aria

He tastes sweet, you think.

For you, the past few hours had been a haze of the intense, unpleasant stench of dark liquor, fraternity members holding each other upside down by their ankles, and the sweat produced from bodies fusing together. At some point in the last hour, you began hearing a faint ringing in your ears. You surmised that it was a consequence of the various speakers plugged into the living room, amplifying the band setup in the dining room. Anna's boyfriend, Graham, and his buddies usually performed for a small group in their garage, but tonight was the night they got to play for a real crowd. All week, Graham and the shitheads, your not-so-fond nickname for his asshole friends, had imagined some version of how the evening would go for them.

Large house party with various smoke machines and lights, women throwing their bras—scratch that, themselves—at the members of the band, and an unlimited supply of kegs. They would rock so, so hard that the house would shake. The entire audience would hear their lyrics about the school being a prison, and then they would rebel against the government and end corruption entirely.

But here, in this cramped bathroom, you're free from those annoyances. Beyond the ugly, yellow walls of this bathroom, nothing seemed to matter. 

You're just pleasantly surprised by Abbot. 

His lips are soft, free of any cracks in the skin, which could only come from chapstick. You're drawn to the lingering taste of mint on his lips. You were sure he wasn't a smoker now; no, you couldn't picture that. 

Your brain's input and output functions seem to center around only him. Every sense is on fire as your brain goes into overdrive at the feeling of Abbot reciprocating your kiss, deepening it by leaning further into you. For the first time, you can feel his chest against yours. He's built.

Where his white t-shirt catches, your pink dress shifts slightly upward, tickling your thighs. When the air begins to kiss the tops of your thighs, you finally recognize the slight draft stirring into the room from the open window. Thankfully, it has almost entirely rid the room of the smell of your joint; instead, the air carries a honeyed smell. Not that you could put it all into words, but it smells like driftwood and vanilla. 

You lower your hand, pushing your fingers further down the nape of his neck. Wrapping your fingertips around the curls, you tug slightly, feeling his lips part against your own. A small sound escapes his mouth, resembling a soft whimper. You smile slightly into the kiss, barely parting your lips, but it's enough for Abbot to use. He relies solely on his tongue to access your mouth, beginning to wet your lips before he finally roams your mouth. The taste of mint is no longer faint; it's overwhelming. 

His hand had cupped the back of your head at first, seemingly stabilizing himself with the surprise of being kissed. You felt his fingers roaming through your hair slightly before his hand fell to the back of your neck. His hand lowers down your back where it rests barely above the hemline of your pink dress. His fingertips dance across the hem, veering toward the skin beneath, driving a certain heat up your thighs. 

You couldn't recall the last time you kissed someone, let alone shared a kiss this good.

The impact of the doorknob against the bathroom wall should jolt you, but you've almost entirely forgotten why you had initiated this to begin with. By the time the door is wide open, you've encompassed Abbot in your body, concealing his face from the audience at the door. You quickly push your fingers into his curly hair, shoving his head downward into your top. His curls brush against your lips and chin, finally burying in the region above your chest. You feel the flare of his nostrils against your skin, and you try not to shiver. 

Turning your head to face them, you glare at the two boys at the door. Muscular as Abbot was, as you were discovering, these two assholes were definitely larger than him. 

The taller, blonde boy tilts his head, as if he is trying to recognize the jeans tucked between your legs. No doubt, you have a feeling he's searching for Abbot's green jacket, the one you tossed into the tub behind you. Abbot's white t-shirt could easily be mistaken for the fifteen other guys who wore a white t-shirt tonight, which you were banking on. 

"What, you don't knock?" You shout, gasping at the invasion of privacy, "Get the fuck out!"

You don't have to repeat yourself since the boys immediately shut the door. You feel the reverberation of the slam beneath your feet, finally allowing you to release the breath you were holding. You really did not want to run interference between whoever the two assholes were and Abbot. You straighten your posture, releasing his knee from the position where you had previously pinned him against the wall. Your kneecap is a little sore from the impact with the wall, but you're pretty confident the pain will fade to an unnoticeable shade of blue. Sometime in the next two weeks, it would become another story you'd tell to Anna, laughing at the bizarre turn of events at a house party. 

You're alerted to the company you still keep at the sound of a quiet exhale. 

"You okay, Abbot?" you ask, trying out his name for the first time. It feels foreign on your tongue, but anything would right now. Your mouth senses his absence, and it was already craving more. You swallow thickly, ignoring the pit of desire that had crescendoed in your chest at the feeling of his fingertips dancing across the threshold of your decency. 

Turning to face him, you initially note that Abbot has flushed a little pink. His head is thrown back against the wall, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. You tilt your head slightly, committing the sight of the man to memory. You didn't want to forget the way that his curls tangled into one another, rising in every direction from how you previously tugged on them. Your eyes drift from his hair to the way that his face scrunches slightly. 

He has freckles. They're pretty prominent across his cheeks, but are currently concealed by his blush. You hadn't noticed the extent of his freckles before, but as your eyes trace back over his arms, you spot several more.

He finally opens his eyes, catching yours. 

"Staring again?" he teases. Only now can you see that his pupils are fully blown. 

A grin takes over your face. Your fingers find something to do, flattening out the bottom of your dress before you come up with a response, "Hard not to." 

Abbot hums, running a hand through his hair to try and tame the wild curls. Returning his gaze to you, he's not teasing, "You've got a little..." he trails off, circling his finger in reference to his lips. 

