#three body problem.

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Demi walked back through the dead campus, crossing the greens and keeping her head up, alert. It was 12 o’clock, midnight. Her roommate was long asleep, preparing for that pre med series she was so gung-ho about, so Demi had gone to Calvin's dorm room for most of the evening, only to have to leave at quiet hours, which began at 12:00. October in California wasn’t so bad, but it was colder than she would have liked. Her breath hung, just slightly visible in wisps around her, like ghosts swirling against the inky black night. Her deadline wasn’t a crazy one. It was only technically Monday morning just now, and the draft was due on Wednesday, but it was fresh in her mind, so she wanted to focus on her writing. Besides, she could think about it on her walk back to Wilbur Hall from Crothers.

Demi grabbed her cassette recorder from her hoodie pocket and rewound the tape back to the beginning. She’d transcribed most of her good quotes, but wanted to listen just one more time to check back and see if there was anything that she had missed. 

DEMI: Can you introduce yourself for the tape, please?

SAMANTHA: My name is Samantha Muir. I’m a graduate student in the Environmental Engineering program here at Stanford. We are working toward creating and maintaining sustainable environments, especially on college campuses.

D: Thank you. So, I’m working on a piece about Stanford’s recent push toward the green movement and sustainability practices on campus. My first question is ‘what is the biggest sustainability issue we’re dealing with right now?’

S: The biggest one would be energy use. Stanford basically acts like a small city. Between the labs, the computer centers, the dorms and other facilities, the energy demand and usage is significant. Even though we’re trying to promote efficiency, a lot of systems are extremely outdated.

D: Outdated how? 

S: A lot of our systems, like heating and cooling, operate on old systems that waste a ton of energy. We’re researching renewable electricity replacement options, but that can take years. 

D: Do students know about this?

S: Most probably don’t. And it’s not their fault; if they’re not in engineering or environmental studies, it just won’t come up that often.

D: So what are some things that students can do that will make a difference?

S: First, I think putting pressure on administration to do something about it. When administrators feel pressure from the student body, things often move more quickly. Second, participation. Join the sustainability movement and the data-gathering projects. The more data and support we have, the better. 

D: Is there anything you’re looking forward to in particular?

S: We started a study on the nighttime energy draw from student dorms, to make a map of which buildings waste the most energy and when. If we can identify some of the buildings that use more non essentials, we can build a strong case for overhauling certain outdated systems. 

D: Last question: what do you hope to see in Stanford’s future?

S: I hope to see a cultural shift to sustainability practices rather than just talking about sustainability. It’s not enough just to talk, there has to be action. And that begins with student curiosity and participation. 

D: Thank you so much for your time, I appreciate it.

There didn’t seem to be anything new, nothing she had missed, but she would keep the first transcript until after the article was posted at least. If she could, Demi would hoard her recordings forever. Just in case, or something. But her tape recorder could only hold so much information at once, so she would have to erase the recording eventually. She had two more interviews for the piece after class in the morning—well, later in the morning.

Demi had finally arrived at her dorm hall and made her way up the stairs and into her room, getting undressed in the dark so she didn’t disturb her roommate. Once she finally collapsed into bed, it was past 12:30 and she needed to get up for her 8:00 am class in the morning. She knew she’d make it, though, and with enough time to get ready. It wasn’t that she was directly trying to impress Art, but she felt like she needed to look good when she knew she was going to see him. Before falling asleep, as her eyes began to blink extremely heavily, one at a time like a frog, she checked her phone a last time. 

calvin <3 (mobile, 12:11 a.m.): Let me know when you get home 

demi (mobile, 12:31 a.m.): in bed naow. gn. i luv u <3

calvin <3 (mobile, 12:31 a.m.): love you too, Biscuit. Call when you wake up, okay?

demi (mobile, 12:31 a.m.): okie <3

Morning came more quickly than she would have hoped. The exhaustion seeped deep into her bones, and she knew that her first lecture was one she would struggle to stay awake through. Writing and Rhetoric was always a tad dry, but Demi found herself not minding it much. The notes were boring and she found herself half dozing through them, but every day, Dr. Curry would have them talk to their writing partners, which she did find herself looking forward to. Not only was Art always there, he was always so nice to her. It was refreshing to have a popular, cool sports boy be so nice. He always looked like birds should do his hair and bring him breakfast in the morning. It was embarrassing, to Disney prince-ify some guy just because he was nice. But she found herself doing it anyway.

“How’d you sleep?” Art asked as she walked over to her usual desk, tilting his head at her like a little puppy dog. 

“Meh. Okay. I didn’t go to bed until late,” Demi sighed. “I got fixated on my upcoming article and I didn’t have time to work on it after my interview.”

“Why not? It was Sunday, so no class.”

