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𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄 — 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟑

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐏𝐎𝐏 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒. 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐉𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐀𝐓 𝐀 𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐘, 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐃𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆. 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘-𝐃𝐈𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐈𝐒 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟗.𝟓𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃

𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄 𝐎𝐅𝐅-𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐔𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟑

The first time Jake Seresin sees you, it’s across a small and crowded room. Under the Bridge by The Red Hot Chili Peppers is thumping over the bulky speakers that are haphazardly strung all around the room with extension cords and duct tape. He hates this song. He doesn’t know it yet, but so do you.

You’d caught his eye because he spotted a familiar brick-colored button up. And, yes, as he’s looking at you now, he realizes he’s right. The breezy cargo shorts, the brown belt, the faded blue tank top--you’re dressed up as Dr. Ellie Sattler. He happens to be dressed up as Dr. Alan Grant, which means that the two of you--complete and utter strangers--are two halves of one whole costume.

But suddenly, as Jake looks at you, he doesn’t hear Anthony Keidis or hollow balls bouncing off plastic tables or booming laughter or sloshing liquid. He doesn’t hear anything. His ears are just ringing empty silence.

Bizarre, he thinks. His brain is never this quiet. He’s always thinking about drills or Intro to Anthropology or girls or Robert Zemeckis or home or dinner or something. Right now, it’s just you he’s thinking about.

You’re standing by yourself at one of the few punch bowls stationed around the house, each one a different highly unnatural color with seemingly random items skimming the surface. You’re pretty sure you saw flowers floating around one of them. Curiously, you’re looking down at this particular crystal bowl and the sad orange slices floating aimlessly in the peculiarly crimson punch. Half of the stuff is gone--Jake doesn’t know how anyone is stomaching it--and you are silently and unknowingly echoing his sentiment.

Bradley, who dragged Jake to this party in the first place--not that anyone ever has to drag Jake to a party--is standing beside him and is waiting his turn to play Beer Pong with an unruly group of men wearing togas.

“--The trick is to just, like, fake it ‘til you make it,” Bradley’s saying, casually leaning up against the dingy clapboard walls and sipping something vaguely Everclear-ish from his solo cup. “And what I mean by that is talk as much shit as you can. Nothing is off limits. Mothers, sisters, fathers--shit, especially fathers. People are so touchy these days. Like, I once told this guy that I got his sister preg--well, anyway. That’s besides the point. Just go into the game like you’re gonna win and you’re gonna win. You know? It’s simple science, really. I was thinking of writing my thesis on it.”

Jake, who is only half-listening as the silence fades out, hums. He doesn’t tear his eyes from your form. You’re cautiously ladling some of the punch into a chipped glass for your friend, who appeared suddenly beside you in an ill-fitting Red Riding Hood costume with glassy eyes and a broad grin, rubbing up against you like a hungry stray.

“Right,” Jake says absently. He can hardly hear anything over the music, especially Bradley’s incessant Beer Pong codes of conduct. He’s not gonna strain himself to hear what he’s already heard at a thousand frat parties before--and he’s certainly not going to turn his face away from you. “True.”

Bradley swallows all the sugary saliva coating his tongue and squints at the stained folding table holding the tense game beside them, wondering if the legs are gonna give. The center is already bowing. Whatever. Not his house--not his issue. He turns to Jake, who’s not looking at him or listening to him. Bradley’s known him long enough to know that by now. Jake not listening to Bradley rarely ever stops him from continuing a conversation, though.

“And what’s really interesting about all of this is that I can say whatever I want to you right now because you’re staring at…” Bradley makes a show of following Jake’s gaze across the crowded house, eyes flitting across a few forms before he finds yours. And, yes, he knows you’re definitely the one Jake is looking at. Dr. Ellie Sattler. “Oh. Looky there. It’s your better half. Your favorite part of your favorite movie! Isn’t that cute?”

“It’s not my favorite movie,” Jake snorts indignantly--like that means anything.

He’s still watching you--your friend teetered off and you’re against the wall again, alone and looking down at your hiking boots. They look used--there’s dirt on the heels and scuffs on the toes.

He wonders if you’re judging the cobwebs in the corners of the low ceilings and the bowing door frames like he is. You look like you are--your brows pinched, your nose slightly scrunched, your eyes shadowed by the soft curl of your lashes. You look like you don’t come to many parties like this. Parties with too many people, parties with no snacks, parties with boys from the baseball team, parties with kegs, parties with sticky floors. Neither does he.

“You dragged me to that movie, like, twenty times whenever it came out,” Bradley says, eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean it isn’t your favorite movie?”

“What I mean is that Jurassic Park is a great movie, but it isn’t my favorite,” Jake says, mildly exasperated. He absently takes a sip of his drink and immediately wishes he hadn’t, face screwing up in disgust as the bright yellow punch oozes down his throat. He coughs softly and Bradley grins. “My favorite movie is Blue Velvet. Duh.”

Now Bradley is screwing his face up in disgust, pretending to gag.

“You’re so pretentious. It’s like you can’t even help it. I feel bad for you, man. Oh, look at me! I’m a film major and I just love movies that make no sense! I wanna make sweet love to Kyle MacLachlan! Notice me, David Lynch!”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jake says, smiling softly. “I’m not pretentious!”

“My favorite movie is Basic Instinct,” Bradley says proudly. And just as Jake is groaning, finally giving Bradley his full attention so Bradley can feel every ounce of Jake’s judgment, Bradley holds his hands up in defense. “Hey! Not for that scene--well, yeah for that scene--but mainly because of the gore. It’s gnarly. Plus it’s, like, very easy to understand. Digestible.”

“You’re a simpleton,” Jake says. “Is pussy all you think about?”

“Through and through, brother!” Bradley confirms with a grin.

Bradley throws an arm around Jake’s shoulders, the cheap polyester of his striped Beetlejuice costume stretched to its absolute limit by his shapely biceps, and sighs happily. He looks out across the crowded room and finds your form--Jake follows his gaze.

For a moment, the both of them just look at you. You’re bored--that much they can tell. Eyes downcast, hangnail under the wrath of your picking fingertips, mouth a flat plane. You’re way too pretty to be this bored at a party.