You turn to the mirror, finally recognizing what he's referring to. If Abbot was a mess, you realize you're a disaster. Your own curls, the ones you had spent so long perfecting for the evening, are destroyed, stray hairs flying everywhere. You quickly pat down your curls, cussing under your breath. Your pupils are blown, but more concerningly, your lipstick has smeared slightly around your cupid's bow. You run the faucet, using two fingers to scrub at the lipstick staining your skin. When your eyes drift from yourself in the mirror, you immediately notice Abbot's still watching you. 

He cuts through the silence, "Thanks for the cover." 

You feel the relief extend through your chest. There's no weird thing between the two of you. 

"Yeah, I mean, it'd be a shame for that face to get beaten in," you continue before you can think through what you're expressing. 

You feel your smile falter slightly, but you fight the urge to appear embarrassed in front of him. You were aware that you had just shoved yourself into him, profusely made out with him, and let his hands roam down your body, but that had been the heat of the moment! Abbot had needed a cover, and you provided that. Nothing more, nothing less. 

But he just laughs, the sound resounding through the bathroom. His laugh makes your grin spread wider, a small laugh breaking through your cool demeanor. You couldn't help it— Abbot's laugh was like a schoolboy's giggle, the kind produced from stealing cookies from the school cafeteria or watching your friend fall on their ass. He couldn't stop himself from giggling anymore, so he finally nods, fighting the giggles to respond to you, "You know, I think so too. Might just piss off some other douchebags if it gets you to kiss me like that again, though."

Your chest swells, knocking the air out of your lungs. His words replay again and again in your ears, your mind verifying that what you heard was correct. Abbot wanted you as much as you wanted him. 

A knock disrupts the moment between the two of you, or more so a fist repeatedly banging on the door, "Hey! Hurry the fuck up, I gotta take a piss."

You glance back at Abbot, catching him reach for your jackets. He quickly tucks the jacket under his arm, running his fingers over his chin as if he were quickly thinking. He finally returns his attention to you, "Want to go get food?"

You eagerly nod your head for a few reasons. You could eat right now. More, you were tired of this scene, and anywhere would be better than this shitty house party, but especially better if Abbot were leaving with you. 

Abbot opens the door, sliding past the guy waiting for the bathroom. His head is ducked slightly, avoiding showing off his curls at the risk of attracting attention from those you had just narrowly avoided. You closely trail behind him, fighting against the current of people between you and getting through that front door. Shoving your shoulders through any gap you could seize, you keep your eyes on Abbot leading the way to your escape. It seems that several couples have left for the evening, probably finding something a little more worthwhile. Your eyes find the dining room, scanning over the band, who are still playing whatever shitty music—you halt at the sight of the girl perched atop the speaker, Anna. 

"Fuck!" You exclaim, turning your body to face her. 

At your cry, Abbot turns his body. His hands quickly extend to you, a look of worry plastering across his face. "What's wrong?"

He follows your eyeline to the makeshift stage, quickly recognizing Anna. His eyes do a one-over of how she sits, the gaze she holds on Graham, and if she's spotted you yet. 

"Your friend?" 

"Yeah, we were going to leave together."

You don't catch the disappointment that etches across Abbot's face. His lips tug into a frown, the first all evening. He quickly clears his throat, fighting the constricting feeling, "That's okay."

"What?"

You return your attention to Abbot, scanning his face. His face has hardened as he stares forward at the band. You narrow your eyes and set your mind on penetrating the walls that he's putting up. Had you said something wrong? You tilt your head slightly, running through the conversation again in your head.

"I'm going to tell her we're heading out. Wait one minute for me?" You ask, watching his shoulders loosen up again. 

He nods wordlessly. You take that as your chance to push your way to the makeshift stage, finally catching Anna's eyes again. Once she spots you, she sits up straighter and her eyes light up. Her eyes are glossed over, and the whites of her eyes have faded into a lighter pink. She laughs, extending her arms for you, exclaiming your name. 

"I'm heading out!"

"You what?"

"I'm leaving," you emphasize, pointing a finger at the door. 

"'Kay, you just remember to call me tomorrow. At Graham's," she responds, shooting you a thumbs up. 

You silently thank that she's too preoccupied with Graham ripping his shirt off to ask you a few questions, including: Who are you going home with? 

Turning back to Abbot, you step over feet, shrug off wandering hands, and avoid any spilled beverages on your dress. You grunt quietly, pushing past a group of boys again, feeling a hand wrap around your own. You look up, finding that Abbot is closer now, helping to guide you out of the pit. You nod to him, feeling his other hand wrap around your waist, effortlessly guiding you through the couples. Opening the door, you catch the breeze of the night air.

You welcome the breeze, allowing it to tug at the hem of your dress and wave through your curls. It's a much better alternative to the oppressive human body heat trapped under the roof behind you. You open up your shoulders more, exhaling into the cold. 

"Feel better?"

You turn your head, watching Abbot retrieve his keys from his back pocket. He has a few keys on a chain, but you're more drawn to the larger plastic key with "14B" inscribed. You're pretty sure it's to a storage container, or some sort of larger garage. 

"For sure. Needed out of that cesspit," you joke, watching his smirk pull slightly to the left. You scan over his body once more, searching for signs of impairment. "You're good to drive, right?"

He nods, guiding you down the street. You pass a few houses, peering through their living room windows to see abandoned televisions still running in the night, illuminating the rooms with infomercials. You were just grateful they had gotten rid of the static sound and SMPTE color bars. Your younger brother had hated it when the stations began running their lists and wishing audiences goodnight, since it often meant his cartoons would have to wait until breakfast the next morning.

You discover Abbot drives an older Chevy Cavalier, which he defends was handed down to him by his older sister. Despite missing a hubcap on the back left tire, he keeps his car spotless. You notice the air fresheners hanging from the rearview mirror first and lean in to smell the orangey scent radiating from them. You lean back into the seat, readjusting your feet against the floorboard. Your foot knocks into a plastic box, and you lean forward to pick it up. You're not surprised that the white plastic toolbox underneath your seat is a First Aid Kit. 