“Calvin insists that I go to church with him, then we have to go see his sister in law’s family for Sunday dinner, then after, he wants me to hang out while he works on his shit.”

“Oh. Calvin's religious?”

“I mean… allegedly. According to him.” Art snorted. Demi felt a swoop of guilt for poking fun at her boyfriend, but his piety was questionable, no matter what Calvin said frequently about himself and his faith. “I’m not, but he wants me to go, so I do.” 

“You can’t bring your stuff to work on while he does what he needs?”

“I mean, I can, but he likes me to ‘be available.’”

Art wrinkled his nose and scrunched his eyebrows.

“Not like that!”

“I didn’t say anything-”

“But you were thinking it!” Demi said, her neck and ears glowing hot with embarrassment. She didn’t want Art to picture her like that, so intimately with Calvin. She wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t want him to think about her or about Calvin.

He just laughed in response, a pleasant sound. He kind of squeaked at the end of each one, like a punctuation. It was really cute. 

“I just think you should be able to work on your homework when you need to. What could be nicer than getting just to work side by side with someone you’re close to?” Something in his eyes lit up at the thought. “Come study with me!”

“What?”

“Later! I have a specific room in the library I go to. It’s nice and quiet and they don’t care if you bring snacks or drinks. Plus, it’s open 24 hours a day, which makes it awesome.”

“When are you going?”

“I’ll be there tonight. At like 5:30, after practice.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’ll come,” Demi said, laughing. “You need me to spell it out?”

“I prefer it,” Art said, suddenly a little more serious. “Then I know you’re coming for sure.” 

“I said I’d come, I’m not that flaky, I promise.”

“Just don’t want to get my hopes up,” Art said. They let that hang in the air heavy between them for a few moments before Dr. Curry walked in and class was underway. 

Art turned to look toward the front. Demi couldn’t help but replay the moment over and over. Just don’t want to get my hopes up. Hopes for what, exactly? Just the hopes she would come? That didn’t make any sense. Art could get any study buddy he wanted. If he leaned forward and asked Sienna in their class right this moment, she would jump at the opportunity. They’d only been in class for one full week, but Demi still had seen her staring at Art several times when he wasn’t looking. It was strange. Demi got the vibe that Art wasn’t a blustering virgin by any stretch of the imagination, so his seeming inability to pick up on signs that were practically plastered all around his head like the Las Vegas strip didn’t make much sense. Perhaps he was ignoring it on purpose, but then why? It certainly couldn’t be about Demi. There was no way. 

She determined that his hopes would just get up about hanging out and being friends because he was a good guy. He glanced over at her and smiled again. He was wearing a Stanford tennis hoodie and looked exceptionally cozy and cuddly. And like he probably smelled good. Like clean clothes and aloe vera and stuff. The idea of it made her face feel warm and too tight. 

Calvin did not smell good like clean clothes and aloe vera. He usually smelled like too much cheap cologne or nothing, but when his hair needed a wash, it smelled a bit like parmesan cheese, which was gross. Demi did not tell him, ‘cos it would have pissed him off, and then he would have started talking shit on her and she just did what she could to not provoke him. 

After class, when Art was walking her to her next class, the routine they had started on the first day, they were in the middle of talking when her phone started buzzing frantically in her pocket. 

calvin <3 (mobile, 8:51 a.m.) is calling… 

“I just don’t know if- hang on, sorry, I need to…” She looked at him apologetically and he shook his head to say No biggie as she flipped her phone open against her ear.

“Hey, baby-”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He snapped into her ear. It was the angriest he’d ever sounded before. That, coupled with him swearing, caught her off guard. 

“What?”

“I missed my first class because of you.”

“Baby, slow down, I-”

“Don’t fucking call me ‘baby.’ How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“I- I’m sorry, I don’t…”

“You were supposed to call. Guess you decided to ruin my day? I can’t believe you.”

“I don’t…” Humiliatingly, Demi could feel tears, hot and bright, filling her eyes and her nose starting to drip a little. The world around her swirled away, not quiet. She could see Art’s mouth moving, his eyebrows knitting together, but she couldn’t hear him. She really couldn’t even hear Calvin anymore, though his voice kept going. 

“I can’t be with someone so irresponsible and stupid,” he spat into the receiver. Then a click. Demi closed her phone and put it back in her pocket. The tears were slipping down her cheeks readily by that point, hot and fat. She was still moving, but her insides were frozen. She forgot. She forgot to call and wake him up. Her intestines seemed to squirm with nausea like little slugs, up towards her throat. She couldn’t breathe anymore. Fuck. How could she be so stupid to forget something like that? Fuck!

Art’s hand, gentle but strong, rested on her bicep. Not grabbing, not pressing, more of a brush to get her attention. She half startled at the contact and turned to see his face, brows creased in what appeared to be distress. She couldn’t understand why he was upset. Everything around her was watercolor and fuzzy and swirled around. It was overwhelming and she couldn’t comprehend why Art was upset right now. Did something happen? Did Demi do something? It couldn’t be about Calvin. It just couldn’t. 

