by Sarina Bowen
Fuck me. I missed it.
“Maybe it’s just a fight?” he asks, pulling a T-shirt over his muscular torso. “Maybe you two will kiss and make up in the morning.”
“I don’t know. She did that thing where she implied that if I was really paying attention, I would have understood that the threesome was a cry for help. ‘I just wanted you to spice things up,’ she said. ‘I thought you would counter-offer the threesome.’”
“Counter-offer?” Luke repeats.
“Yeah, like bring in another girl instead. Or some role-play. I don’t know.” I stand up again because sitting on Bailey’s bed is a bad idea. I’ve got to go sleep off this vodka. “All I know is I did love her. And it wasn’t my idea to break up. But she says I don’t thrill her anymore, and I don’t know how you come back from that.”
“Does she still thrill you?” Bailey asks.
I’m too drunk to keep the wince off my face. “Sometimes. Sure.” But it’s just dawning on me that sexting with SinnerThree was about the most exciting thing that happened to me in the bedroom.
Isn’t that just sad?
“Well…” Bailey clears his throat. “Deep breaths.”
“I should…” I make a vague motion toward my own room.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Hey, I meant it, Hayworth. I’d never say a word. About...you know.” He lifts his phone off his desk to indicate what he means.
“Uh, thanks. I won’t say anything, either.” I measure the serious expression on his face, and I decide that he’s telling the truth. And then it hits me that I had my tongue in his mouth a few minutes ago. Did that seriously happen?
And, Jesus, did I really like it so much? I did, damn it. And now I’m staring.
“You okay?” he says warily.
“How did you know?” I ask suddenly.
He rolls his eyes. “I told you, I didn’t know.”
“Not about that. That’s not what I mean. How did you figure out that you, uh…” I can’t finish the sentence. “Never mind.” I take one step toward the door.
“Oh,” he says slowly, my meaning dawning in his voice. “That I like guys?”
I stop and turn around. “Yeah. That.”
“I started young, honestly. Noticing guys was a hobby of mine from ninth grade on. And one of the guys in my little circle at school turned out to be gay. And he noticed that I had a thing for the cross country team.” His chuckle is strained. “So he made a point to invite me to stay at his house whenever his parents were out for the night. He wasn’t really my type, but we were each other’s handy training ground.”
“And that was, like, okay with you?” I hear myself ask.
“Yeah.” He toys with the edges of his phone. “See, I never felt like I fit in anywhere, ever. Not at home. Not at school. So I didn’t let my sexuality freak me out. What’s one more thing?”
“One more thing,” I repeat slowly.
“Go to bed, Hayworth,” he says, pointing at the door. “I think you need it.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice thick. It’s probably the best advice I’ve been given in a long time. “What a fucking awful day.”
He makes a face. “We shall never speak of this again.”
“Right. Night.”
Then I get the hell out of there. I stumble into my own room and shut the door. My phone is on the bed, so I pick it up. And by sheer force of habit I touch the lock screen to see if there are any notifications from the Kink app.
There aren’t, of course.
It occurs to me that I should delete the app.
But I don’t. Not yet.
The next day I sleep past noon, only rolling out of bed when my need for painkillers becomes stronger than my need to disappear under the comforter.
Everything feels bleak. Usually on Sunday I’d meet Annika for brunch, or my dad if he’s in town. But today I don’t have plans, so I order a pizza from the only place that delivers. It’s not even good pizza.
And then I run into Bailey when I’m collecting it from the pizza delivery guy. He’s just back from the grocery store, apparently. I head upstairs, thinking to avoid him in the kitchen. But, damn it, he follows me up two flights of stairs, carrying his grocery bag with him.
“Why don’t you keep that in the kitchen?” I mutter, which really translates to, why do I have to see you when I’m still embarrassed?
“Because people take my food,” he grumbles, giving his door a nudge with his hip. “Duh.” It closes with a loud click.
That’s when I remember what Bailey—SinnerThree—once wrote about money. That it was a constant worry for him. That he didn’t always have enough money for groceries at the end of the month.
