opposite of making me like you."
"Well I disagree," I have the nerve to say because, pronto, when I feel the warm burn in my stomach from any form of alcohol, even before the tipsiness begins, I can't control my mouth. This is precisely why I don't like drinking.
"Yeah? Is that what you think?"
Don't say anything else. "I don't know, why don't we ask Aristotle?"
He laughs heartily. I look around at all the mess inside mirroring the mess outside. My gaze locks on Giana through all the people and the guys she's wedged between.
"Go on then, cannonball." Christian hangs his arm around my shoulders. I don't hate it. You should. "Take your shot." Take it.
"What happened to spending more time with me to decide if I'm decent enough?"
"You didn't ditch and get away with a free coffee. One point for you. Also," he leans into my ear, "I will be watching." Me too. Obsessive.
I hum and contemplate the cup in my hand — I'm going to need it, so I don't fake tossing back my drink this time. Remember why you're doing this. I clench my eyes shut. Suck it up, do what you need to do. "Was I not just an asshole a minute ago?"
He stares at me a second longer than what I feel comfortable with, eyes darkened by the lack of lighting. My tummy hurts looking at him look at me that way. Too many weird swirly feelings, it's knotted. I get his point, but not that unreadable look.
He does exactly what he said he'd do. Watches me as I make my way towards Giana, while elbows stab me, the temperature bumps up a whole octave, and my hands grow clammy with each person I pass by.
When Giana sees me approach, she takes one look at me and hands me her drink. I throw that back, and then her arms are draping around my neck. I try not to be stiff like the stick up my ass half the time.
YOU ARE READING
Breathe, Tommy (BxB) (Frat)
Romance***RE-POST***(was locked out my old account) Tommy Carpenter moves to a college six hours away from the tormented version of himself who was bullied in high school for being gay. He has a plan this time so it doesn't happen again: Earbuds in, head d...