“Hey, Demi, you okay? You don’t have to talk, let’s just…” he craned his neck to look around for a moment. “Can we step over here?” 

She nodded robotically and he guided her over by a water fountain against the wall, out of the stampede. He did it without touching, just walking nearby, switching sides, around her back, making sure she didn’t veer off track. She was acutely reminded of a collie dog. 

“Do you need like… water, or something, maybe? Or just like… a second?” She shook her head no. She needed to go to class. It was going to start soon, and she couldn’t afford to be late, let alone absent. It only had a two absence policy and she couldn’t waste one on this.

“Okay,” Art said, no protest in his voice. “Let’s get you there, then.”

Walking with Art had its advantages for sure. He wasn’t the tallest ever guy, but he certainly was a tall guy, and by virtue of being next to him, one avoided being trampled. For a horrible, guilty moment, Demi wondered what it might feel like to walk through the hallway holding his hand. Just like as an anchor, not as like a girlfriend or something. Calvin didn’t hold her hand in public. At the thought of his name, her insides cringed and she shivered. Art glanced down and she watched his arm twitch a little, but he ultimately didn’t move it.

He deposited her at the door, fidgeting with the strap of his back pack, running his hand up and down over the strap as if to soothe himself. He didn’t quite seem to be able to stand still at the moment. Demi wondered if he had to pee.

She had stopped crying, although she still wanted to. Her chest felt tiny and tight and sad. She glanced up at him, searching.

“Um… I’m sorry about that.”

“Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Oh… I, um… Um, do I look okay?” she asked, touching her cheeks, still damp and a little sticky. Art looked back at her, with a gaze she couldn’t place for the life of her. It wasn’t hungry, it wasn’t mean. It wasn’t how Calvin looked at her.

“Yeah. You look beautiful.” Art said it like it slipped out by accident, but he didn’t make any effort to take it back. He just kept looking at her, eyes soft.

“Oh, oh… wow, um, thank you, I just meant like, my makeup and stuff… really?”

“Yeah, really.”

Demi felt the hot glow of embarrassment travel through her entire body until it felt like even her fingers and the end of her nose had been set on fire. Thankfully she couldn’t blush, her skin was too yellowy for that nonsense, but Jesus Christ, she felt like she was burning up. It was the way he was looking at her too, because he was looking at her in a way that didn’t offer room for argument. She couldn’t say no, I’m not or nobody’s ever said that before. Art said it like a fact. Like it was an unequivocal truth. It embarrassed her. 

“Um… thank you,” she mumbled, ducking her head to avoid the intensity of his eyes. They were soft but almost painful to look at, like staring into the sun or the hazy halogen light bulb floating just beyond the maw of an anglerfish. At the feeling of vulnerability, she bristled internally, then soothed herself, looking back into his gentle, medium blue eyes. There was something in the eyes, with men, with the men who showed affection by swearing, spitting, and kicking. It was missing from his.

“Um, if you still want to come, I’ll be at the Green Library at 5:30. The room is 403, in the Bing Wing. Top floor.”

“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll be there,” Demi said softly. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah. Later,” Art said without moving. 

Demi turned to enter the classroom, just on time, and ignored the feeling of Art’s eyes lingering on the back of her head as she walked through the doorway. She couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes on her for hours, though she couldn’t say she disliked it as much as she wanted to. It made all of her nerves buzz with a generous vigor, but not in the anxious, frightened way she was accustomed to. She found herself unable to fully commit to focusing for the entire class. It felt like the way sweat would prickle against her underarms; noticeable, distracting, though not altogether unpleasant.

By the time 5:30 came around, Demi had nibbled her nails all the way down to the quick. She had been on a streak, about 12 and a half hours, but it wasn’t enough time for her to grow her nails from the sorrowful nubs they were. She made her way cautiously through the Green Library, keeping her head ducked down a little. Art had been a little bit of a liar. Her makeup had smudged a bit under her eyes, and she hadn’t stopped by her dorm. She knew once she got there, she would not be leaving. She’d loitered around various spots on campus for a few hours after her last class got out. Normally, she hung out with Calvin after classes until around bedtime, but number one, she didn’t want to see him (an admission that made her feel nauseated) and number two, and much more importantly, he didn’t want to see her. She hadn’t heard anything from him since his phone call, and she had texted once. Just once, not too many times, out of the fear of being an overbearing girlfriend–was she still his girlfriend? She didn’t know.

demi (mobile, 11:35 a.m.): i’m sorry. i’ll make it up to u. 