"You can throw that in the backseat," Abbot advises, adjusting his rearview mirror. 

"No, it's not bothering me."

Once Abbot backs out of his spot, he begins to navigate more towards the central part of town. You weren't sure which restaurants would be open this late, but Abbot seemed to know where he was going, so you didn't bother to ask or disrupt him. 

As if reading your mind, Abbot glances back to you, asking, "Farmers and Bakers Kitchen good with you?" 

You nod, unsure what he's referring to. As long as it had some sort of breakfast food, you wouldn't have a problem. 

He reaches forward and pushes a button on the dashboard. When nothing occurs after pressing it twice, he brings down his fist on top of the dashboard. Suddenly, lights come to life, signaling that the car is processing his request. When an orange light appears, the silence is broken by R.E.M playing through the speakers. Track 2, Losing My Religion. 

His fingers tap against the steering wheel, following the mile markers toward the interstate exit. You mimic his action, bobbing your head slightly before beginning to mouth the lyrics. Your brother had adored R.E.M, blasting Everybody Hurts as loud as he could. You would knock on the wall to warn him to turn down the music, or you would do it yourself. 

"You a fan?"

"For sure," you smile. 

"What else do you listen to?" 

You consider it for a moment. "10,000 Maniacs. Really like OK Computer. Alanis," you hum in thought for a moment, "Oh, I just heard, uh, shit, that new album! (What's the Story) Morning Glory."

He glances in your direction, raising his eyebrows. "What'd you think of that one?"

"I liked it. What about you?"

"Loved it."

You smile, imagining his first time listening to the album. He probably had been lying on the top cover of his sheets, nodding his head along to Don't Look Back In Anger. 

You sit up in your seat, leaning against the center console slightly to grow closer to him. "What else do you listen to?" 

"Pixies. Wu-Tang Clan. The Cure. Sometimes Enigma."

There's a brief lapse in conversation after his answer. You don't mind the quiet; instead, you sit back and listen to the CD. 

After another ten minutes have passed, Abbot has parked the car and picked out a secluded booth for the two of you. The quaint diner reminds you of a different time, one with red leather seats, meters outside the restaurant, and servers on roller skates. The first thing you noticed walking in was the larger jukebox in the middle of the dining room, which Abbot had gravitated towards, immediately surrendering six quarters to the machine. You had been watching him flicker between different song options, pushing his weight onto the machine and bouncing his foot repeatedly against the tile floor. 

When he returns to the table, he hands you a plastic menu. Pointing to the first image at the top, he whispers, "This is probably your best bet here."

Scrambled eggs, two strips of bacon, and a stack of pancakes. The thought of the pancakes elicits a low rumble from your stomach, which Abbot does not miss. He smiles to himself, biting down on his lip to conceal his amusement. 

You intercept him, cutting off any further questions with your own, "What's that look for?"

"Nothing," he shakes his head, "just wanting to get to know you better."

"What more do you want to know about me?"

"For starters, your name."

Had you not once mentioned your name this entire evening? You review the events of the night in your head, playing through watching him with the other girl, kissing in the bathroom, and the car ride to the restaurant. You come up with blanks, figuring that you had forgotten to actually introduce yourself to him. 

He looks to you, expectantly, before you state your own name, watching a small smile overtake his face. He repeats it, softer. The sound of his name on your tongue causes your stomach to flip. 

"Thought I mentioned it earlier," you cover, nervously squeezing your own thigh with your hand under the table. "Just to be clear, though, it's Abbot, right?"

He chuckles, nodding, "That's my last name. It's Jack."

Somehow, that makes whatever is turning over in your stomach worse. Jack.

"It's nice to meet you, Jack," you smile, extending your open hand across the table for him to shake. His fingers brush past your own, his palm meeting yours. His hand is warm from his grip on the steering wheel in the car, and you can't help but wish that you could feel that grip around you again. His hand encompasses yours, holding onto the shake. You don't remove your eyes from his— no, you can't. All you're focused on is the way his hand feels in your own and how his smile tugs on the skin around his eyes. 

Once the food arrives at the table, you and Jack have settled comfortably into a few different topics. You've learned that Jack Abbot prefers savory foods in the morning, primarily potatoes, sunny-side-up eggs, and bacon. If he eats sweet foods first thing in the morning, he gets a headache. Jack enjoys films, but he wouldn't call himself a film buff. A few times, he slips up on actresses' names while trying to remember plotlines. Jack enjoys comic runs, but especially X-Men. He's interested in the franchise's social commentary and doesn't hesitate to mention that he would major in psychology or sociology if he weren't going into medicine. 

Most of all, you've learned that Jack Abbot fundamentally cares about other people. His eyes light up when he talks about his job as a lifeguard a few summers ago. Beyond dressing scraped knees or sitting atop the lifeguard stand, he had found a passion for teaching CPR to younger lifeguards. You could picture him in the red shorts, leaning over a plastic doll, beating his hands to 120 compressions per minute. 

"You mentioned earlier that your car was a hand-me-down from your sister. What's she like?"

Jack smiles into his napkin, returning it to his lap. "Olivia. Complete pain in my ass when she's home from school."

Your brother probably would have said the exact same thing about you. 

He continues, "She's studying to be a teacher. My mom was a teacher, uh, down the road from our house, and Olivia always wanted to do whatever she did."

Was. 

"Same with my brother, Noah, and my dad. Noah'd spend hours watching my dad fix up junk cars. It killed my mom when he announced he didn't want to go to college," you explain, remembering the fit your mom threw at the idea of her kid not having a degree. "But he's happy repairing cars, you know?" 