I attack my average-tasting pizza, feeling surly and hemmed in.
And what’s that old saying? There’s no rest for the stupid. Okay, that’s not exactly it. But when I check my email, I learn that I have not one but two frat meetings today. There’s a chapter meeting. And before that, a huddle with—wait for it—the officer candidates for the election.
So a few hours later I find myself face to face for the second time today with the one man I most want to avoid. Reed, our sitting president, has gathered Bailey, me, and the guys who are running unopposed for treasurer and for secretary.
“Okay, boys,” Reed says after he closes the dining room door. “In a half hour the chapter decides who will be the cat-herder in chief. But before the vote happens, I just wanted to go over a few details. Because it sometimes feels like brothers sign up for these things out of optimism or loyalty or whatever, without knowing that there’s work involved.”
I bristle, feeling like this comment is directed at me. But I’m not at all confused about this. I already know that the presidency will make my senior year harder than ever.
“Here are job descriptions for all of you,” Reed says. “You’ll recognize the first part from the fraternity handbook. But below that I’ve added some notes about the practical considerations.”
“Thank you, Reed,” Bailey says quietly. “This is pretty great.”
“Thanks, man,” echo the others.
When Reed hands me his notes, I skim the lengthy paragraphs and try not to sigh. The details run to five pages.
“The president’s description was the hardest to describe,” he says. “I’ve used the word ‘peacekeeper’ a lot. The cats don’t always listen. The buck has to stop with you, though. The bylaws are very clear about this. So if, say, your best friend has some stupid ideas about the initiation rituals, you have to shut that down.” He gives me a pointed look.
Fuck. “Got it,” I say stiffly.
“It’s not a job that always makes you popular,” Reed adds.
“I should be perfect, then,” Bailey says, and the other guys chuckle.
“But, hey, at least you earn your free room,” Reed says.
“Free room?” I ask, looking up.
Four curious stares look back at me. “You didn’t know about the free room?” asks Jon Munsen, who’s running for secretary. “Almost makes it worth it.”
“Right.” I feel like I’m ten steps behind everyone else. “Yeah, I remember,” I lie.
“Okay, any more questions?” Reed asks. He waits, but nobody brings anything up. “All right. I’m going to go grab the ballot box out of the attic. And we’ll get the chapter meeting started in fifteen minutes or so.”
The room descends into a tense silence.
Well, I’m tense, anyway. Munsen and Edwards are noodling on their phones. Bailey also taps on his phone, looking carefree.
But I feel like I’m coming out of my skin. I can no longer remember why I was running for president of Alpha Delt. To please my father, I guess. I wonder what he’ll say when I tell him that Annika dumped me. I can’t even imagine the disappointed look on his face.
And why does that even matter? I’m twenty-one years old, almost twenty-two.
My phone buzzes with a notification. And I can’t believe it, but it’s from the Kink a
pp. I open the phone under the table and find that SinnerThree has sent me a gif. It’s of...a cowboy herding cats across the plain.
May the best asshole win, he writes.
I can’t help myself. I glance up and find him looking at me. And that fucker winks.
Goddamn Bailey. I don’t want to like the guy.
The room starts to fill with my fraternity brothers. They take up all the rest of the seats at the table, and then fill in the window seat and all the standing room along the walls.
“Here we go, guys.” Reed puts a stack of ballots onto the table and then passes more of them around the room. “Oh, and here’s some pencils,” he says, placing a mug of them on the table.
Reed is great at this, I realize. He’s a good president, and patient, too. A real cat-herder.
I glance across the table at Luke, whose chin is resting in his hand. I wonder if he knows he probably can’t win. There are too many football players in the frat, and they’ll vote for me just by default. And I’m friendlier, too. I’ve spent more time playing poker and watching sports in the living room.
Bailey doesn’t. He works a lot, I think. I’m just realizing that he probably has to work all the time just to stay afloat. He told me as much when I was chatting with SinnerThree.
He’s picking his cuticles right now. As if it doesn’t matter whether he wins. But I’m suddenly realizing that it probably matters a great deal to him. The president gets a free room next year.