“What do you think her favorite movie is, Oh-Wise-One?” Bradley asks. Jake elbows him hard and some of his drink sloshes onto the floor and his Nike’s. “Hey! Not the Carnivores, man! These are brand new!”

“I’m doing you a favor,” Jake snorts.

Bradley whines, rubbing his shoes with a frown.

Jake is still looking at you. You’re alone. You’ve been alone since he noticed you a few songs ago, not exactly giving off an anti-social vibe but certainly not going out of your way to make conversation with all the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Hulk Hogan’s around you. He wonders if you’re like him--if you came to this party because your friends dragged you here, if you would rather be in the comfort of your dorm watching slasher B-Movies.

“I haven’t seen her around campus,” Jake muses softly to Bradley, brows coming together. “Maybe she’s from out of town.”

The thought makes his gut twist in a half-knot. He really, really hopes you’re not from out of town.

Bradley shakes his head. The only time they get many out-of-towners is when there’s a football game and there isn’t another game until next weekend.

“Maybe she’s a freshman. Or a transfer,” Bradley continues. “Who knows! Not me. Certainly not you.”

“She’s really…” Jake says softly, brows pinching. He wants to kick himself for not being able to find the right word for what you are--but he doesn’t want to get it wrong. And his vocabulary dims in comparison to the way you make him feel by doing nothing but blink at the floor and wring your hands together. “Something.”

“And they say chivalry is dead,” Bradley coos, pinching Jake’s cheek.

“She’s, like--obviously she’s pretty,” Jake says. And he knows he’s being conservative with pretty. “But something else, too.”

“She looks…disinterested,” Bradley comments. “Like she doesn’t wanna be here.”

“I can change that,” Jake says with a deep breath. “You know. Show her a good time and all of that.”

“And you said all I think about is pussy? Man, you’re twisted!”

As if he’s offended, Jake faces Bradley. The tips of his ears are hot.

“Why did you assume I was going to show her a good time with my penis? I literally never even implied that. I never even hinted at applying to that.”

“What does and all of that mean to you then?” Bradley inquires, brows furrowed.

“You know,” Jake says, shrugging. He swallows and shakes his head. “Maybe I’ll dance with her or something. Girls like that. I’ll ask for her hand. Like a gentleman.”

“You’re so from Texas,” Bradley laughs. “Thinking you can square dance your way into everything. Can’t really do-si-do to the Chili Peppers.”

Jake frowns at Bradley.

“You’re a freak,” Jake says slowly. “Really. I mean it.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a cornball,” Bradley complains. “C’mon, stop staring at her! Let’s just get ready for our turn!”

Jake’s already decided that he’s not going to be playing Beer Pong with Bradley.

“How do I walk up to her without creeping her out?”

Bradley blinks at Jake, who is chewing the inside of his cheek like he’s really trying to figure it out. Like it’s rocket science.

“What are you talking about? You’re wearing an Alan Grant costume. I don’t think you’re gonna creep her out. Genius.”

Jake shoots a look at Bradley--one that he’s seen just before a knuckle to the gut or a tap to the balls. Instinctively, Bradley takes a half-step away from Jake and bumps into one of the Toga Bros.

“I mean, like--how do I go up to her and not creep her out? What am I supposed to start with? Hey, I saw you were all alone so I decided to capitalize on that. Or should it be more along the lines of you’re dressed as my love interest and we should see if that transfers into real life? Smart-ass.”

Bradley laughs, shaking his head.

Jake gets into his head like this a lot. Like a lot more than anyone else realizes. Before games, before dates, before office hours, before parties. Jake is Bradley’s best friend--and has been since they were assigned roommates last year--and Bradley knows that Jake always comes out the other side unscathed no matter what his previous worries were. He’s never missed a field goal, he always gets the girl, all his professors grant extra credit, he’s always invited back to whatever frat they hit. This special weariness of Jake’s is reserved especially for Bradley--that is to say, no one else gets to see this side of him.

“Here,” Bradley says. He grins. “I’ve got an idea!”

And before Jake can inquire, Bradley’s slamming his fist into Jake’s cup. The neon liquid spews out and splatters all over the walls and floor--a few drops land on Jake’s shirt. He’s too shocked to speak for a second, staring at the puddle on the ground and the few people who turned to see the commotion.

Bradley’s beaming when Jake turns to him, leaning back against the clapboards coolly, looking like a fucking idiot with his half-assed Beetlejuice makeup on and frayed green wig he bought in the kid’s section at Family Dollar.

“You’re an idiot,” Jake says. He says this about fifteen times a day, give or take.

Bradley holds a hand over his heart and sighs warmly.

“You need a refill,” Bradley says, nodding towards you and the punch bowl. “Thank me later. Preferably with Gushers!”

Jake is just about to say something else when he realizes that Bradley’s right. He does need a refill. And you are standing by the closest of the nuclear punch bowls.

This is his in.

“I hate that I actually do wanna thank you right now,” Jake sighs. He mulls over his decision, straightening his hat and making sure his cup is all the way empty. He turns to Bradley, who’s smiling smugly already. “How do I look?”

“Like you’re about to dig up some dino bones,” Bradley says, giving Jake a thumbs up and a shit-eating grin.

Jake blinks at him.

“Fossils. You mean fossils,” Jake corrects. “Not just dino bones.”

Bradley shrugs and takes another drink somehow.

“You say caramel I say carmel, but we all bleed the same, don’t we?”

Jake doesn’t even respond. He just starts in your direction, his breath caught between his molars. He hopes that you don’t move before he can cross the tiny house, the sea of sweaty polyester clad bodies and latex-covered faces.

Across the little room, right where he wants you to be, you’re chewing the inside of your cheek pensively.

He really isn’t here, you think. He really didn’t come. You press the scuffed toe of your scuffed hiking boot against the sticky floorboards and pull back softly to feel the resistance. Gross.

You’re not sure what the worst part of all of this is. Maybe it’s the fact that your boyfriend, the one who actually likes gross little parties like this and the other half of your couple’s costume, hasn’t bothered to show his face tonight. Maybe it’s the fact that they won’t stop playing Red Hot Chili Peppers and Anthony Keidis is literally bursting your eardrums right now. Maybe it’s the fact that nothing here is drinkable.

This night would be a lot easier if you were loaded right now.