It had been hours. He hadn’t replied and probably wouldn’t for a while, if he did at all. That was okay, Demi told herself, trying to soothe the rising bile of panic she could taste in the back of her mouth. He needed space from her, she supposed. Such a mistake could cause one to need such a thing as space, although demanding such a distance was difficult for Demi. Space to her was not peaceful, but isolating. Terrifying. Like floating through a void in the heavens, unable to get back to her spaceship, forced to aimlessly float slowly, slowly, slowly, ever onward. It felt like being ungrounded, like there was nothing to hold on to. 

Art was already in the study room, an opened bag of sunflower seeds next to him, notebook open, pen moving. Demi opened the door and his head shot up immediately. He immediately brightened at seeing her. He tilted his head slightly to one side, like a sweet little puppy dog, and scooted his chair over a little to the left, then patted the table in front of the chair directly to his right.

“I saved you a seat. You wouldn’t even believe it, so many people wanted to sit right here and I said no, I have a very cool classmate coming later and this spot is for her. Buzz off.” Demi snorted as she set her backpack down and took the chair next to him. Normally Demi liked to have at least one spot between her and the next person, but she found herself not minding so much. He did smell like aloe vera. It wasn’t like, overly strong or anything. He smelled nice. 

“Thank you for fighting off the hoards for me. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.”

“My pleasure.”

“What are you working on?” Demi asked, looking at his notebook. 

“Just some math stuff.”

“Looks complicated.”

He laughed, “It is.”

“I’m no good at math,” Demi said.

“I’m no good at writing.”

“What? Yes, you are. I’ve read your work for class, it’s more than fine. I’ve read lots of bad writing, trust me.” They worked in silence for a few minutes, before Art turned to her again, his ears a little pink looking now.

“Oh, um, our first tennis match this year is on Friday afternoon. The 6th.”

“Oh, what time?”

“Uh, 1:30. Do you want to come?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I’d love to,” Demi said gently. Art smiled, a soft, barely there smile, like he was keeping it a secret, just to himself. 

Art watched as Demi focused intently on her notebook and pen. Her eyebrows were furrowed slightly, a little crinkle forming between them. She tucked her hair back behind her ear, and with the movement, he could smell a slight trace of cinnamon as she exposed her neck. Her neck was dotted all over with little brown spots, pretty little points like stars against an olive sky. His stomach swooped as he imagined placing a gentle kiss to each one, but he swallowed the thought down. Her zip jacket was up over both shoulders, which was the first time he’d ever seen it like that. He missed the visibility of her shoulders, even under her shirt. 

Demi sighed softly as she peered at her writing. Art spared another glance at her face and his stomach lurched. Her side profile was so endearing to him, the smudges of makeup down her cheeks from her earlier tears, the slope of her nose, the way her eyelashes brushed down with each blink. 

“Whatcha working on?” Art asked.

“Just my article. It’s about energy conservation on campus,” she said. “I’m trying to decide which quotes to use from my first interview and where.”

She had them written in scribbly pen on post-it notes that she kept rearranging on her notebook. He tried to read it, then immediately gave up. It wasn’t that her handwriting was bad, it was just messy and hard to read, plus she wrote in all different directions. Up and down, beginning in the middle of the page, one word segments, circles, underlines… It reminded him of a doctor’s prescription note. As if she suddenly gained awareness to be self conscious, she started back up to look at him and covered her writing with her hands.

“Sorry, it’s weird.”

“No, it’s cool.” There was ink all over her hands, and her fingers looked a bit raw at the edges. The skin by her thumbnails was raw and scabbed. Her nails were ragged, edged and short. She had seemed so perfect from far away. Up close, he could see that she wasn’t and somehow, it made him like her more. “I like that your brain works like that. It’s really unique.”

She smiled softly, looking up at him. Her pupils looked so big up close, like wide saucers almost overtaking the green of her irises. 

Then her phone started buzzing again on the table and she jerked to look at it. Art glanced at the little tiny mobile screen. 

calvin <3 (mobile, 5:59 p.m.) is calling…

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Do you mind?” 

“Oh, no, you’re fine. Do you want me to leave?” 

She shook her head, then snapped the cell phone open. 

“Hey.” She listened intently. 

“I mean…” Demi paused. “It’s okay, I guess.”

“No, it made today really hard for me.”

Art tried to force himself not to strain to try to hear the other end of the conversation, not that he would have been able to anyway. The most he could hear was a little warbling static, like the grown ups from Peanuts. 

“It’s okay. I’m sorry I forgot to-”

She nodded.

“Yeah, I’ll remember next time. I will. Scout’s honor.” 

Another pause.

“I’m at the Green Library. Studying with a friend. Uh, yeah, I do think you know him, it’s Art. He lives in your building. Yeah, okay. I love you too.”

