I watch his hand trail, slowly revealing unexpectedly tidy scribbles:
You haven’t given me an answer.
What does that mean?
I scrawl back, keeping one eye on the table, not wanting anyone—especially Leanne—to notice that we’re both writing in my notebook.
When are we going to fuc
As soon as I realize what he’s about to write I knock his hand away. I don’t look at his face, but I swear I can hear him smirk.
I did answer you. Never.
You lied.
No, you just didn’t like my answer.
You want us.
I roll my eyes but otherwise do not respond. There is no point in continuing this. I turn my attention back to the table. “Using Nietzsche’s phrase in the context of Aristotle’s work confuses what each philosopher actually meant,” Leanne is saying.
“It’s the ideas that need to be focused on, not the words,” Theo replies, “words are just—”
Tristan’s calf brushes against mine. He actually hooks his foot around my ankle and pulls my leg toward him. He leans back casually and a second later his hand slips up my thigh. I detangle our legs and try to discreetly push his hand away. For someone who wanted so much secrecy, he sure is being risky—of course, I suppose he only wanted his gay activities to be a secret. Maybe straight stuff is perfectly hunky-dory.
His hand slips right back up, this time starting lower. His fingers instantly find a spot that makes me shudder. How he could possibly have such precision and effect— even at an awkward angle, even through my jeans—is absolutely baffling…and terrible. Even as I’m already digging my nails into the top of his hand, trying to pinch him away, my whole lower body comes alive. I pinch him harder, desperate to get rid of his hand before I don’t want to anymore.
He pulls back, catching his injured hand and rubbing it. I can’t help but glance at it. I’m quite pleased to see red little crescent moons swelling to life.
He knocks his ankle into mine again. I move away again. But his legs are longer, and it seems that no matter how I move my legs, he finds a way to snake around them again. This is ridiculous.
Then, abruptly he stops. He takes his ankle back and leans forward, his hands folded for his chin to rest on, looking all kinds of innocent. Only when chairs start scraping do I realize why.
“We will officially end this meeting of the Yale Undergraduate Philosophical Society,” David formally announces. “Thank you all for attending.”
On my other side, Leanne is leaning away, stuffing her copy of After Virtue into her backpack. How could a whole hour pass while I just zoned out…I was distracted, but still, a whole hour?
I glance at Tristan out of the corner of my eye. I still feel tingles in my legs and heat in my underwear, which is growing moist. Fuck. He’s right. I do want them. I just don’t want to want them.
I’m about to close my notebook and pack up like everyone else, but then…I don’t know what possesses me to do it. I slide my pen to the line right under where Tristan last wrote, and, because I’m apparently a little bit insane, write:
I’ll think about it.
—
With the meeting ended, everyone breaks into little side conversations, standing up at different speeds, filtering out slowly or leaving quickly. I pretend to be utterly engaged in whatever Leanne is saying to Jacob Bernstein, but really I’m thinking about my little notebook conversation with Tristan.
What possessed me to write I’ll think about it? Was it because Tristan demonstrated that, at least academically, he’s not a complete idiot? Or that just remembering the feeling of his hands sliding up and down my body makes me wet? Both, probably.
I’m such an idiot. And now, I don’t know what is going to happen. I don’t know what he thinks is going to happen. Pretending to be engrossed in Leanne’s conversation is the safest option.
To my great relief, Tristan leaves his seat and walks around the table to Theo, Chase, and David. Several words about how Tristan should come to the next meeting are exchanged, and then mentions of the upcoming intramural hockey game between Calhoun and Pierson can be heard.
Leanne and Jacob push their chairs in so I do the same and follow them as they slowly make their way toward the door. I hope Leanne is not going to invite him to dinner with us. If she does, then I’m inviting Becca, who Jacob so rudely tried to make fun of for bringing up some Anthro data. I try to be sympathetic, reminding myself that he’s just a sophomore and he’s trying to impress jackasses like Theo and Chase so he feels like he really belongs in Y.U.P.S.
