It was so easy to forget this feeling when they were apart—to forget that someone so perfect could care so much about what he had to say. That underneath the beauty that even now made his palms sweat, she was just another person, just like him.
Which was ridiculous, of course. Because look at her, and look at him. But still, it was a divine little fantasy. So Nate drank it in while he could, smiling and laughing with Gwen for he didn’t know how long, neither of them minding when their drinks ran dry, or when the deck began to get even more crowded with the thickening overflow from the booming party.
It was only when their couch neighbors made a particularly frisky, lip-smacking claim for even more couch space, and Nate found himself with Gwen all but sitting in his lap, that their conversation hit a lull. Or screeched to a grinding halt, rather.
In that moment, feeling her warm weight on him, smelling the electric blue jungle juice on her breath and the lavender in her moonlight-struck hair… In that moment, locked in the depths of her eyes, intoxicated with the closeness of her, and with gods knew what else, Nate thought in earnest about kissing Gwen—about reaching up, looping a stupid, sweaty palm behind her head and pulling her face to his, just like he’d seen at least one guy do at pretty much every shitty party he’d ever been to. Just like the neighbors who were practically dry humping on top of them now had no doubt done a minute ago.
She was right there. She was watching him. Not shying away. Watching him. Searching his face for… for what?
Just do it.
His hand twitched like a defective toy on the arm of the couch.
Gwen shifted ever-so-slightly on top of him, the slight movement sending ripples down to the core of his being. The oddest smile was tugging at her lips—sweet and yet somehow sad, vulnerable.
Kiss her.
He should do it. Was going to do it.
Then he thought of Todd, and of the loyal goon squad that would no-shit happily murder Nate’s IT Guy ass for even sitting here with their Alpha’s girl like this—assuming they could even stop laughing at him long enough to bother…
“I’m sorry,” Nate whispered, so quietly he wasn’t sure he’d made the sound at all. He was staring down at her thighs now, not even remembering having dropped his gaze.
Jesus, why was he like this?
He felt hollow. Clammy, almost.
Then she laid a hand on his chest, and tremors ran through him at the touch.
“Same old, same old, huh?” she said, almost as quietly.
Before he could rally himself to do or say anything, she shifted again, and then she was climbing off of him, rising from the couch, and the moment was dead and gone.
“Come on.” She offered him a hand. “Another drink?”
Nate took her hand, too ashamed or embarrassed or whatever the hell he was to even meet her eyes. He should leave, some part of him knew. Save face. Run away. And yet he was too afraid of letting the space between them explode into a permanent rift to do anything other than hold on to her hand and follow along.
They hadn’t made it more than five feet through the sea of party-goers—at least a dozen of whom were heavily making out, as if to mock him—when Gwen stopped and turned to face him again, getting close enough to be heard over the din.
“Todd’s… not really my boyfriend, you know,” she said quietly in his ear before backing away a few inches and watching his face for his reaction, like she was in the lab studying some peculiar anomaly. What an odd little specimen he must be. And maybe it was the defensiveness that welled up at that thought, or maybe it was some combination of jungle juice and a higher propensity for Grade-A Asshole-ism than Nate had ever suspected resides within his nerdy frame, but he couldn’t stop the next words that spilled out of his mouth.
“He’s just a guy who calls you babe?”
He could’ve bit his own tongue off. Probably should’ve.
Gwen didn’t snap back or slap him or anything dramatic like that. She just arched an eyebrow, her expression… what? Annoyed? Slighted? Or was it expectant? Or bemused?
He would’ve taken a thousand falls from Emily’s rooftop to know what that eyebrow meant. And maybe a thousand more to sink through the floorboards and out of existence when a familiar voice cut through the din beside them.
“Ah, IT Guy made it,” Todd Mackleroy said, sweeping in, hefting Gwen into his bulging arms, and pulling her into a deep kiss before either of them could say a word. It nearly turned Nate’s stomach to watch.