“Do you happen to know what flavor this is?” A man asks, Southern inflection licking the inside of your ears. “Trying to decide if I’m gonna partake in drinking the Koolaid.”

Without looking up, you shrug your shoulders. Probably just another wayward drunk who thinks you’re the host. It’s an insult to you that someone would think you would live in squalor like this--you would never let fist-sized holes litter your walls and you would certainly never let your floors get this sticky.

Jake clears his throat, so close to you now that he can smell the amber on your pulse points. He’s searching your face, wondering if you didn’t hear him, readjusting his hat while the party rages on all around the two of you.

He’s standing between you and the punch bowl now, empty cup pressed into his palm, facing you rather than the drink. You don’t look up at him, but he doesn’t take his eyes off you.

“I bet it’s watermelon,” Jake says a bit louder. “It’s always watermelon.”

He sees the recognition flood your features--the recognition that someone is talking to you--as you finally raise your head.

Up close, even in this shitty light, Jake sees that you’re something beyond pretty, something beyond beautiful. You’re something else that he’s never seen before--better than all the rest. His ears begin to hum.

It’s the first time you’ve ever looked at him--except that it isn’t. You take him in: his crinkled green eyes, his abrasively handsome smile, the little dimples on his cheeks, the scruffy edge of his jaw. No, you’ve seen him before. Scalding bleachers and roaring crowds and his face on the jumbotron after kicking a three-pointer.

This football player is talking to you.

Smiling in a polite and slightly stunned manner, you roll your shoulders back and wipe away all the crumbs of mopiness from your lap.

“Watermelon’s too high brow for this dump,” you say after a moment, swallowing softly. “I think I smelled cherry earlier.”

Your voice--he can only just make it out as the music plays, as the humming increases. But he can hear that it is sweet, that it is a vibration that makes his throat ache.

“You smelled it?” Jake asks, brow perched. “All the way from there?” He points to where you’re standing against the wall.

You’re only a foot or two away from the stained wooden table that’s holding the bowl. Nodding with your brow slightly furrowed, you push yourself off the wall.

“Cherry’s an assault to the senses. Couldn’t help but smell it,” you answer. Then you glance over your shoulder at the rest of the party, looking for your friends. “And my friends are too wasted to ladle their own drinks.”

“I hope they’re tipping you,” Jake says. “Well--unless you’re working on commission.”

A smile tugs on your lips.

“Doctors usually don’t work on commission,” you say softly. You look up at his hat and then down at his pants, placing his costume with a soft sort of smile. “Do they, Dr. Grant?”

He beams at you. Something in your chest grows tight--tight like you need to let all the air out of your lungs and into the space around you. You’re pretty sure that if you did that, the temperature here would rise a few degrees.

“It’s pretty accurate, isn’t it?” Jake asks, crossing his arms and jutting his hip out. “Don’t even ask me how long it took to find the hat.”

It took Jake two weeks to find the right hat. Two grueling weeks of dragging Bradley to strip malls and kiosks and thrift stores.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m a lady,” you answer with a small smile. “I think yours is blowing mine out of the water, though. I just picked mine from what I had in the closet and then borrowed the rest.”

He shakes his head at once, brows furrowed.

“You kidding me? I recognized you from across the room!”

Oh, you think. He saw you from across the room already. And now he’s standing here, right in front of you with an empty cup and a desire for conversation.

Glancing around you quickly, you find that your friends are all still loitering around drunkenly and your other half is still not here.

“I don’t know--is it really that impressive?” You ask Jake, meeting his eyes again. “This place is the size of a pin-hole.”

Jake glances over at Bradley, who’s successfully started a game of Beer Pong. Already Jake can see the guys on the other side of the table burning from Bradley’s constant trash talking. Jake’s sure that idiot’s bright green wig is doing very little to dull the words falling on their ears.

“I don’t know, I was standing all the way over there by my roommate--Bargain Bin Beetlejuice,” Jake explains to you, jamming a thumb over his shoulder. You follow the direction of his finger, smiling. That isn’t that close to where you are now, but it certainly isn’t far. But you know how to take a compliment. “It’s not a skip, hop, and a jump, but it’s…”

“It’s a skip and half a hop?” You ask, brows raised.

Jake nods.

“Exactly what I was thinking,” he answers.

“Don’t freak out when I say this,” you say. “But you can’t be here when my boyfriend shows up. Your costume is gonna put my boyfriend’s to shame. We would seriously never be able to show our faces around here again.”

Jake’s chest is tight.

Boyfriend. Of course you have a boyfriend.

He glances around the room, searching for someone dressed like the Great Value version of himself. But it’s just an endless sea of Wayne and Garth’s and Urkel’s and Wednesday’s. No other Dr. Alan Grant in sight.

“He isn’t here now, is he?” Jake asks. He has the sudden urge to puff his chest out, to size him up.

Uncomfortably, you shift your weight and look at your shoes again. You hate it when Jeff bails on you like this. And you know that he couldn’t have forgotten--you reminded him this morning. You knew he was only half-listening. You always know.

“No,” you answer. He can hear the soreness in your tone as you glance around, too. “But he’s supposed to be.”

Fucking asshole, Jake thinks.

“He bailed on you?” He asks, lips pursed. “Wait a minute--you’re doing a couple’s costume with him and he hasn’t even bothered to show his face?”

“Yup,” you answer with a tight smile.

“No offense, but what an asshole,” Jake says. He crosses his arms. “Who does that to their girlfriend on Halloween?”

“Jeff Sabler, I guess,” you answer.

“Oh, you’re with Jeff Sabler? From the debate team?” He asks.

He’s stifling laughter, trying to bite a grin. You see right through him, though. Your face is warm with embarrassment as you bite a smile, too, and roll your eyes.

“Yeah, Johnny Football, I’m dating Jeff Sabler from the debate team,” you say. “Problem with that?”

“Me? Have a problem with Spit Sabler? Never,” Jake says with a grin.

You can’t help but laugh quietly at his nickname, even if it kind of makes you want to curl into a ball and wither away. Spit Sabler. It’s what people started calling him after his very first debate last year, when he got so worked up during policy discussion that spit literally flew from his mouth and onto the judge’s desk. He didn’t even say excuse me aftward.