“Yeah, I said I would make it up to you- Right now? I’m still in the middle of my article. Let me make a little more progress on it, yeah? I can leave at like… 6:45? But I do actually have to get this done today, since I couldn’t work on it yesterday.” A pregnant pause. Demi frowned and Art twinged with hope that she might actually tell Calvin where he could stick it.

“I’m not blaming you. I managed my time poorly, and I have a deadline. I will leave at 6:45, okay? Okay, I love you.” She clicked her phone shut.

“I’m sorry, I’ll have to leave a little early. Is that okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I get it. I can be done at 6:45 too. I’ll walk with you?”

“Yeah, that would be fine,” she said nicely. 

The next 45 minutes went by without event. Demi kept working on her story, rearranging her post-its and scrawling additional text, and Art kept working on his Organic Chemistry homework, which sucked and was confusing, but it wasn’t the end of the world because he was in a study room with a pretty girl with pretty eyes and pretty pouty lips. He glanced away from his assignment (Question 5, draw the Lewis structure for formaldehyde) to look at her face again, furrowed slightly in concentration. Her top lip was thinner than her bottom one and curled up at the ends like a cat’s. Her lower lip was full and pouted out slightly. Art didn’t think he had ever seen someone so pretty before. He felt like a little cartoon character, surrounded by little floating hearts all around his head.

Walking her back to the dorms felt nice too. He could really see it, walking through the greens, holding her hand, keeping her from picking at the skin on her thumbs, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. Art liked the idea, then felt a twinge of guilt. As much as he didn’t like Calvin, as much as he disliked his look, his general demeanor, and how he treated his girlfriend, he had to remember to slow it down. Being friends was enough. It would be enough. Even if it was all he ever got. It would be enough. Art hated Calvin. He hated everything about him. Almost everything. But the one thing he did like about him made his stomach hurt. 

He dropped her off at Calvin's room and went inside his own directly across the way, pausing just long enough to see the door opening for her. Art shut his just as quickly as Calvin's opened. 

Pat (mobile, 7:11 p.m.): Hope it’s all good over there.

Art (mobile, 7:12 p.m.): It is. How’s tour?

Pat (mobile, 7:15 p.m.): It’s good. I miss you tho. I’ll visit next week, k?

Art (mobile, 7:17 p.m.): That’s good. I’ll be glad to see you. :)

Pat (mobile, 7:20 p.m.): :) 

Art wasn’t necessarily a “rookie” at tennis. He’d been playing for years and years, and he’d gone to an elite boarding school specifically focused on the art itself. However, what was true was that he was only one of two freshmen on the Stanford team, so to his teammates, he was the rookie. It wasn’t a bad thing necessarily, he just needed to earn his keep and prove himself. This was proving to be just a bit more difficult than he had hoped. The practices weren’t difficult and conditioning wasn’t all that different from what he was used to, but the emotional weight of determination coupled with the Patrick-shaped hole in his life made it a little bit harder than he remembered it being. It made him feel stupid. Patrick wasn’t gone, just somewhere else. He wasn’t even that far away. He was still in California then, even if it felt like he was worlds away. Art just wasn’t used to his absence was all. 

And Patrick’s absence was a noticeable one. He took up a lot of real estate in Art’s life. When Art was going somewhere, Patrick was too, with very few exceptions. Patrick also could talk him into things that Art wanted but was too chickenshit to do of his own volition (asking a girl out, late night Taco Bell runs, sneaking beers into the dorms, etc). He was always fun, always exciting, always Art’s. Training was always missing something without him, and was a little less fun without him. Only someone like Patrick Zweig could make hitting a ball with a racket for an hour, or god forbid, weight lifting or running, actually feel fun. 

It was this that he was thinking about as he got off the treadmill the next morning, sweat soaking through the back of his gray t-shirt. He checked his watch to make sure he still had time—6:32 a.m., perfectly on-time—and headed to the locker room showers. It was communal style, a little outdated, but the campus gym was basically empty so early in the morning other than the usual athletes, who he knew all by name. Well, and that other guy. 

Art had begun his shower when Tanner (of Tanner and Calvin across the hall fame) showed up. It was funny; Art hadn’t seen him working out in the weight room or at the treadmills, but he had to have been there, since he was flushed red in his ruddy face and his hair was dark and damp with sweat. Plus he was usually there at the same time as Art, usually a little later but with a significant overlap on training days. Art kept his back turned to preserve the modesty of the showers, but Tanner had other plans. 

“Donaldson,” he announced, standing way too close, underneath the spigot nearest to Art despite the otherwise empty showers. 

“That’s me,” Art said, not moving, letting the water, not quite hot enough but at least not too cold, run over his face. The water helped unknot his stiffening muscles, especially in his shoulders and back. It also helped wake him up because after a work out, the only thing he really wanted to do was go back to bed, which he couldn’t do with classes imminent. 