Jack nods. You notice his mind has drifted somewhere else for the moment, and you're sure it has something to do with his mom. You knew that feeling, and you hoped for Jack's sake that it hadn't been a recent loss. 

"So, a teacher and a doctor?" You change the topic, hoping to throw him a bone. 

"Yeah. Probably won't see a good paycheck a day in our lives," Jack jokes, laughing at himself. 

"Hopefully that isn't true. Who knows, maybe you strike it big as an anesthesiologist?" You raise an eyebrow at Jack, watching him shake his head.

"No, couldn't be an anesthesiologist."

"Really? I thought you said you didn't know what you wanted to study."

Jack thinks for a moment. "Yeah, but I know it's not going to be that. Maybe something like Orthopedics?" 

You nod, watching him think over it. His eyes drag from the table back to you. "What're you studying?" 

"Journalism."

His eyes narrow at you, finally piecing together all of the questions you've asked over the evening. Mostly, he's cataloging your tendencies to make inferences, bridging conversations with previous tidbits and drops of information he thought didn't matter. He knew you had been assessing him all night, and he had finally concluded that it was you putting together an understanding of who he was—every motivation, hope, fear, or loss was essential to your understanding of Jack Abbot. He tried not to let it show across his face that you made him nervous. 

"Why?" 

His question pierces through you, encouraging you to give your real answer, not the one you rehearsed in class. You chew on the inside of your cheek again, thinking through what held your attention in class. You had always enjoyed reading the newspaper, which didn't really sound interesting enough to express. 

"I think people deserve clear answers about things above them," you pause. "We watched All the President's Men in class one time, and I knew that's what I should do. But I want to talk to people, get to know them, get to know their story..." 

When your eyes return to Jack, you notice his eyes are trained on you. He follows every word of your explanation, nodding along intently. You don't think you've been this immersed in a conversation before. You usually guide the conversation, leading the other person through with your questions. Usually, you weren't on the receiving end of questions. But with Jack, you shared all sorts of information about your tastes, interests, and hopes. 

"Excuse me." 

You're interrupted by the woman standing to the side of the table. She simply gestures to the clock above the kitchen window: 2:54. "Dining room closes at 3:00."

Jack nods, returning his attention to you. He fishes in his jacket, retrieving a twenty-dollar bill. He slides it to the woman, offering her a curt smile before beginning to slide out of the booth. When he rises to his feet, he extends his hand to you this time. 

You take his hand, following him out of the restaurant. Outside, you feel brisk droplets of rain glide across your thighs. You hadn't noticed the rain from inside the restaurant, but you figure it's probably from the darker tint of the diner windows. 

"Come on. I want to try and beat the rain," Jack asserts, stepping down from the curb first. He keeps one foot on the curb, steadying himself to take hold of you. 

He reaches for your waist, lifting you above the puddle forming around the curb. Once your feet hit the pavement again, Jack holds his jacket above your head, protecting your curls from the wind. Pushing the key into the passenger door, he unlocks your side first, watching for you to climb into the seat. Once he closes it behind you, he jogs around the front of the car. 

"Can you guide me to your house from here?" Jack asks, fighting against the groan of the car to get it to start. 

"For sure. Just, uh, head towards the middle school," you explain, pointing down the street. 

You don't bother with conversation. Jack has flipped on his hazards, leaning forward to navigate through the howling wind and torrents of rain beating down on his car. Once he finally turns onto your street, you release a breath that you didn't remember holding. 

"This is me," you point, gesturing to the brick house. You turn your head to Jack, noticing that he's focused on the storm. 

"How far away are you from here?" 

"Probably twenty minutes, give or take," he replies.

"Stay at mine."

His head whips to yours, shaking his head immediately. 

"I'm not suggesting, I'm telling you. My mom leaves for work super early in the morning, and she probably won't even notice that I'm there," you promise. "Plus, it sounds like it'll only get worse. You shouldn't drive in it."

You wait a minute, watching Jack calculate in his head if any back roads were heading back to his house. His eyes return to your house before he closes his eyes, sighing. 

"Fine. If it clears up, I'm driving home." 

You smile, nodding. You quickly jump out of the car, not giving Jack enough time to reconsider agreeing to stay the night with you. You run through the rain, feeling the rain beat your curls into tangled, wispy strands. Your sneakers are drenched, squeaking out at every impact against the street pavement. You turn your head, watching Jack run to catch up behind you.

Once you get the door open, you pull Jack in, holding a finger up to your lips. You lean into the living room, spotting Noah immediately. His head is slumped against the back of the recliner, nodding off to some infomercial about tools. Beside him, there's a notepad and pencil, which you figure is him doing the math on buying a new power tool. 

Jack follows you quietly up the staircase, looking at each framed portrait of your family. There are several photos of you as a toddler, playing with wooden blocks or simply staring at the camera. He's drawn to a photo of you on your birthday, sitting up in your high chair with your father posed behind you. He's in uniform, leaning over your tiny shoulder to light your fifth birthday candle. 

You open your door, avoiding the loud whine of your rusty hinges by trying to swing it as fast as you could without hitting the wall. Jack ducks in front of you, immediately taking notice of your bedroom. Your light pink wallpaper, decorated with little flowers, is obscured by various posters of pop stars and bands. The largest poster in the room by far is Dirty Dancing, which hangs to the left of your bed behind your wicker bedside table. You had left your lamp on, but it illuminates several things for him—cassette tapes, CDs, miscellaneous jewelry, various magazines, and an alarm clock. Across from your bed, you have a fairly large white vanity, which you've decorated with taped photographs on the mirror. 