Tristan, Theo, and Chase are moving toward the door faster than us. As Tristan walks past me, his knuckles brush against my hip, too hard to be accidental, but too discreetly to be noticed by anyone but me. I watch him go, shaking my head, as if to tell myself no. Unfortunately, I’m probably not going to be any better at listening to myself than I was last time.
I jerk my head back to Leanne, who is watching me, her lips pursed and her eyebrow arched knowingly.
“So, sushi?” I say, pretending not to notice.
“Yeah, text and see if Azzi wants to come..”
I’m only halfway through the text when Leanne, with a tone that is buoyant and distracted—the kind of tone that would make you think she was asking about nothing of real interest or consequence if you didn’t know her—asks, “So, what’s going on with you and Tristan Masters?”
This is the tone she uses whenever she is fishing for what she thinks is very juicy information. I have been on the receiving end of this tone before. I have strategies in place for it.
“What do you mean?” I reply, doing my very best to sound casually confused, as if her question has absolutely no basis in the boundary conditions of my reality.
“I mean, why did he come sit down next to you and then flirt with you for the entire meeting and why were you writing little notes to each other?”
“I was not—”
“Dude.” She grins. “I’m not blind.”
“There is nothing going on that hasn’t been since the day we met—he tries to annoy the shit out of me and occasionally I sink so low as to rise to his bait. He was just writing stupid stuff in my notebook and I was dumb enough to reply.”
“Oh yeah?” Her eyes narrow slyly. “So if I read your notebook—” She snatches for it. Her laugh is playful but she actually manages to yank it out of my hands. I reach to grab it back but I’m so forceful that it crashes onto the floor and several loose papers shoot out in every direction.
“Damn it,” I mutter, automatically bending down to pick them up.
Leanne starts picking up papers too and offers an apologetic smile, which gives me hope, for half a second, that she will drop her inquiry. But alas… “So now I know there’s definitely something worth reading in there and I live with you. You have to sleep sometime.”
“Leanne…” I sigh, but then I am saved.
“Ladies,” Theo interrupts, strolling up to us. Chase Locke, right behind him, bends down to pick up a few papers that I hadn’t gotten to yet. He hands them to me with a smile that is too intentionally charming.
“We were just wondering if you’d like to join us at the Box, where we plan to continue tonight’s titillating discussion.”
I want to gag. I’ve always been on perfectly polite terms with Theo over the few years we’ve been acquainted. The Philosophy Department is, after all, small enough that you inevitably meet everyone in your major, and nearly everyone, more or less, follows standard professional schmoozing protocol—certain beautiful, spoiled, annoying, blond-haired individuals being the exception—but I’ve never really liked Theo.
However, the second he asks, Leanne’s eyes light up and I can tell that, at least for now, she has completely forgotten about my notebook.
Theo and several other upperclassmen in the department seem to have formed a sort of unofficial exclusive boys club, and they parade about with the air of being elite. Although I know Leanne wouldn
’t ever admit it, she really wants to be seen as one of the brightest and best in the department—after all, she’s smart, ambitious, and has a well-disguised chip on her shoulder. Inclusion in Theo’s little group would mean she’s gained such a standing in the eyes of our peers. So, of course, she wants to accept his invitation and, of course, I have to go with her.
“Sure,” she answers, doing a much better job of sounding casual and unconcerned than I would. “We were just talking about dinner. The Box sounds good to me. Mia?”
“Yeah,” I automatically reply, knowing that Leanne would be furious with me for abandoning her at such a crucial social juncture.
At least Tristan seems to have disappeared. Plus I am starving, and the Box does have a real menu—not just bar snacks. If I’m going to be stuck listening to Theo drone on and on all night, then I’d rather be able to munch down an endless supply of French fries while I do it.
“Splendid! So…” He flashes that fake-charm grin at Leanne. “What did you think of Bogner’s lecture yesterday?”