“What’s up, babe?” their interrupting Adonis said, when he finally disengaged from her lips long enough to acknowledge her with words.
“What’s up with you?” she asked, licking her lips and looking a little taken aback. “And his name’s Nate, Todd. You know that.”
“Mmm,” Todd purred, juggling Gwen closer, his hands shifting decidedly asswards. “You know it turns me on when you say my name like that, babe.”
Gwen rolled her eyes, but Nate didn’t miss the way her exasperation cracked to giggles when Todd nuzzled her neck and collarbone with kisses. Or the wink Todd shot him out of the corner of his eye.
The bastard.
“So you wanna play that game of pong or what?” Todd said, finally setting Gwen down. “Me and Bonzer just finished wiping the last of the challengers, and I figured you”—he booped her nose—“might want a shot before we turn the tykes loose on the table.”
“Such a sweetie,” she said, patting Todd’s angular cheek.
“You know it, babe. So what do you say?”
For some reason, they both looked at Nate, as if the question was directed at him too.
“Oh, he’s playing with Bonzer,” Gwen explained. “Can’t risk taking on a civilian and losing a game in his own house.”
“I didn’t ask for these skills, babe, but I sure as shit gotta represent ’em.”
“Which means that I need myself a sorry civilian partner,” Gwen concluded.
“Oh,” Nate said. “I, uh…”
Need to go, said the unhelpful voyeur watching from the corner of his brain.
“Come on,” she said, taking him by the elbow. “One game, partner. What’s the worst that could happen?”
4
House Rules
On a basic level, as a guy who loved games, Nate could understand at least some of the appeal of beer pong. You had a clear objective, and a mechanically satisfying task to repeat. Who didn’t love trying to land a ball in a cup? Plus, drinks. Fun times for all.
So no, beer pong might not’ve been such an awful game.
Losing beer pong to the muscle-bound not-quite-boyfriend of your four-year-crush-and-possible-soulmate, on the other hand, kind of sucked.
“Just to clarify,” Gwen whispered in Nate’s ear, sliding a ping-pong ball into his waiting palm, “turns out the ball’s supposed to go in the cup.”
His wounded pride momentarily forgotten, Nate turned to her with his best shocked face and mouthed, with all appropriate horror, “What?!”
She laughed, snapping her fingers. “I knew we were forgetting something.”
For a second, Nate felt his genuine smile flowing back across his lips, drawn to hers like a moth to the light. Maybe he shouldn’t care so much that they were getting stomped. Even if they had started with a handicap of four extra cups. Gwen clearly didn’t. In fact, with the exception of their momentary awkwardness out on the deck, her smile hadn’t left her face since—
“Come on ladies,” Todd called from the other end of the table, yanking Nate straight out of the moment and back to their imminent loss. “Let’s wrap this up. Bonzer’s gonna pass out if we don’t get him a pizza soon.”
Nate glanced at Todd’s teammate and was not at all under the impression Todd might’ve misspoken when he said a pizza and not a slice of pizza. Nate was still half-convinced this “Bonzer” creature was in fact a cave troll in human disguise. But Christ, could that troll sink some balls.
“I believe, grasshopper,” Gwen said quie
tly to Nate, patting him on the back as he stepped up to the table.
He took a breath. Lined up. Took his shot…
And made a cup.
“Yes!” Gwen shouted, bouncing excitedly and thrusting her hands out for a double high-five, which Nate returned with a stupid grin. It was only their first cup. Out of six. But a cup was a cup, he supposed, and Gwen’s energy was contagious.
At least Todd wouldn’t have any grounds to try some kind of flawless victory hazing bullshit when they lost. That was something.
Then Gwen took her shot, and Nate felt a disturbance in the Force.
He could see from the moment the ball left her hand that the shot was going to go long. What he couldn’t remember was why that mattered in the context of Iota Nu Nu’s extensive list of household rules. Not until Todd screamed like a freaking Spartan king charging into battle.
“SQUANTO!”
Then he plucked the little white ball out of midair and whipped it straight at Nate’s face.