"Sorry, I didn't know I'd have company," you whisper, tossing a pair of jeans into your laundry basket. You drag it by the handle, throwing it into your disastrous closet before closing the door.

"No worries," he whispers in return. 

Your eyes drift down to his wet jeans and damp shirt, which you're sure are starting to kill him. 

"You should use my shower to rinse off. I can steal something from Noah for you to sleep in," you advise. 

"Are you sure?" 

"I'm sure. Make sure you turn the knob to the left for the hot water."

"Thanks. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're just trying to get me out of my clothes," he jokes. 

Your neck flushes a shade of red before you can fight it. You shake your head, laughing off the wave of embarrassment. "Just hurry up, I'm planning on showering too." 

Running through Noah's dresser, you're sure that his sweats and a white tank should fit Jack. You hold the shirt up to your chest, measuring where it falls against your waistline. Finally, you snatch Noah's body wash and an extra deodorant from under the sink. You're sure your mom probably had an extra toothbrush somewhere in her bathroom, but you didn't want to risk waking her up before her early-morning shift. 

Returning to your room, you knock lightly on the door to alert Jack that you were going to enter. 

The mirror is already fogged up from the steam trapped in the bathroom. You set the towel down on the sink along with your brother's stolen soaps. Despite the steam rolling out of the shower, the glass of the mirror hasn't had a real chance to fog up. Your eyes trace Jack's outline through the shower curtain, finding his biceps and back turned to you. You can't make out much more than a shadow of his body, but you avert your eyes anyway, trying to give him privacy. He wouldn't have stared at you if this were the other way around, you think. You shake your head, forcing yourself to think of something other than Jack Abbot using your tiny shower. 

A little jingle alerts you to the belt caught on your foot. He had discarded his jeans and shirt on the floor, and you hadn't noticed. You lean down, beginning to pick them up. Once your mom leaves tomorrow, you can throw them in the washer for him. 

You think you hear Jack gently say your name. He tries again. You turn your head this time, finding him. His head is peering out of the shower, watching you collect his abandoned clothes. Droplets of water have collected on a little curl hanging between his eyebrows. The hot water has definitely brought out the flush again across his cheeks, and you welcome the sight. You collect your thoughts, returning to what you initially came in for. 

"Your towel is on the sink. I brought you some body wash and deodorant. Thought you might prefer these to whatever I've got in there," you offer. 

"No, I was definitely planning on using...," he trails off, reaching for your body wash. "Fuzzy Peach."

You can't suppress your laugh. "Knock yourself out, Abbot." 

"Oh, I plan to."

You leave him to shower, adding his clothes to your laundry basket. You do a one-over of your bedroom, searching for anything that needed immediate attention. By the time you've folded clothes, organized your bedside table, and returned your makeup to the right drawer, you hear the shower water come to a halt. 

Jack steps out of the bathroom, tugging on the white tee that you brought him. 

"Feel free to make yourself comfortable. I'm hopping in the shower."

You pick out a pair of shorts and a looser-fitting shirt to throw on after you shower. Finally alone with the water washing over you, you let your thoughts roam freely about Jack Abbot. You think about the taste of mint, the smell of oranges in his car, the way that he spoke about his sister, the despair in thinking about his mother... Despite the fact that you had only known him for six hours, you felt energized by his presence. Questions bubbled to the top of your brain, begging you to figure out everything you possibly could about the man lying right outside the door, in your bed—the thought of Jack lying in your bed burns through your core, tensing every muscle available. 

Fighting your urge to stay in the shower, you finally climb out and change into your pajamas. You take a few minutes to compose yourself, running cream through your curls. Each pass through, your brain conjures a different image of Jack in your bed. You lean down, slathering a flowery lotion across your legs. You close your eyes, imagining Jack rubbing it in for you. Finally, you brush your teeth and wash your face, giving yourself just a little bit longer to ruminate. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, you notice that Jack is looking through your CDs. He's flipping through them, sometimes picking one out to turn it over. 

"See anything you like?" 

Jack turns his head, pausing to stare at how the light reflects off your legs. He swallows, forcing himself to nod, "You mentioned OK Computer. I've got a record for you to listen to."

"Yeah?"

You approach Jack, folding in your legs to sit criss-cross next to him. He welcomes your proximity, breathing in the peachy scent radiating from you. 

"Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. You're going to love it," Jack nods, grinning. 

You hum. "Who made it?"

"The Smashing Pumpkins."

"I don't think I've heard of them before," you admit. Your eyes return to the copy of OK Computer that Jack is holding. 

"It's going to change your life," he promises. "Trust me."

You nod again, only to start yawning. You try to suppress it, not wanting to end this conversation with Jack, but your body betrays you. You can feel the droop in your shoulders, and your eyes are beginning to burn with irritation. 

Jack's face switches to concern. His eyes trail across the room to your clock, which reads 4:38. His lips part slightly, and he immediately begins to apologize, "Sorry, didn't realize how late it was."

"No, no.” You try to assure him, but you end up yawning again, deeper this time. You shake your head, trying to fight to stay awake now. 

Jack stands up, offering a hand to lift you to your feet. Once you rise to his level, you feel the room spin slightly at how fast you stood. His hand holds onto the small of your back, steadying you. He’s guiding you to your bed, which you don't mind. You roll over to the side, opening up the blanket for him to scoot in. 

Jack's face burns slightly, and he begins to deny your request. "I found a blanket. I'll be down here—." 

"You're not sleeping on the floor."

You don't leave any room for Jack to argue against your tone. He sighs, looking again, "You don't mind?"

"Doesn't bother me as long as it doesn't bother you." 

After your assurances, he finally crawls into the bed. You feel the mattress dip with his added weight, quietly creaking against him. 