“Well, I thought his main point was fair—” They fall into step beside each other, and Chase and I walk behind them. Luckily he seems content to listen to them do the intellectualist’s dance rather than try to strike up a conversation with me.
I wonder why Tristan isn’t coming. He and Theo seem to be buddies. Not that I want him to come—I don’t. But it would probably be less boring if he did.
If Theo really doesn’t understand the difference between defining terms and determining source in relation to MacIntyre’s argument, then I can’t “continue the discussion” with him. Unfortunately, Leanne will want to impress him enough that, even though I’m right, she will be annoyed at me if I press my point. So I’m staring down the barrel of several hours of faking interested nods, munching French fries, and drinking the most watered-down beer available, when what I’d really like to be doing is sleeping.
—
When we get to the Box, it is not yet crowded, but it’s Wet Wednesday, so it’s only a matter of time before the people smart enough to not take Thursday classes show up to get wasted. The hostess leads us to a booth that is far away from the speakers, and thus conducive to conversation. I’ve barely opened the drink menu when Theo tells the waitress he’d like a whiskey sour.
She looks expectantly at the rest of us. “Hemingway,” Chase says.
“What do you recommend?” I ask, having not had a chance to actually look at the menu.
“You seem like a Marilyn Monroe kind of girl to me,” Theo brazenly replies.
“What?” I ask, genuinely confused. Did he not realize by the fact that I was looking directly at the waitress that I was asking her? “Is there a cocktail Marilyn Monroe was famous for drinking or something?”
“Oh no, no.” Theo chuckles and nods at the drink menu. Leanne holds hers out to me, pointing to the words “Marilyn Monroe,” under which the words “raspberries,” “beer,” and “tequila” pop out at me. Above and below it are more drinks named after famous people.
“I think I’m more of a Joan of Arc,” I quip back, trying to keep the snark out of my voice. I wonder what it is about Theo that I find so distasteful. I think it’s that he never seems real. Even Tristan, as disgusting as I have, at least until recently, unequivocally found him, wears his assholeishness honestly. Theo seems like he might be just as much of an ass underneath but is always in charmer-mode.
“How classy.” He smiles.
“I’ll have the Andy Warhol,” Leanne tells the waitress, handing her our drink menus.
“By the way”—he again shifts his gaze back to Leanne—“order anything you like, tonight is on me.”
My eyes instantly meet Leanne’s. I can tell from the twitches at the edges of her eyes and the corners of her lips that she’s trying really hard to not smile as big as she wants to. I look from Alex to Chase, not bothering to hide my confusion.
“This isn’t a date, right?” I ask. Under the table, Leanne’s heel stomps into my toes. I wince slightly but ignore it. I don’t care if that question embarrassed her—I already have more male attention than I want in my life, so if for some crazy reason either Theo and/or Chase has even the slightest interest in me, I want to squish it as fast as possible.
Theo lets out a great, fake chuckle. “No, no, just being chivalrous.” His twinkling eyes shift from mine to Leanne’s. “It’s the way I was raised.”
Leanne does something that is too close to giggling for my comfort. Eww.
“So…” Chase grins, flashing teeth that are unnaturally white. “We didn’t get a chance to touch on it, but does anyone else think MacIntyre’s interpretation of Nietzsche leans a little too utilitarian?”
“I don’t know,” Leanne begins, her face thoughtful, but her tone light and diplomatic. “I think he uses terminology that is common to the post-industrial utilitarians, but most likely, that’s because they’re his most direct predecessors.”
Chase smiles, almost coyly. “He seems to put a good deal of emphasis on…”
Ah, I think, the dance has begun again.
I nod and frown thoughtfully, and do things to make it look like I’m listening, but I keep one suspicious eye trained on Theo.
Maybe I’m being paranoid but it seems like too much of a coincidence that Theo, who I know is friends with Tristan, and maybe Julian, has suddenly taken an interest in hanging out socially with Leanne and me. I mean, we’ve been in Y.U.P.S. with him and Chase for over two years and he’s never once done anything to try to initiate hanging out beyond that, or even hinted that he had an interest in it.