“You know, he doesn’t even care that people call him that,” you say with a slight eye roll. You’re beginning to notice that Jeff doesn’t care about a lot of things--punctuality, nicknames, his grade in biochemistry, commitment to Halloween costumes. “Isn’t that silly? I’d just die if people around campus had a nickname for me.”

“Maybe they do and you just don’t know it,” Jake teases.

“Are you holding out on me?” You ask. You pause, swallowing and holding your hands on your hips. “Do you even know me?”

“Sure,” Jake says with an easy grin. He gestures to your costume. “You’re my best girl!”

“Ha-ha,” you say despite the way you suddenly want to rub your thighs together. His best girl. “I bet you haven’t given me a second look until you noticed that I was your missing piece.”

“I haven’t seen you around,” Jake admits. “You not into football?”

“I like to sit at the very top,” you tell him. “You know. Eagle-eye view. I like to see everything all at once. Especially now that we’re finally good.”

“You mean you actually go to watch the game? Not just to get beer spilled on you by Pi Kappa guys?” He asks, feigning surprise. Your smile is widening, eating your face. His belly turns itself inside out. “I’m shocked, really.”

“Not to blow you smoke or anything, but you’re a pretty good kicker,” you compliment. You hope that he can’t feel how warm your face is right now, but you’re sure he can--he’s so close to you that you can smell the shampoo in the blonde locks sticking out from beneath his hat. “You’ve never missed a three-pointer.”

He’s taken back right now. He knows that football is deeply ingrained in the culture here--he sometimes can’t help but feel like a big man on campus when his calc professor congratulates him on a good game or when upperclassmen clap his back in the student center--but it’s rare that he meets someone who pays very much attention at all. Now that he’s been established as good, people just assume he is. They don’t really watch.

“I’m impressed that you pay attention,” he says.

“Why? ‘Cause I’m a girl?” You ask, arms crossed.

You’re smiling still.

“Not ‘cause you’re a girl,” he answers. “‘Cause everyone goes to the football games to drink.”

“Well, I’m no Pi Kappa,” you say. “I’m a whole other thing.”

“I bet you are,” Jake says. “What’s your name?”

“Ellie,” you quip.

He grins at you.

Shit. You’re too easy to like. Way, way too easy.

Spit Sabler. What a load of shit.

“I’m Jake,” he says after a minute.

This whole year you’ve been calling him Seresin in your head--it’s what’s printed on the back of his jersey, what you see on the jumbotron when he kicks your team’s winning goal.

But Jake. Yes, that fits him. Aren’t all sandy-blonde, green-eyed boys named Jake, anyway? It’s so coastal, evokes images of tan skin and a freckled nose and bright smile.

“Well, it’s to know your actual name,” you say. “I’ve just been calling you Seresin.”

“I’m flattered you noticed me,” Jake says, beaming.

“Everyone does,” you say, shaking your head gently.

“No way,” he disagrees. “Not everyone.”

“Please,” you sass, brows furrowed. “Modesty didn’t get you to where you are now, did it?”

“Across the room?” Jake asks, brows raised. Your smile fades to one of flattery, your lashes batting against your cheeks like you’re trying to blink yourself back into reality. “No. I’d say what got me across the room was curiosity.”

“I thought it was thirst,” you say softly, nodding to the punch bowl.

Jake looks back at the bowl, arms crossed over his chest. Right. Nuclear waste.

“That was all a ruse,” he says. “You can’t believe a word I say.”

“I’m learning so much about you,” you say with a fond smile. “Your name, your tendency to lie, how easily impressed you are.”

Jake almost guffaws trying to keep up with you.

“That’s pretty much all there is to me,” Jake says. “I’m surface-level.”

“Right,” you laugh. You gesture to his costume. “Jurassic Park is a pretty surface-level movie.”

“What, you don’t like it?” Jake asks, borderline stunned.

“Of course I like Jurassic Park. I’m only human,” you answer quickly. “But--you know. Everyone likes it. It’s easy to like. Easy to understand. Even the themes that they try to make harder to understand.”

“Like what?”

“The ethics of creating life inside a lab in tubes and incubators,” you answer. “Playing God.”

“I guarantee you that I could introduce you to someone who genuinely thought the entire movie was just about running from dinosaurs,” Jake tells you, a grin tugging on his lips. “Not everyone is as smart as you. Well--us.”

“Us,” you echo, a laugh bubbling up from the tips of your toes and spilling out into the air around you. It’s swallowed by the crowd before Jake can digest it. “Kind of weird that we’re wearing matching costumes, right?”

“Divine intervention,” Jake says, brow perched.

“We don’t even know each other,” you say, smiling. “That’s crazy.”

Beaming, Jake nods.

“You think people are gonna think I’m your boyfriend?” He asks slyly, leaning on the punch table carefully. “Just ‘cause I actually bothered to show up. And the whole costume thing.”

“I don’t know,” you say, shoulders falling back. Your spine prickles with excitement--the excitement of being looked at by him. “Should we ask someone?”

He’s watching you with a slight smile clinging to his pink lips. Inside his gaze, you feel like you’re alone at the party with just him. No more sticky floors and no more drunk friends and no more shitty boyfriend. Just you and him shooting the shit. You can’t do this with Jeff--everything always ends in a fight and in classic debater style, he rarely lets things go.

As if he’s trying to call your bluff, Jake looks around for someone to tap. He’s waiting for you to stop him, for you to burst out that you were just joking, to grab his arm before he can get someone’s attention.

But you don’t stop him. There is no bluff to be called.

So, he taps on the nearest Urkel’s shoulder. He turns around, glasses askew.

“What’s up, brother?” Urkel asks Jake when he recognizes him. “How you doing, Trip?”

Trip. It’s short for Triple.

“Just great,” Jake answers. He half-steps so he’s closer to you, close enough that your arms are touching. And he’s surprised when you lean into him, totally feeding into the bit. “Uh--do we look like we came together?”

“That’s not the question,” you whisper to Jake, nudging him with your elbow before you lean forward to speak to Urkel. “The question is--does he look like my boyfriend?”

Urkel turns to give the both of you his full attention as you step beside Jake again, leaning against his arm. He regards your bright eyes and Jake’s solid grin, the way your arms are pressed together, the matching costumes.