In the dark, you return your attention to Jack. You whisper, "You promise you're okay?" 

"Yeah," he whispers back. 

"You can take more of the duvet, you know? I don't bite."

The silence overtakes the two of you. You can make out his light exhalations, even with the fan running at medium speed above you. Your chest rises and falls in beat with his, and you can feel your brain finally beginning to succumb to your drowsiness. You take one last breath, rolling over slightly before Jack whispers in response. 

October 31st, 1996

"Thirty bucks says Princess Leia goes home with ugly bomber jacket guy over there."

You turn your head, following where your roommate, Anna, was looking. You already recognized the Breakfast Club, the twins from The Shining, and at least three Madonnas, so you figured that Princess Leia shouldn't be too hard to spot. It was a smaller house, but packed wall to wall with drunk university students. You did another scan of the room, leaning forward to peer into the kitchen. You skipped past the Mia Wallace and Vincent Vega making out against the fridge, finally finding Anna's couple. 

A younger girl, sporting white robes and two Princess Leia buns for the evening, leans against the kitchen countertop. Across from her, a younger guy dressed as Marty McFly from Back to the Future, or as Anna referred to him, 'Ugly Bomber Jacket Guy,' was talking passionately about something you couldn't make out on his lips from this distance. From his enthusiasm in gesturing to her costume, you can only assume he is referencing Star Wars. 

Princess Leia, you believe, is in your introductory Chemistry course. She sits four rows behind you, often arriving to class with her breakfast wrapped in a napkin. You knew Anna was wrong about the couple going home together, but you had never stopped to talk to her before, so you couldn't confidently make any guesses based on background information about who she would leave with. You knew just enough to know it wouldn't be Marty McFly, though. 

You had seen him walking to the Engineering Building pretty consistently on Thursdays. He was always humming under his breath, drumming his fingers against the denim of his pants, or nodding his head fervently to whatever album he was assaulting his eardrums with. Your eyes drift down to where his fingers nervously clutch the countertop beside Princess Leia, producing white knuckles you can make out from across the room. 

"No," you vocalize, watching Anna immediately disagree with your conclusion. Her arms flew up from either side of her, gesturing widely to the couple still in conversation. 

"Look at how close they are!" she exclaims. Anna pushes her face closer to yours, imitating the distance between the couple. You giggle at the proximity of your best friend, distancing her only by shoving her shoulder. 

"Doesn't matter. He's coming on way too strong, and she doesn't fuck with it," you reply. As if on cue, you watch Princess Leia shake her head, pointing in a random direction and apologizing to Marty McFly for needing to check on a friend. 

"How could you possibly have known that?" Anna cries. 

You sigh, pointing your finger in their direction. "He's white-knuckling the countertop, he hasn't stopped tailing her around all night, she's only looked over his shoulder while talking to him, and, despite being beside the punch bowl, he's offered to get her a drink six times now. She's just not that into him."

Anna groans, throwing her head back against the wall. You smirk to yourself, recognizing that Anna's irritation is just her unspoken admission of defeat. Since middle school, you and Anna had enjoyed people watching, so naturally it became a challenge to see who was better at it. In seventh grade, Anna had finally come up with an adequate name for it: First Impressions. Using whatever information was available, whether through background knowledge or pure observation skills, you would describe your read of their relationship. Most often, Anna would point out any group of people, and you would theorize about their origins, relationships, and, most often, whether they were sleeping together. 

It went a little something like:

Four friends out for coffee on a Sunday? They're definitely on a double date. Couple A has been married since they were twenty, and Couple B is seven years into a relationship that isn't really going anywhere. They met because the guy from Couple A works with the woman from Couple B, and it's been a little awkward for their partners, so they're dining together as a group to get past it. 

A group of three girls at the roller rink? Clearly a duo there. The third girl is in for a rough few years. 

A younger guy watching the door, fiddling with his napkin on the table. He's on a first date, probably arranged by his mom. He's convinced himself she won't show, but she's definitely the neighbor's daughter he's been falling for the entire time. 

As Anna had discovered, your observations often were almost entirely accurate. With limited information, you could bring together any two people in the room at any given time and accurately predict their situation. Sure, you could admit that sometimes you went a step too far. You had a sense for when people were on the outs regardless of whether they were family, friends, or a couple. You would often point them out, reminding Anna of just how temporary it all was. You had a sense for when it was the fourth time someone was late to dinner, when someone was staying late at work without regard for their partner, when they were feeling insecure and spreading their friends' business, or even when someone was simply falling out of love with someone else. The thought of it sent a chill down your spine.

If Anna could hear your thoughts, she'd remind you that you're "too quick to underestimate love." Maybe that's why your relationship with Anna had endured for so long. Anna's eyes brightened at the sight of any potential couple. She would stand at the side of the street, craning her neck to watch someone buy flowers for their partner, only to gently dab at her eyes when the sight brought her to tears. When your mutual friend, Emma, had started dating a new guy, whose name escaped you now, Anna brought it up at every opportunity. She began discussing, ad nauseam, the potential for a wedding and the chance that they would move into an apartment together. She would detail how she imagined them carrying furniture together, only to finally collapse on the couch with Thai and watch their favorite sitcom. 

The thought always made your stomach turn. What would happen to all that furniture if something happened? What about if her partner didn't like Thai, and it was her absolute favorite? What, did she just surrender her interests to fulfill him? What was the point if it was going to end to begin with? 

For every criticism you had regarding love, Anna always had a response. 

"Well, the furniture would be split evenly by who paid, or they would find a fair and appropriate way to split it."

"You like Italian food. I don't. So, we'll just never speak again?"

"Relationships don't equate to being married. You could just break up."