“I heard you’ve been spending a lot of time at Green.” 

“Mhmm,” Art said. “I like to study there.”

“That’s not my concern so much as who you’re studying with.”

“I usually study alone. That a problem?” 

“No. I think that’s what you should be doing.”

The pause between them was sharp, tense, taut like a bowstring. Art knew what this shit was, and he wasn’t willing to entertain it. Tanner came in peacocking, swinging his dick around, though he didn’t seem to realize that not only was Art taller, he was also stronger, and if it came to it, he wasn’t afraid to shove a face in the mud. He just didn’t like to. 

“Demetria, she’s… she seems like a great girl, I know,” Tanner’s voice simpered a little like even saying the word great was painful for him. 

“Uh-huh.”

“I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.” It almost makes Art laugh.

“You wouldn’t want me to get hurt.”

“You know how some girls are. Everything’s an ordeal. She has a way of making everything sound worse than it is.”

“Demi?”

“Demetria.” 

“So, Demi.”

“Just anything she’s telling you, I’d just take it with a grain of salt. Calvin's not perfect, but he’s a good guy. Probably too good a guy for crazy, but he doesn’t listen to me,” Tanner said. 

That one almost makes Art laugh too. Calvin too good for Demi? Fucking stupid. Even if it was true, even if Demi was as crazy as a sack of cats, she still wouldn’t be too good for Calvin. And yeah, he didn’t know her well, but all of it felt exceptionally backwards. He couldn’t help but picture her crying on the phone yesterday, barely able to mumble, I’m sorry, I don’t… into the receiver. It didn’t strike him as the psycho girlfriend character tanner was trying to make her out to be. In fact, she barely even talked about Calvin.

“Mhmm,” Art said again. 

“I’m not saying you’re doing anything wrong. I just don’t want to see you dragged in over your head. You seem like a good guy. Don’t let her ruin that.” Art ignored him, focusing on swiping his soap down his chest and arms instead of acknowledging the statement. 

“Man, I’m really trying to warn you. Calvin doesn’t like to feel disrespected.”

“I’m not disrespecting anyone. Just studying. If Calvin has a problem, he can just come let me know himself,” Art said, shutting the water off, and turning to grab a fluffy white towel. “I’m not interested in being warned.”

He wrapped his towel around his waist and cast his first glance back at Tanner, who was staring back at him, practically expressionless. Art understood why Tanner was here to do the dirty work. Even as unimposing as Tanner was, he was still taller than Calvin and bigger than him too. Tanner was maybe like 5 foot 9, and a heavier guy, with what could either be developing beer gut or the body of a small football player, but Calvin wasn’t even that. Calvin was shorter than Tanner and so skinny he looked like flat Stanley, in Art’s opinion. You could count all of his ribs and he looked like if the wind blew too hard, he’d fly right away. Art wasn’t the biggest guy in the world, but he was tall and he was muscular. He’d send someone to mark his territory for him in that case too. Of course he would. 

Fletcher Jennings was a sophomore on the Stanford Tennis team. He was a nice guy, clean cut, friendly, and he neither seemed to over or under estimate Art, which he appreciated. He was grateful that Fletcher would be his partner for the first match, a double. Art was torn with his feelings on the whole thing. On the one hand, his first match being a double took a little pressure off with Demi watching. It was less about him and if he fucked up, it would be a little less obvious and he’d have someone else to let him recover. On the other hand, Art didn’t really want Demi watching Fletcher. He’d rather her just be watching him. 

Anxiety settled like a pit in his lower stomach. Fletcher clapped him on the shoulder once as they waited in the locker room for Coach Schaeffer. 

“You’re okay, Donaldson. You’re gonna knock ‘em dead.”

Art nodded. Fletcher frowned slightly.

“Hey, man, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. You okay? If it’s match nerves, really don’t worry. These Santa Clara guys won’t even know what hit ‘em. They’re good, but not good enough to beat us. We’re the dream team, remember?”

Art felt a little foolish. He shouldn’t be so nervous for a girl to watch his match. He’d only ever been like this once before, when Tasho watched the Junior U.S. Open and he and Patrick played for her number. He’d fucking choked, and Art didn’t want to get in his own head again over a girl who might not even show up. 

“You’re right. Sorry, man.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m happy to help. We all got a little green before our first match.”

Art was a little green, especially around his gills. He felt so nervous he might throw up, but then felt so irritated that he was so nervous that the anxious nausea disappeared, then he remembered how much he wanted to impress Demi and it came right back. It was like riding a roller coaster, but in a bad way. 

“Alright, men, listen up,” Coach Schaeffer said, not looking up from his clipboard. “We’ve got a solid first match up ahead against Santa Clara. Doesn’t matter who’s out there, it just matters how you play. We’ve trained for this; you know what to do. Jennings, Donaldson. You two are up first. You two, and all doubles, make sure to communicate out there. You’re two people playing as one unit. Donaldson, I want you up on the net, watching those volleys. Jennings, keep the baseline tight.