That part makes no difference to me whatsoever. The rent here isn’t even very high...
“The meeting is called to order,” Reed says calmly. “I thought we’d vote first, just to get the ballots squared away. Does anyone have any questions about the election? It’s a straight majority setup. In the unlikely event of a tie, we revote once and then if that doesn’t clear things up, the sitting officers will break the tie.” He waits. “No questions?”
My heart rate accelerates, and I raise my hand. “Hey, Reed?” Everyone turns to look at me. “I changed my mind.” The rest comes pouring out in a word-vomit of pure relief. “The presidency isn’t really my thing, and I’m probably not the right personality for it. So I’m withdrawing my name from consideration. Still happy to do committee work, but, uh, cross my name off the ballots.”
Judd groans loudly.
Reed only blinks. “You sure, man?”
“Totally,” I say, feeling great for the first time all day. “I got enough on my plate.” And my father can just shove it. If he wants a Hayworth to be president of Alpha Delt, he can re-enroll at Darby and run again.
Fuck his opinion. Fuck everything.
There is an uneasy murmur in the room. And then I make the mistake of glancing over at Luke Bailey. I guess I thought I’d see relief in his eyes. Now the free room is his.
Instead? He’s glaring at me with murder in his eyes.
Mr. President
Luke
There’s no real vote. Nobody else steps up at the last minute to challenge me. After weeks of competing with Keaton for a position I only want because it saves me rent money, I’m dubbed president of Alpha Delta. By pure default.
Resentment roils in my stomach as I sit through the rest of the meeting. Somehow I manage not to vault over the coffee table and drive a fist into Keaton Hayworth’s jaw.
What the fuck game is he playing now? My hands are trembling with anger, so I press them against my thighs and mentally urge Reed to quit babbling. I don’t care that Hell Week starts tomorrow, or that we’re running low on cleaning supplies. I need answers from Keaton Hayworth III.
But once Reed calls the meeting to a close, it’s impossible to get Hayworth alone. Judd and his other football buddies drag him into the kitchen, and their hushed, angry voices tell me they’re not thrilled by his sudden decision, either.
Jaw tight, I keep an eye on the kitchen doorway, but it doesn’t look like they’re wrapping up.
“Mr. President!” Jako comes over and slaps me on the shoulder. “We did it!”
“No, we didn’t,” I mutter. “I won by default.”
“Who cares? We still got the end result we wanted. Come on, let’s go out and celebrate. A bunch of us want to take you to Cinnibar—our treat.”
I draw a steady breath. It’s a nice gesture, and any other night I’d jump at the thought of free booze. But Keaton and I have unfinished business. I open my mouth to lie, then realize there’s no reason to. “I’m waiting to talk to Hayworth,” I tell Jako. “I want to know what the hell he did that for.”
Jako purses his lips in thought. “Yeah, it was kinda weird. But…you won. Who cares why he dropped out?”
“I care.” Beyond Jako’s shoulders, I see several of our brothers milling about, waiting on us. “You guys go on ahead,” I urge. “I’ll meet you there after I talk to Hayworth.”
“Fine.” He claps my shoulder again. “But don’t take too long.” To everyone else, he shouts, “See you all at Cinnibar. Last one there buys the first round!”
I’m nearly killed in the resulting stampede. Despite the plethora of rich dudes in this frat, none of them want to part with their precious allowances. Meanwhile, Keaton and his pals are still arguing in the kitchen. When I creep closer, I hear Judd growl, “Not my president!”
I choke down a laugh. Oh for fuck’s sake. I haven’t even taken office yet and I’m already a hashtag.
They’re taking forever. So long, in fact, that I pull my phone out of my pocket and open Kink.
SinnerThree: I need to talk to you. Now.
No response, obviously, but I’m gratified to hear the ding of a notification in the kitchen. Good. I hope someone asks Keaton who’s messaging him. He’ll be too embarrassed to admit to using Kink, and speed up his conversation.