She truly believed that two people could come together without unspoken cruel intentions or hidden ex-relationships. You had once found it a little concerning, but began admiring it a little bit more the more that you matured. Anna knew exactly what she wanted, and she wouldn't sacrifice her ideal relationship to be temporarily in love for the sake of it. 

You purse your lips, escaping your wandering thoughts to watch Princess Leia approach a man in a dress shirt, white socks, and sunglasses, immediately initiating a conversation with him. You watch how easily his hands grasp her hips, her arms snaking around his neck to pull his face closer to hers. 

"Ex-boyfriend. They'll go home together," you add. You smirk to yourself, satisfied with rubbing salt in the wound. 

"Show off." 

You laugh, extending your open palm to Anna, "And you owe me—what, like, forty bucks?"

Anna's eyes about pop out of her head as she gapes at you, "Thirty. One more—one more go! Please. All or nothing?"

"You are such a sore loser," you sigh. "Go ahead."

As much as Anna loved this game, you had known for a while now that Anna wasn't particularly good at it. Anna focused on hasty generalizations, overemphasizing the superficial qualities in her explanations. You knew that it wasn't about the proximity of their bodies, how long they had been talking, or how they knew each other. You watched for the way someone's eyes would light up, reveling in the thrill that only derived from sharing time, space, or spit with their person. A couple could be split on other sides of the room, and, nine times out of ten, they would consistently find one another's eyes, slowly gravitating towards one another like the collision was inevitable. 

Love is inevitable, you think to yourself.

"What about him?" Anna disrupts your train of thought. 

Your eyes narrow on a curly-headed boy, laughing at whatever the girl in front of him was saying. He was definitely attractive, you noted. His eyes seemed a dark brown from where you were standing. Whenever his lips curved up to tug into a smile, his eyes would crinkle. You could sense that he was trying to appear cool in front of this girl by acting nonchalant, especially in the way he repeatedly ran his right hand through his curls, tugging slightly at the nape of his neck. 

"Maverick?" You clarify. 

"Who?"

You had briefly forgotten that Anna was terrible with characters, actors, and films. 

"Top Gun guy, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, him," Anna nods, sipping from the mysterious brew swishing around in her red solo cup.

You had caught glances of a muddied red color in her cup all night. You had already correctly identified it as whatever disgusting concoction you had caught several soccer players hatching up earlier. You were sure you had caught at least two bottles of Everclear, an undisclosed amount of Malibu, and a few oddly sliced oranges. You grimace slightly at the smell, straightening your posture to fight the discomfort building in your chest. The stale taste of the lukewarm beer that you had been nursing for the better part of two hours was beginning to send your stomach on a downward spiral. 

You swallow thickly, returning your gaze to the blonde whispering to the curly-headed boy. She's got her hands cupped around his ear, and she's standing on the tip of her right toe, leaning closer into him. You knew to look past how close she was leaning into him, and you focus instead on her hand running up his thigh. Your eyes rise to observe his reaction—Shit, he's staring right at you. 

You dart your eyes back to your damp beer bottle, raising it to your lips to appear busy. You don't succeed in seeming unbothered or busy, as the stale beer rises in your throat with an unbearable heat to it. You close your eyes, clamping your hand to your lips to quell the borderline nausea. Anna's head whips to you, her eyebrows furrowing at the red flush overtaking your cheeks. 

"What?"

"I think he saw me," you respond, softer. You were hoping he might only have caught you watching briefly. What if he thinks you're some fucking weirdo? You brush the thought out of your head as quickly as it rises. 

"I'm sure he didn't. He's, uh, busy?"

Despite Anna's reassurance, you can't stop the feeling rising in your stomach. If it were possible, you'd think your organs were tumbling around like dirty laundry in a washing machine. Your heartbeat was consistently tumbling into your lungs, emptied at the shock of being caught in the middle of your fixation. You clear your throat, looking back to Anna, "I'm headed to the bathroom. Watch my drink?"

Anna smiles, lifting up the beer bottle and hugging it to her chest, "Anything for you, sugar!" 

You shuffle around various couples, squeezing behind the grinding and making out. It took you a few closet doors before you finally located the bathroom. It was light yellow, and the shower curtain was decorated with various fish. You notice that the soap dispenser is also fishy, and the little night-light plugged into the outlet beside the sink is fish-themed as well. While there's not much room in the bathroom, you notice that there are fish virtually everywhere. Though, lucky for you, there's a small window on the wall. You quickly throw one foot over the bathtub wall, pressing your fingers under the seal to open it. 

You dig in your jacket pocket for the joint you plucked from Anna's boyfriend's desk, and quickly position it between your lips. Lighting up, you lean closer to the window, blowing the little rings into the cold wind. Your mind wanders back to the guy from earlier, Marty McFly. Your heart swelled at the idea of his embarrassment for putting himself out there, being rejected, and watching something inevitable happen. You turn the idea over in your head, inevitability. 

You blow out again, but are disrupted by the slam of the door behind you. Choking slightly on the smoke, you wave your hands in the air to clear out the smoke and smell. 

"Can't you see that this is occupied?" You snap, turning your head.

The curly-headed boy from earlier is firmly holding the doorknob in his grasp, as if to prevent someone from following him inside. His feet, previously propped up against the door, shuffle as he turns his back to the door. Despite the way that his chest was rising and falling, he was doing a pretty decent job of seeming composed. You stare into his eyes, noticing that there are swirls of green and flecks of gold mixed in with the deep brown. 

He makes no effort to apologize, only rest his back against the wood of the door. You don't expect him to apologize anyway. 

"Feeling the need for speed, huh?" You tease, extinguishing the little light emanating from the joint between your fingertips, "Who'd you piss off?"