Remember, your nerves are fine, just use them. Keep your head. Play smart. Play clean. Play tough. Every point matters. That’s what we practice here at Stanford. Let’s show them that today. Let’s get out there and knock their socks off.”

He clapped his hands once, and everything immediately took off. Art was on auto pilot, it seemed, suddenly finding himself standing out on the court next to the net. He spared a glance up at the crowd, scanning through until—oh. There she was. Sitting next to a blonde girl that Art barely glanced at, there was Demi, notebook clutched to her chest, big jacket zipped all the way up. He raised his hand up for a little wave, and she seemed to notice and waved back, a small, shy one. It filled his blood with a renewed sense of vigor. 

The match played out in staccato. Serve. Return. Pivot. Return. Point. Breathe. Art was barely aware of his body or of the ball, in a fluid state as his body turned, his tennis racket swung and he hit the ball, sending satisfying vibrations through his arm. He’d duck down, crouch low, thighs burning, sweat crawling down his back, his armpits, his legs, and he’d send the ball sailing back to the other side, skimming the sidelines, brushing past the Santa Clara guys. Point Stanford. He kept his gaze at the court, not wanting to risk a glance up until match point, when he did and found Demi’s face in the crowd, too far away to really read or see with distinguishing features. She was a little smudge of dark hair and black clothes, but he could tell it was her. He thought she might be smiling, but he couldn’t really tell. He decided to believe that she was.

His eyes narrowed as Fletcher served the last point, striking a straight ace. Adrenaline spiked through him and he let out a cheer, sharing an embrace with Fletcher that wasn’t nearly as intimate as the ones he shared when he and Patrick won, since Patrick was always leaping into his arms and needing to be spun around like a girl after they won. It sufficed though, since he didn’t really want to scoop Fletcher up anyhow. 

The sportsmanship handshakes blurred by and he found himself searching through the stands for Demi, who he found exactly where he’d spotted her before the game (and during match point). Her friend was gone by now, just her by herself at the very back of the bleachers. 

“Hey, you came!”

“Of course I did.”

“Can I-”

“Oh, of course, yeah,” she said, gesturing to the seat next to her. 

“You did amazing,” Demi said after he’d sat down next to her, maybe a little too close, his knee brushing hers. “That was a great win.”

She paused for a moment, then added, “You did win, right? I don’t really get tennis.”

Art laughed. 

“Yeah, we won.”

“Oh, good.”

“It must have been that I had a good luck charm in the audience,” Art said, gazing at her perhaps a little too fondly. Demi smiled back at him, not seeming to mind. 

Pat (mobile, 5:01 p.m.): How’d the match go?

Art (mobile, 5:02 p.m.): Great! We won.

Pat (mobile, 5:02 p.m.): We?

Art (mobile, 5:02 p.m.): Doubles. Not as fun without you.

Pat (mobile, 5:04 p.m.): Be still my heart.

Art (mobile, 5:04 p.m.): Shut the fuck up LMAO 

Pat (mobile, 5:05 p.m.): ;‑)

Art (mobile, 5:08 p.m.): So you can suck my dick by the way

Pat (mobile, 5:08 p.m.): Oh, may I???

Art (mobile, 5:08 p.m.): Demi came to the match

Pat (mobile, 5:09 p.m.): I knew she’d like you

Art (mobile, 5:11 p.m.): That is NOT what you said earlier

Pat (mobile, 5:11 p.m.): Had to keep your ego in check, Donaldson

Pat (mobile, 5:11 p.m.): Of course she likes you, are you fucking kidding? Look at you

Art couldn’t help the smile that found its way to his face.

Art (mobile, 5:11 p.m.): Jealous…

Pat (mobile, 5:14 p.m.): Of you or her?

Art (mobile, 5:17 p.m.): Take your pick

Pat (mobile, 5:25 p.m.): Guilty as charged. Enjoy your win, kid, you deserve it. I’ll talk to you soon, k?

Art (mobile, 5:30 p.m.): Okay.

Pat (mobile, 5:30 p.m.): :-)

Claremont, California was okay. The thing Patrick liked most about it was watching it while his MP3 player squeaked out Dirty Harry as performed by Gorillaz featuring Romye Robinson into his raggedy headphones, the tones getting squished a bit in the exposed wires. He also liked all the hills, and he kind of liked the scrubby brush along the countryside. He wished that Art was there to share it with instead of the other guys on tour. None of them were cool like Art was. 