Did Tristan tell him what happened, and now maybe he thinks I, and Leanne by extension, are some sort of sexual freaks? That doesn’t really make sense, though, since Tristan was so paranoid about anyone finding out about him and Julian. So, maybe it is just a coincidence…a very, very strange coincidence.
Of course, Theo and Chase are both rumored to be members of the Skeleton Key, and we are on the verge of Tap Night…Tristan, with all his money and family connections is, I assume, a shoe-in for a tap. Perhaps they’re just investigating him, and since he was obviously, according to Leanne, flirting with me all night, Theo’s just trying to gather info on a prospective member.
Or maybe it’s not about me or Tristan and Leanne is a potential Key tap, like I know she secretly desperately wants to be. Maybe it’s just a coincidence that he invited us after Tristan appeared at a meeting flirting with me. Maybe he would have regardless because it’s actually Leanne he is interested in. Hmmm…
Theo catches me staring, but I do my best to summon the essence of a disaffected house cat and let my eyes slide to the food menu. I wonder how long I’m going to be stuck here. Judging by how much Leanne is obviously enjoying this, probably far too long. It’s only been a few minutes, but it already feels like it’s been a sludging eternity between now and when the waitress took our drink orders.
—
“You know, it’s getting late,” Theo finally says, almost three hours later.
Leanne deflates a little beside me; I am tempted to jump right over her and begin the lovely walk home in the February cold. In all fairness, this hasn’t been truly awful. It’s actually pretty fun to have drunk discussions about topics that are almost impossible to successfully discuss sober. And I love our waitress. She psychically knows exactly when to bring me new drinks.
However, I’m right at that point of drunk where I need to get home, get into the shower, and pass out, or I might start doing stupid things—like ask Theo if he knows where Julian lives. Or, even worse, when we get back to Berkeley, go knocking on Tristan’s door and suggesting he show me.
“It is,” Leanne says, quick to recover, “we should do this again sometime.” Even drunk, she manages to say it like she’s not particularly attached to the outcome. I wish I was that good at hiding how I feel.
“Absolutely. Say…” Theo grins—too wide, too charming. Eck. “You’re coming to Roger’s party, righ
t?”
“Oh…” Leanne starts. I know that tone.
“Who’s Roger?” I ask so Leanne doesn’t have to admit that we weren’t invited and, at least in my case, didn’t even know about it.
“Roger Davenport, you know, graduated last year? He was in Hieronym’s with us last spring. Anyway, he’s having a little shindig at his apartment just off campus this Friday. You should come. There will be great people and better booze.” He flashes a cheesy smile as he delivers what he obviously considers to be a clever line.
I forget to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Hopefully neither of the boys noticed, or, if they did, they are drunk enough that it won’t stick in memory. I don’t care what they think, but clearly Leanne does, and I don’t want to be a bad friend by sabotaging her chance to make new friends—even if I do think these potential new friends are actually phony intellectual-wannabe snobs. Maybe that’s not fair but I don’t really care right now. Lately every interaction I have with men either seems to be terribly annoying or utterly discombobulating and confusing. Why couldn’t I have been a lesbian?
“Oh yeah,” she laughs, “of course. Slipped my mind.”
“Excellent.” Theo’s grin grows. “The Philosophy Department will be well represented with you two there.”
“Oh, who else is invited?” Leanne casually asks, but I can detect a slight shift in her body weight, a tip forward, more weight to her center, less to her side—the answer to this question will tell her by comparison just how exclusive, and thus meaningful, this party is.
“Besides the four of us? Just Lydia Whitmore and”—Theo shifts his eyes to mine, his grin, if possible, somehow quirks up a bit more—“of course, Tristan Masters.”
In the dim light, with my very slightly swirling vision, that grin seems to transform from phony and obnoxious to sinister and satisfied—like he’s a spider that’s lured us into his web.
Blackmail (Skeleton Key Book 1) Page 8