“Is this your way of introducing me to your lady or something?” Urkel asks Jake.

“So, we do look like boyfriend-girlfriend?” Jake clarifies.

Urkel’s brows come together.

“Aren’t you?”

“Total strangers, actually,” you sigh, shrugging. Jake smiles at you, watching as your brows pull together and your lashes flutter against your cheeks. “For all I know, this guy could be a serial killer.”

“It’s true, I could,” Jake sighs in confirmation. “And for all I know, she could be a total stalker.”

“What?” Urkel asks. “What are you--?”

You nod, sucking the back of your teeth.

“Right, right,” you answer. “You never can tell these days. People are so insane.”

“Preach,” Jake sighs.

“I’m too drunk for this, Trip,” Urkel says finally, rubbing his temples. “Hit my line when you two really are boyfriend-girlfriend, alright?”

And with that, you and Jake are in your own little bubble again. Heat has pooled in your belly and your fingertips are buzzing and your ears are hot with embarrassment and excitement.

It’s exhilarating, you realize. The way you feel right now with Jake, who you really only just met, tapping inebriated strangers on the shoulder and pretending like you weren’t bored out of your mind and stood up only a little bit ago. Indulging parts of yourself you can’t whenever you’re with Jeff.

“That settles it, then,” Jake sighs coolly, shrugging. “Spit Sabler’s in for a rude awakening.”

“Yeah, when he shows up,” you say, scoffing.

“If he shows up,” Jake corrects, wrinkling his nose.

“I can’t believe I got stood up,” you say to him. Except it isn’t bitterness in your tone that he hears--it’s a strange, disconnected relief. Like you were waiting for Spit to do something to warrant this fracture. “Me. Stood up. By my boyfriend.”

“He must not be from the south,” Jake sighs with a shrug. “Boys from the south would never stand their lady up.”

“Oh, really?” You ask. Your stomach is tied in excited, tight knots. “And you’re speaking from experience, right?”

“Totally,” Jake confirms. “Texas. Born and bred.”

“You southern gentlemen sure do like telling people you’re southern gentlemen,” you tease. “Gotta work it into every conversation, huh?”

“You sound like my roommate,” Jake grins, shaking his head.

Looking over at Bargain Bin Beetlejuice again, you find him holding his hands up in defense with a grin eating his face. A man in a toga is being held back by a few other men from wiping said-grin off his face.

“I was gonna say that your roommate sounds like a smart guy, but looks like he’s over there picking fights with Sigma Alpha Toga,” you say, tutting. “Not the best move.”

Jake groans when he sees Bradley throw his head back in laughter, when he sees how red in the face his toga opponent is. He’s always pushing people to their absolute limit. It’s what makes him such a good lineman--and a regular target.

“And on Halloween of all holy nights,” Jake says, sighing.

“Some people are just so classless,” you agree.

“Like guys who ditch their girlfriends on Halloween,” Jake agrees.

“How many times you gonna bring that up?” You ask, biting your lip.

“I’m going for the record,” Jake teases.

“The least you could do is soften the blow,” you tell him.

“How can I do that?” Jake asks. He’s grinning.

“You could…” You pretend to think, tapping your chin and chewing the inside of your cheek. “Well, you could least keep up appearances.”

“What, like, be a good fake boyfriend?” He asks, brow perched.

You nod. He’s elated right now, trying to bide his excitement so he doesn’t freak you out totally and completely.

“Yeah,” you confirm.

“Well, I can’t just be good,” Jake tells you smugly. “I’ve gotta be the best fake boyfriend.”

“You’ve really talked yourself up,” you tell him, sucking the back of your teeth. The soles of your feet are warm, the palms of your hand sweatied. “Blow me away.”

Jake opens his mouth to say something dumb and flirtatious, something that will surely make you push his shoulder, but he’s interrupted when the music suddenly changes. Dreams by The Cranberries is playing suddenly, a smidgen louder than the music before was.

“Now that they’re finally playing good music,” Jake calls over the music, pointing in the general direction of one of the speakers. “Will you dance with me?”

No one has ever asked you to dance before this precise moment. Never at any shitty homecomings or slapstick proms. Before, at every other frat and house party Jeff dragged you to, no one danced like you thought they might. Parties aren’t for dancing anymore--they’re for drinking. The romantic in you dies a little bit each time you remember that.

But here is this guy standing right in front of you, the big man on campus who’s dressed up in a weirdly accurate Alan Grant costume, holding his hand out to you and asking you to dance to The Cranberries. The Cranberries.

“There’s nowhere to dance,” you say before you can help it, glancing around the room. It’s packed wall-to-wall. No one is dancing and everybody is drunk.

“Would you go outside with me if I asked?” Jake asks.

His heart is pounding in his throat.

“I don’t know,” you say. But you do know. “Ask.”

“Will you go outside with me?” Jake asks.

“Yes,” you say. “Yeah. I’ll go.”

Yeah. I’ll go. Jake is going to think about the way you looked when you said these words to him for the rest of his life. You, the girl who was standing here looking bored and waiting on Spit motherfucking Sabler, are looking up at him with glassy eyes and a broad grin and saying yeah. I’ll go.

Jake doesn’t waste a moment, nodding towards the backdoor.

“C’mon,” he says with a grin. “I don’t wanna miss this song.”

Outside, it’s much cooler than inside the stuffy house. The air is crisp and fresh and fragrant with the lonely apple tree that sits just beside the house. No more overpowering stenches like sweat or cheap fabric or overfilled trash.

And now that you’re outside in the mostly-dark, only the naked porch bulb lighting the little patch of overgrown concrete you’re standing on, you feel like you can take a deep breath and let your shoulders fall.

“It’s nice out here,” you admit.

“And you can still hear the music,” Jake points out. “Speaking of…”

You turn around, glance at him over your shoulder. And there’s Jake beaming at you, hand outstretched towards you in an open invitation.

“You were serious?” You ask, nose wrinkled. “I thought boys just said that to impress girls.”

“Not Texas boys,” he answers. “C’mon. Dance with me.”

And who would you be if you said no to this almost perfect stranger?

Swallowing thickly, you smile at him. It’s an unsure smile, one that is usually accompanied by a warm face and downcast eyes. But you’re not looking away from him and Jake definitely isn’t looking away from you.