He smiles to himself, a little laugh escaping, "You should be able to piece it together. You were ogling us from the other side of the room."

You fight to suppress the flush returning to your cheeks. You knew he had noticed you observing them. "I wasn't ogling you," you defend.

"Mm, sure you weren't. That's why you turned and ran when you got caught." He seems delighted with himself in a way that burns all through you. 

Who was he to barge in on your private time in the bathroom, not apologize for the intrusion—

"You're staring again." 

The smirk present in his tone returns you to the small bathroom. "Don't flatter yourself so much."

You avert your eyes from him, returning your gaze to the joint in your hand. You slip it into your pocket, running your fingers over your keys and lighter. You don't feel the need to pull your jacket back on yet, as the heat from the sweaty bodies outside the door and the sickly warmth from your old beer had produced a thin veil of sweat across your forehead. You let a breath out, reaching for the faucet knobs to fill your hand with cold water.

"Hard when a pretty girl—," he pauses, "You okay?" 

You hadn't noticed, but the curly-headed boy had grown closer to you. You could smell the cologne radiating from his bomber jacket, but you didn't mind. Any other time, you were sure it would have only worsened the headache you were now nursing. This time, though, it hadn't. You felt a little grateful for that, at least. 

"My head just, uh—. I got lightheaded. Probably the weed," you assure him, "I didn't drink that much anyway. Really terrible beer, if that counts."

You run your cold fingertips over your forehead. 

"You should sit down."

You could feel the flush again burning across your cheeks. You had already embarrassed yourself enough in front of this guy, Maverick, so you chalk it up to the dizzy spell. While your head spins itself a thousand times over, you're distracted from how close he's grown. Finally, you feel his hand wrap around your arm. His fingertips are cold, probably from holding a beer, you think. You follow his lead, sitting on the bathtub ledge. The hard porcelain is cold against your thighs, and you immediately feel some relief.

Closing your eyes, stars start to spin around you, running and running and running until you can feel your head falter slightly. Your head tugs backward, and you feel his hands grow tighter on your waist to prevent any accident. The first words out of his mouth don't register for you, as your ears ring a little louder than usual. 

"Hey, open your eyes."

His eyes are focused on you, and he's got an arm around your waist to keep you upright. 

"Why? The light is hurting my head—," you argue. 

"Yeah, but it's not really about the light," he returns. He shifts on top of the bathtub, clearly trying to adjust himself against the hard, uncomfortable surface pushing into his thighs. 

Similarly, you adjust yourself as your eyes fall on your jacket resting on the toilet lid. You quickly retrieve it, slipping it under the two of you for a little more comfort. Once you feel slightly better, you return to his comment, asking, "The light isn't the thing hurting my eyes?" 

"Your semi-circular canals in your ears have fluid in them, endolymph, right? When you move your head, the fluid moves through the canals. Your brain processes incoming signals from that fluid moving around and informs your body of its movement. When you drink, your brain gets a bunch of mixed signals from your inner ear. And really, this whole system works together with your eyes, so your ears right now are sending your brain signals that you are rotating, which is why you're spinning. Gotta sit still for a minute," he explains. 

Between how his eyes are boring into you, his hands are firmly grasping your arms, and his weight is shifted behind you to prevent you from falling into the bathtub, you're beginning to form your own diagnosis: he's the primary cause of your dizziness. You're more aware of your body—the way that your side is fully leaning into his begins to morph from nausea to jolts of electricity. You cross your legs over one another, feeling the bottom hem of your dress lift further up your thighs. You shift your gaze upward, catching him as he returns his eyes from your legs to your eyes. 

"You study medicine?" You ask. 

He smiles lightly, nodding softly at the question. "Hoping to be a doctor of some sort. Getting a little worried about the cost, though." He pauses for a moment, weighing what he wants to share with you. Finally, he settles on, "I feel guilty bringing it up to my dad. We're not really in a place to afford it." 

You nod, sharing his sentiment. Your mom wasn't really in a position to fund college, so you had worked various summer jobs in a small-town restaurant to save up for tuition. You could remember how many nights you spent on your hands and knees, scrubbing at the dining room tables. Using butter knives, you scraped each table for gum and exceptionally durable food stains. Hoisting a table over your shoulder, you would often screw back in the legs of the table to prevent them from faltering on you when you set down a pitcher of sweet tea or water. Unfortunately for you, you learned that the hard way. 

But nothing could erase your sense of pride turning in a well-earned check to the bursar's office. You smiled at the thought. 

"Abbot!"

The shout breaks you from your memory. The arms around you tense, and the curly-headed boy begins to shift on the bathtub like he's estimating his options for an escape. Definitely not squeezing his ass through that window, you thought. 

"That's the guy wanting to kick your ass?" You ask, leaning forward to check if there was even a lock on that door to begin with. 

Down the hallway, you could make out the familiar sound of closet doors swinging open and slamming close. You probably had less than twenty seconds before whoever your new friend pissed off barged through that door, not entirely dissimilar from Maverick's own action earlier. You were almost ninety percent sure that this had to be that other girl's boyfriend, who had probably watched her lean in to whisper sweet nothings to the guy sitting to your side. You hadn't once asked for his name. 

Abbot. That's what the guy yelled through the door, right? 

"Do you trust me?" You check, quickly returning your gaze to him. His eyes scan your face, searching for your lead to follow. 

He nods quickly, furrowing his eyebrows together when you pull him up by his hand. Driving your hands into his shoulders, you quickly shove him against the wall, making out a quiet, "oomph!" from his lips. You could always apologize later. You angle him, driving a knee between his legs to push yourself further into his body. With a final glance at him, you lift your hand to his hair, running a hand through the curls.