But that doesn’t happen. Instead, to my disbelief, Keaton, Judd, and their friends exit the kitchen and brush right past me as they head toward the front door.
“Hayworth,” I growl at his back. “A word?”
His broad shoulders stiffen. He glances over, his expression a bit sheepish. “Can’t. We’ve got somewhere to be. Congrats on the presidency.”
And then he’s gone.
I stare at the door. Is he fucking kidding me? I deserve answers, damn it. He can’t just drop out of the election at the last second without explanation. I furiously type on my phone again.
SinnerThree: You’re such an asshole.
As expected, no response.
I shake my head a few times, standing there in the middle of the living room. The silence is slightly disconcerting. Every single frat brother has either gone off to Cinnibar with Jako, or has left with Keaton. And I can’t even enjoy the solitude, because I’m still fuming over Keaton’s actions.
He handed me the presidency. Why? Was it pity? I mean, it had to be. He’d looked genuinely surprised to find out the prez gets a free room, and he knows I don’t have much money. Obviously he put two and two together. Before LobsterShorts, I would’ve assumed that adding two and two would be a difficult feat for Mr. Jockface. But I know better now. Keaton isn’t a dumb jock. He’s a biology major, and he’s far more intelligent than he lets on.
I trudge upstairs, the resentment still churning in my gut. I text Jako to let him know I’m just changing out of my sweats and then meeting everyone at the bar.
I tackle the first part, throwing on a pair of ripped jeans and a black sweater, but my phone buzzes before I can leave the room. It’s a Kink alert.
LobsterShorts: How am I an asshole? You wanted me to bow out.
SinnerThree: I wanted you to bow out when you broke the rules basically twice in ten days like an asshole. Not out of pity.
And that, right there, is what’s really bugging me. Keaton was a lock for this gig. I would’ve received a fair amount of votes, sure, but we both know I still would’ve lost.
SinnerThree: I don’t need your pity, dude.
LobsterShorts: It wasn’t pity. I never wanted to be prez.
SinnerThree
: Bull.
LobsterShorts: Truth. Look, can we talk about this later? I’m with the guys.
SinnerThree: Yeah, I know. I saw you flee, remember?
LobsterShorts: Wasn’t fleeing. Judd wanted to go out. Pajama party thing at Beta Kappa.
SinnerThree: You’re going to a sorority party? Seriously?
LobsterShorts: Sorry. I did suggest to them that we should stop at Cinnibar. Jako texted us to come. But Judd’s…how do I say this tactfully…displeased by the election results.
Meaning, he refuses to support my reign by celebrating with me and the rest of the guys. Not that I’m celebrating. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, sulking.
SinnerThree: I’m displeased too. That wasn’t cool.
I don’t get a reply this time, even after five minutes tick by. I imagine Keaton and his boys are surrounded by a slew of tipsy, PJs-clad sorority girls right now, so I force myself to jog over to the bar.
Cinnibar’s is the most upscale bar on campus. The other two are primarily visited by the football crowd (hard pass) or the crew team (snoot alert), but Cinnibar offers a chill crowd and a laidback atmosphere. In fact, we’re the only frat members in the place tonight.
For the next hour, I drink with my frat brothers, awkwardly accepting the praise, happily accepting the free drinks. Even some of the guys I’m not close with, like Paxton Grier and Edwards, are being nice to me, though in Paxton’s case it’s because he’s trying to convince me to set him up with one of my “stripper friends.” I’m trying to dodge his incessant pleading when I get a message from LobsterShorts.
“Hold that thought,” I tell Paxton, all the while praying he just drops it. Which is looking likely, because I barely blink and he’s lumbering off toward a trio of cute brunettes.
LobsterShorts: I’m sorry you’re pissed, ok? But it wasn’t pity, or some evil scheme on my part. I never wanted the job. My dad wanted it for me.
His confession chips away at some of my bitterness. LobsterShorts—I mean, Keaton—mentioned on numerous occasions that he has a difficult relationship with his father.
Maybe his dad did push him into running for president. I mean, that gift card stunt Mr. Hayworth pulled last week reeked of desperation.