His hand is warm, bigger than yours. The skin is rough, probably from tossing the pigskin, and his grip is secure. He holds your hand the way he holds other important things--delicate glasses, his favorite pen, a photograph of him and his mama.

You stand there, his hand holding yours, for a moment. Not sure what to do next, unclear where you’re supposed to step or if you’re supposed to come closer.

“C’mere now,” Jake says softly. It’s less of a command and more of a guidance as he gently pulls you closer to him. “There you go.”

Shakily, a breath falls from your mouth. A cloud of tongue-scented vapor settles on Jake’s chest. He’s looking down at you, his face all shadows and shine, as he begins to bring his other hand up to hold your waist.

“Can I hold your waist?” He asks. He almost makes a joke--almost adds something to make his questions sound less serious. Strictly for appearances. But then he just looks down at you looking up at him, reads the slope of your brows and the part of your lips, and leaves it at that.

“Is that what comes next?” You ask, really meaning it.

He pulls his brows together, confused.

“What--no one’s ever asked you to dance before?”

“No,” you answer seriously. “I mean--well, yeah. No.”

He just softly shakes his head. How in the world has no one ever asked you to dance before? He wanted to dance with you before he even knew you and he wants to dance with you now that he barely knows you.

“What?” You ask, brows knit. Your throat is caked in nerves. “You think something’s wrong with me now?”

“I’m thinking I oughta skin Spit Sabler and hang his bones to dry,” Jake admits. “And I don’t think anything’s wrong with you.”

You step closer to him, the pavement cracked beneath the soles of your boots, and your chest is close enough to his to feel the softness of his shirt when you inhale. He smells like sandalwood and Everclear and you’re just now noticing that his hands are a little sticky from his drink.

“Is there something wrong with you?” You ask, looking up at him. “You didn’t bring a date to the party.”

“Who do you think Beetlejuice is?”

The laughter flows easily.

“Excuse me for supposing.” You smile.

“Excused,” Jake breathes.

Jake is holding your waist now--he can feel the soft curve there, the way the fabric melts into his hand like it’s been waiting for his heat. And whenever you take a deep breath, your chest touches his.

Besides the music, there are crickets chirping in the button bushes and frogs distantly singing in a too-big puddle just down the road. It is a perfect night--the stars stretch across the sky, brighter than they are in the middle of town, and the moon is white as silk.

You’re spinning in a semi-slow circle, your smile still coy and your palms still clammy. But you’re happy--you think that you’re happy. A stone of excitement just sits heavy in your gut, warm and unmoving. This is the feeling you have whenever you meet someone that you know is going to be important in some way someday.

Inside the house, Bradley’s noticed that Jake is gone--and so is the pretty girl he was talking to. He glances around, biting his lip, the taste of cheap lipstick bitter on his tongue. And then he spots movement outside the west-facing windows.

“No way,” he whispers, shoving his way across the room and closer to the windows. He squints, cups his eyes, and immediately recognizes that damn hat. “He did it. Crazy son of a bitch did it.”

“Who?” Someone near Bradley asks. They’re bleary-eyed as they look at Bradley, leaning closer to him. “Who did what?”

“Me,” Bradley answers with a grin. “I did your mother.”

“I like The Cranberries,” you say quietly. “I listen to this CD all the time.”

“Not a Red Hot Chili Peppers girl?” He asks.

Laughing, you shake your head.

“Do I look like one?” You ask.

“Do I look like I think you’re one?” He retorts.

Another grin--Jake’s throat is so tight that he can hardly swallow.

“Too many degrees of separation,” you whisper to him. “You’re giving me a complex.”

He takes a deep breath--of you, of the crisp autumn air, of the dew on the grass, of the sugary juice staining his hands.

“Why you with a guy who stands you up?” He asks. You’re slowly spinning in a circle still and the world blurs behind your pretty head. “I barely know you, but I know I’d never bail on you.”

“Well, not everyone’s from Texas,” you answer. The heartbeat in your chest is stuttering as Jake looks at you--your eyes, your nose, your lips. “We’re not…serious or anything.”

You don’t know why you feel the need to tell Jake this--and why it doesn’t make you feel guilty when you realize that you’re telling him so he knows that your options are open.

“Not serious?” He asks. “How long have you been seeing each other?”

A few months.

“Since August.” It sounds like more time than it really is.

“Not long at all,” he says. “How’d he hook you? Did he debate you into a date?”

The grin tugging on your lips is so insistent.

“You’re kind of an ass,” you say affectionately.

“But I’m a good dancer,” he says--beaming. “Don’t you think I’m a good dancer?”

“Fishing for compliments,” you tut. “Flattery must be your love language.”

“What’s your love language?”

Cheeks hot, you just shake your head.

Christ, he’s good. Too good. Way too good.

“You ask so many questions,” you tell him, breathing out hard. You’re beaming at him still. “Too curious for your own good.”

“And I’m not even a journalism major,” he tells you.

“You’re missing your calling then,” you say softly. “What is your major?”

“Film,” he says.

That strikes you as funny for some reason--a football player film major with an affinity for dream pop and Jurassic Park.

“Aren’t you a mystery,” you ponder aloud. “Johnny Football Hitchcock.”

“And what’s your major? Looking bored at parties?”

You mock offense, holding a hand over your heart. When you’re this close to him and he beams, you can see every single one of his pearlescent white teeth, each one more perfect than the last.

“I didn’t look bored,” you defend half-heartedly.

“You looked so bored,” Jake says, laughing. “I thought you were gonna pass out before I even made it over to you.”

The back door opens--a few drunk people stumble out, saying nothing but laughing all the same.

Instinctively, you begin to pull away from Jake. But he tightens his grip on your waist, on your hand, and keeps you close to him. He keeps spinning the both of you in slow circles as the song floats on.

“It’s okay,” Jake says softly to you--like he knows that your face is warm with almost-embarrassment, like he knows that you’re nervous to be this close to him in front of anyone else. “They’re not gonna remember shit tomorrow.”

“Are you?” You ask, teasing.

It’s vulnerable to ask--ther’es a sweetness in your quiet tone. You’re asking him if he’s drunk, if he’ll remember crossing the party to talk to you, if he’ll remember asking you to dance with you.