Had Nate had time to use his rational brain, he might’ve stood there and simply taken it like a man. Maybe even slapped the shot away with his hand. It was a freaking ping-pong ball, after all.
Instead, he ducked back out of panicked reflex, staggered by the stakes of the game and the sheer bro-tality of Todd’s war cry. The pong ball grazed the side of his forehead, then his foot caught on something, and he was falling. For the second time that day, he felt the air smacked from his lungs, and then he was looking up at a ratty chandelier and about two dozen laughing faces all around him.
“Squanto for the win!” someone shouted.
“Victory by Squanto!”
“Dude, I think this bro’s dead.”
“Nate?”
This time, at least, he managed to sit up before Gwen could go full bioengineer nurse on him in front of the entire Iota Nu Nu house.
“I’m fine,” he wheezed preemptively, scrambling to his feet.
She took his arm, like she was afraid he’d fall over but said nothing, maybe because she could already smell the shame radiating off of him. Everyone in the room seemed to be looking at him. Laughing at him. He looked to the door, wanting nothing more than to be gone from that place.
Before he could take a step, though, Todd swooped in on them and scooped Gwen up in both arms with a cry of, “Victooory!”
“Todd,” Gwen said, in a tone that actually gave the Greek God pause.
“Yo, you all good, IT Guy?” he added.
“Fine,” Nate said, almost surprised to find himself turning for the door. “I’m fine.”
And then he was walking—nearly running—for the door.
“Nate!” Gwen called after him.
“Good game, dude!” Todd called. “Careful with that noggin!”
Gwen must’ve said something to him, because he kept going.
“What? He says he’s fine. And you know what that means. Rules is rules, babe.”
“Rules is rules,” someone else—Nate could only assume Bonzer—agreed in a low, rumbling voice.
Nate kept walking. Out of the room. Through the raving dance mass. Toward the front door. He was done. Never should’ve walked out on Friday night squads in the first place. Never should’ve—
“Nate!”
His traitor legs stopped even as his head insisted he at least find the spine to storm out with dignity.
“Are you okay?” Gwen asked behind him.
With a breath, he forced himself to turn and meet her eyes. “I’m fine, Gwen. I’m just gonna go, okay?”
“You’re upset,” she said, searching his face with that concerned look. “It’s okay. Everyone here is too shit-faced to care anyway, and it was just a game. You—”
“I said I’m good. You’re right, it’s just a game, and I… well, maybe I’ve just had enough of them.”
She recoiled a little at that, her eyes widening. “Nate, come on…”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just… I should just go home, okay?”
She nodded, biting her lip. “Okay. Well, can we talk again soon?”
He nodded, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Yeah. Yeah, of course we can.”
She wrapped him in a tight hug. “I enjoyed being with you tonight. Get home safe, okay?”
“You too,” he said, returning the hug and turning to leave a little more reluctantly this time.
“Heading out, bro?” someone asked as he reached the front door.
Nate looked around and saw Brad watching him from nearby, where he had his dance partner from earlier pinned rather provocatively to the wall. And judging by the indignant impatience with which she was now eyeing Nate, he assumed they’d just been getting somewhere interesting.
“Yeah, have a good one, Brad. Thanks for the drink.”
“Rough night?”
Nate hesitated, glancing toward the door and the cool, quiet evening that lay just beyond.
“Dude…” Brad parted from his lady friend, and wobbled over to Nate, clearly less than sober. Even in the strobe-fest, it was evident his pupils were still enormous. He put one hand on Nate’s shoulder, and patted Nate’s cheek affectionately with the other. “You’re a good boy, Copernicus. Just don’t go chasing anymore windmills, eh? That’s the trick.”
Part of Nate wanted to be outraged that even Balls-tripping Brad had more of a handle on his night than Nate did. Another part, and maybe not a small one, felt a strange urge to simply let it all out—to break down in Balls Brad’s arms and let the trippy bastard tell him how it was all going to be all right, even if he did apparently think Nate was a one-foot tall corgi.