“I’m stone-cold sober,” Jake says. “Fortunately.”

It’s strange whenever someone doesn’t let you down. You’re almosot used to putting up defenses at this point, almost always ready to roll your eyes and say God, never mind. You’re a smart girl. You know that this isn’t the way you should feel about the boy you’re seeing. And you are smart enough to see a good thing when it’s standing right in front of you, holding knot your waist and dancing with you.

“Oh, shit--!”

You turn towards the sounds of shoes scuffing on pavements, the sudden outburst. Jake does, too, brows furrowed. He sees it before you do--is getting ready to lift you up and push you further into the yard.

But he’s too late.

Alpha Beta Toga is bent at the hips and spewing neon-green puke all down your legs and into the pockets of your cargo shorts and all over your hiking boots.

Still, Jake tugs you away, plants himself between you and Toga. It’s too late, though--he’s being tugged away by his friends, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, hiccupping. And you’re standing beside him, stunned, staring down at your slimy legs.

“Hey!” Jake bellows, brows furrowed. The frat boys pause, eyes bleary as they stare back at him. “Apologize.”

“Sorry,” one of them says to Jake, belching.

They start to move inside the house again, a blur of white sheet and skin.

“No, no, no,” Jake insists. “To her.”

You blink in surprise, swallowing the lump growing in your throat, not knowing what to do except stand there and freeze with putrid vomit running down your legs.

“I didn’t puke on her!” One of them defends.

“I didn’t ask, dipshit,” Jake says. “Someone’s gonna say sorry before you go back inside.”

“It’s fine,” you whisper, unbuttoning your shirt and slipping out of it to wipe down your legs. “It’s really fine. He’s drunk, it was an accident--!”

“I’m sorry,” one of the boys interrupts you, glancing over at you nervously. “We should’ve pulled ‘im back.”

“You should’ve,” Jake confirms.

And then his attention is back on you. He’s kneeling before you, grabbing the shirt from your hands and mopping up as much vomit as he can on your legs. Still shocked and now prickled with cold as you bend at the hips and look down at him, you frown.

“Is it--oh my God. Is it chunky?” You whisper, feeling sick.

Jake dutifully holds onto your thigh as he continues to mop it up. God, it smells bad--he dipped into more than one of the punches.

“Don’t look,” Jake commands, brows pulled together. “Just look up at the stars and it’ll be over soon.”

“It’s fucking chunky,” you say to yourself, looking up at the night sky anyway. Cold air nips your bare shoulders, tucks itself between the skin of your belly and your tank top. “Did he eat the shit that was floating in the bowls? I don’t think it was edible.”

In the dim light, Jake examines one of the chunks. It’s a clump of green-tinted yellow, half-digested and crumbling in the grip of the shirt. His stomach turns, but he swallows hard, comes a little closer.

Oh. He snorts softly and you groan above him.

“What is it?” You ask. “Oh, God--is it, like, pineapple chunks?”

“It’s a flower,” Jake says.

“What?” You demand, looking down at him. “A flower?”

He finishes up mopping your legs as you look anywhere but your legs, your jaw beginning to tremble from the cold.

“Was this all some elaborate way to get me flowers?”

His laugh echoes into the night.

“Would you be impressed?” He asks.

“Kinda,” you answer honestly.

“Then yes,” he grins. “I think I got most of it, by the way. Do you wanna see the flower?”

Looking down, frowning, he holds his open palm up to you. And yes, there it is--a marigold submerged in stomach acid.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” you breathe out. “How’d you know marigolds are my favorite?”

“I’m just good like that,” he says. “Marigolds, huh? Are they even edible?”

“Anything’s edible if you put it in your mouth.”

He’s grinning up at you, pulse still thumping in his wrists from the past ten minutes. And that’s when he notices that you’re just standing there in a tank top, skin goosed from the cold.

“Here,” he says, standing up.

He unbuttons his shirt quickly and drapes it over your shoulders before you can tell him not to. He grabs the corner of your soiled shirt and nods for you to start for the house.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” you whisper.

“I can,” he says. “I’ve been to, like, two parties where no one’s projectiled on someone else.”

Cringing, you shake your head. His shirt is warm--it smells like sandalwood. The denim is thick and soft, like it’s been worn before tonight.

“Thanks for mopping me up,” you tell him as you open the back door for him. The sound is immediate--the thumping speakers, the drunk hollers. “How can I repay you?”

“Dump Spit Sabler,” Jake says. You turn, mouth ajar, looking prettier than you should in his shirt. His chest is tight. “It’s for your own good.”

“My good?” You whisper. “Or…yours?”

He swallows hard. You two just watch each other, the scent of puke thick in the air and the party too loud and the outside too cold. He doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

“Can I drive you home?” His voice is flat and serene.

Calm like he already knows your answer because he does.

“Yes,” you whisper because you want to stay here, in his gaze, for as long as he’ll let you. “Can we go now?”

He pulls the keys from his pocket and smiles at you.

Bradley isn’t buckled so he can lean forward in the middle seat and prop his elbows up on the center consol, looking at you and Jake as the world slips past you in a blur of over-exposed white and green.

“Spit Sabler?” Bradley says again, still shaking his head in disbelief.

You’re laughing, shaking your head, too. Jake groans.

“Man, can you shut up already?”

“No,” Bradley says. He looks at you and you look at him--his makeup is melting off his face and his green wig is askew. But even now, you can see that there is a handsome man with a broad smile somewhere beneath it all. “You--you--are with Spit? Spit Sabler?”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling. “I was.”

Jake doesn’t miss it--was. But he doesn’t say anything, just keeps his eyes on the old country road you’re all driving down.

“Why?” Bradley asks. “Like, I just can’t wrap my mind around it.”

“Can you leave her alone?” Jake moans. He fiddles with the radio until a Cocteau Twins song comes on, shaking his head. “She already got puked on and now you won’t get off her head.”

“I just have to know!” Bradley insists. “Like, was it…okay, I’m gonna ask. I have to ask.”

Jake looks at Bradley in the rear-view mirror hard, knowing already what he’s going to ask. He points at Bradley’s reflection and Bradley grins back, still a little drunk and quiite stupid.

“What?” You ask, genuinely confused. “What were you gonna ask?”

“Don’t do it,” Jake warns. “Man, you don’t even know her! You’re making me look like I have perv friends!”

“I have to!” Bradley argues. “I have to!”

“Oh,” you say, realizing suddenly. You lean back in your seat and look back at Bradley. “You’re gonna ask me if he has a big dick.”

“Exactly!” Bradley moans. He grabs your shoulders excitedly and squeezes you good-naturedly. “She’s on our level, Jakey!”

“I’m sorry about him,” Jake says, shaking his head. “He was dropped as a baby. Frequently.”

“Twice,” Bradley corrects. He nudges you and you grin at him. “Was it big?” He whispers.

Shaking your head, face warm, you frown.

“Not big enough,” you whisper.

Bradley explodes in the backseat, in stitches as he holds your shoulders tight. And Jake can’t help but crack a smile at the sound--Bradley’s laugh is infectious. And you’re laughing, too.

“Oh, that’s too good!” Bradley’s cheering. “Oh, my God! You just made my night!”

“You’re welcome,” you say, grinning.

“Did he just, like, talk at you until you were confused enough to be in a relationship with him?” Bradley asks.

“She’s not an idiot,” Jake defends, smacking blindly in Bradley’s direction.

Bradley bats his hands away.

“We all have our moments!” Bradley argues. “I didn’t say she’s an idiot.”

“He’s the idiot,” Jake says.

“Yeah,” Bradley agrees. “No arguing there.”

“For the record,” you say to them. “He did kind of talk me into it. One minute we’re in class, the next we’re at coffee and he’s burning his tongue on an Americano. Then his puka shells were on my nightstand. It’s all a blur.”

The car ride continues like this--you grow warm between the heater and Bradley’s laughter and Jake’s fond embarrassment. You learn that Bradley is a business major and that he and Jake are roommate’s and best friends. They learn that you actually really do love marigolds and that you’ve been thinking about ending things with Jeff for a few weeks now--ever since he argued with you about the right way to cut bagels for over an hour.

And by the time they pull up in front of your dorm, they realize that their dorm is just a skip and half a hop away.

“We can come visit you anytime,” Bradley says with a grin. “We’re neighbors!”

“Looks like it,” you say.

Jake is watching you, wishing Bradley would leave. You reach for the handle and his palms grow damp with sweat. It’s quiet in the car.

“I can take a hint,” Bradley whispers. “Use protection!”

He kisses Jake’s head and squeezes your shoulder and then he’s gone.

Then it’s just you and Jake again. Jake is still grumbling about Bradley, wiping the spit and paint off his head. And you’re just smiling at Jake, totally at peace to just sit in the passenger seat of his old truck and let Halloween drift away.

“Thanks for everything,” you say. You swallow hard when his eyes meet yours, when his brows come together. “For, like, saving me from total social humiliation. And for cleaning puke off my legs. And--this.” You pinch the denim shirt in your fingers. “You’re very sweet.”

“It ain’t much, but it’s honest work,” Jake sighs. And really, he wants to tell you that it was his pleasure because it was. He wants to tell you that somehow this has been the best Halloween of his life. “You’ve got yourself a nickname now.”

“What is it?” You whisper.

“Goldie,” he grins.

Ah. Marigold.

“Deceivingly sweet,” you say fondly. Your chin wobbles. “You playing next week, Trip?” You whisper.

You’re itching for a shower--you know you need to get out of his car. You know that this night needs to end. But you can’t help yourself from lingering.

“Starting,” he says. “Not to brag.”

“And yet you manage to,” you tease. “Look for me at the top, okay?”

Eagle-eye.

“And if I said I could get you tickets closer to the field, what would you say?” He ponders. “Just out of curiosity.”

“Well, I’d say that’s very sweet and that you don’t have to do that,” you tell him.

He nods, chewing on his bottom lip. He imagines you there, holding onto the railing, skin goosed as you watch him do what he does best. His chest is wound tight with joy, excitement.

“And then I’d probably say that I know I don’t have to,” he continues. “I want to.”

Nodding, biting a grin, you hum.

“Well,” you whisper. “Maybe we can talk more about it when I drop your shirt off tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Jake says. “We can talk more about it. Maybe over, like, coffee.”

“Yeah,” you answer. “Coffee would be good. No Americano’s, though.”

Another beat. It’s quiet except for the humming radio, the wind whispering outside the windows, the heat blowing on your legs.

“Goodnight, Goldie,” Jake whispers.

Throat tight, you nod. Another grin.

“Goodnight, Trip,” you say.

And as you get out of the car and start for the dorm building, Jake sits and watches you walk all the way to the door. You turn, hand on the heavy handle, and smile when you see him. He waves, his hair soft and his eyes unmoving from your form. Spit never waits for you. In the light of the streetlamp, of the pocket lights of the building, you look like a dream. Like you’re surrounded by a yellow haze.

You wave--so does he.

And then you walk into the building with your heart in your throat, with the soles of your feet on fire. You don’t even care that there’s puke on your legs, that you have an uncomfortable phone call to make, that you have to walk all the way up to the third floor.

You’re floating, really. Floating through pink clouds perfumed with sandalwood, tinged with warmth.

And when Jake gets back into his room, Bradley is waiting for him. He’s on his twin bed, still in his costume and wig and makeup, a management textbook cracked open on his lap as he munches on some crackers and reads in the lamplight.

“I like her,” Bradley says as soon as Jake closes the door. “I really, really like her man.”

“Me too,” Jake admits softly as he toes his boots off. “She’s sweet.”

“She’s funny,” Bradley adds. “She had me in stitches in the car!”

“If I’d have been puked on, it would’ve ruined my week. Shit, it would’ve ruined my year,” Jake muses. He pulls his bandana off and throws it in his closet without looking. “She’s a good sport.”

“You better lock that down,” Bradley says, shaking his head. He scratches his chin and bits of white paint flake off.

“Someone else already has,” Jake says, brows furrowed.

He sits on his own bed and looks at Bradley, who’s yawning and rubbing his eyes. Smearing his makeup.

“Spit doesn’t stand a chance,” Bradley says. “I’ll bet she’s dumping his sorry ass right now.”