Mostly, though, Nate just wanted to leave.
And he was ready to, until he caught the flash of bleached blond hair ascending the stairs across the room, followed too closely by a muscular back. Gwen. Being carried away by King Squanto himself, who had her secured by two generous handfuls of Gwen rump.
For a second, Nate thought she looked unhappy about it. But then Todd jostled her around and gave her ass a firm smack, and she was laughing, clearly trying and failing to be stern with him. Clearly not needing Nate’s sorry ass to step in and embarrass himself again.
“Fuck this,” Nate muttered.
“Yesss!” Brad hissed, patting his shoulders enthusiastically. “That’s the spirit, Copernicus! Fuck those windmills, boy! I knew you had it in you! Go, boy…” He jerked his head towards the door. “Go make your mark on the world. I believe in you!”
Unclenching one trembling fist, Nate gave Brad a pat on the shoulder. “You have a good night, Brad. Thanks for not being a dick.” He started to leave, then hesitated. “Also, you should probably drink some water.”
Brad just beamed like it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him.
Nate turned and slipped out the door, hurrying down the front deck steps and out to the sidewalk, feeling liable to explode at any moment. He never should’ve left his friends. Never in seven hells should have imagined there was any world in which he, IT Guy McFalls-A-Lot, could walk into Iota Nu Nu and just make off with King Squanto’s girl.
What the hell had he even been thinking on that deck?
Kiss her? Seriously?
Whatever.
He reached for his phone, thinking to check the time, and realized his pocket was wet. Completely soaked, in fact. Like someone had spilled a whole damn drink on him, and he somehow hadn’t noticed until now. Maybe because he’d been too rattled on account of the fact that he’d just bit it in front of Gwen and a hundred A-holes.
Muttering a string of curses, he pulled his phone free and pressed the unlock button, expecting the worst.
Nothing.
Completely dead.
“Fuck it all,” he growled, turning toward town and setting off at a brusque hate march.
“Amen, bro!” someone called after him from the deck.
5
The Leaky Pocket
Nate stepped out of McLanahan’s and slid his dead pho
ne into the bag of rice he’d just spent ten minutes begging the last cashier, who’d already closed down the registers, to let him buy. The day had gone from straight shit to a honest-to-god shit-nado, and as Nate stood there, watching his breath fog in the chilling evening air, he could only imagine he’d be struck down any moment by a falling jet engine, or maybe even take the mantle as State College’s first documented case of spontaneous combustion.
“Why’d he have an open bag of rice in his pocket?” one of the coroners would ask as they inspected the remains.
“Who cares?” would reply the other.
At this point, the only reasonable move was to cut his losses, head home, and get a couple more hours of Battle Royale in with his friends before he turned in for whatever sorry sleep the day’s long list of embarrassments would see fit to allow him tonight.
But for some reason, he couldn’t seem to bring his feet to turn right, back toward home. Back toward Iota Nu Nu, and Emily Atherton’s, and the growing list of the day’s failures. Back toward the booming party where Gwen might well currently be writhing beneath Todd, moaning that Greek God A-hole’s name and wondering to herself how she could’ve thought, even for a second, that an IT Guy like Nate could ever compare. Not that she had wondered that, he reminded himself. Not anywhere but in Nate’s own head.
He could always circumvent the INN house. Go a few blocks either way. But somehow, he was pretty sure that would only make it that much worse, knowing that even in the midst of his sweet, sweet victory, Todd was still all but lurking over Nate’s shoulder, waiting to push him down the Fraser Street hill.
And screw that.
Almost by accident, he found himself turning left instead, drawn by the hoots and hollers of drunk Penn Staters having a good Friday night, inexorably wondering to himself what he might do—where he might go—if he weren’t Nate Arturi, but someone else entirely. Anyone else. What would he do if he were one of these people? What would he do if he were the guy who kissed the girl on the deck—and to hell with the consequences?
The Eighth Excalibur Page 4