He was glad that he didn’t have to share a room with any of them. His routine with Art was always to check in, put all their shit down, push their twin beds together to create one queen sized bed, sneak out to fetch some Taco Bell, where they’d get Baja Blasts and pour tiny gas station bottles of liquor into them and mix them up. They would almost always get sick from it, especially with the several tacos they paired it with, but neither of them got hangovers, so it was safe enough to do. He didn’t want to introduce anyone else into this routine. It was theirs. 

He also realized that most of the guys probably wouldn’t be interested in that, especially not the twin beds into one queen, and definitely fucking not the cuddling that tended to follow. Art and Patrick were both snuggly sleepers, and Patrick in particular moved a lot in his sleep, which was why they started creating the queen bed in the first place, just so Patrick had a bit more room, which turned into waking up with Art entwined and enmeshed against him.

Having his own room made Patrick feel a little lonely, though. He was a little worried about getting back on time, otherwise he might have gone out to a club or something, used his fake, and tried to find someone to come back to the room with him. But there was a tournament tomorrow, so he’d better not do that. He did need to find another way to occupy his time.

His first thought was a run. He put a t-shirt on, one of Art’s that he’d stolen borrowed a while back, laced up his running sneakers, and made triple sure he had his hotel key. It was usually Art’s job to hold onto that, but Art wasn’t there with him, so it seemed Patrick would have to take responsibility. He shoved his MP3 player deep into his pocket and stepped outside, finding the air to be more brisk outside than he had expected. He adjusted his windbreaker a little, then took off on a light, rolling jog down the sidewalk. 

The hilled landscaping in Claremont was much steeper than it had at first seemed to be. The sidewalk sloped gradually up, down slightly, then back up, a little harsher than before. The muscles in his calves tightened as he ran, sweat beginning to slick down his ears and neck. It was always easier with Art around. His head got less loud and he didn’t need to move quite so much, but without him, it was like his body needed to flail wildly, and running helped punch through the static collected in his limbs. 

The houses began to peter out as he worked up the hill to the soundtrack of Flagpole Sitta and Come Out and Play, long stretches of dark accompanying the fading sidewalk. By the time he reached the top of the hill, his knees felt knotted. He didn’t stop at the top, but expected a peak of relief to come washing over him and cursed when it didn’t come. 

“Fuck,” he gasped out, then looped around and jogged back down the hill, back past the swatch of evening, past the streetlights and the pretty little houses, all the way back to his motel door. When he came back into the room, he collapsed onto the bed, still coated in sweat, legs and lungs both burning from the effort. He was tired now but the energy in his belly still hadn’t died. Running hadn’t fixed it this time. In fact it seemed to have made it worse. Agitated energy surged through his calves, his thighs, his pelvis, curling into a desperate restlessness. 

The ache began to crawl along his body, all the way through his body, into each limb. Now he was too spent to move much but the greedy, manic itch refused to sate itself. Tournament tomorrow. Still bored. Still alone. Fuck.

Patrick thought about Art and their routines. There was of course the Taco Bell and the gas station liquor, and the cuddling in the bed together. But sometimes, there were other things. They didn’t hook up with girls together, but sometimes during a dry spell, well… Art had been lying when he’d insisted to Tashi a month and a half ago that the Kat Zimmerman incident was the one and only time they’d jerked off together. That had just been the first time, and honestly, probably the most normal time, because now usually their arms were touching as they lay on their backs next to each other. At least the KZ incident took place with them across the room from each other. They’d still talk about a girl, usually one of Patrick’s, and not only did the thoughts of the girl get him going, but the sight of Art’s face, pretty like a girl’s, flushed, pink at the nose and ears, head tipped back… well, there was nothing to do about it now. 

Patrick thought about calling Art for a moment, then decided that would be too embarrassing and weird. It needed to come about naturally if that were to happen. Patrick couldn’t call him while actively horny, that would be too… Well, he wasn’t sure, actually. He wanted to say it would be too gay, but Patrick didn’t really care about that shit. He cared about not weirding Art out more than anything. So instead, he did something that he felt was actually way more humiliating, but had fewer emotional stakes.

Pat (mobile, 11:41 p.m.): Hey Kinz how r u doing?

That one by itself maybe wouldn’t have been quite so bad, but he also did something else. 

Pat (mobile, 11:42 p.m.): Hey Tash how r u doing?

Tashi (mobile, 11:42 p.m.): Fine

Tashi (mobile, 11:42 p.m.): I’m not talking you off. Go to sleep, Patrick.

Shit. But there was still-

Kinzie (mobile, 11:45 p.m.): I’m doing good! How are you?

Certainly a bit more promising.

Pat (mobile, 11:46 p.m.): I’m good. Bored as fuck on tour right now though. Wish you were here

Kinzie (mobile, 11:48 p.m.): I wish I was too, but I have early morning class, so I have to go to bed soon <3 catch up tomorrow?

Patrick (mobile, 11:50 p.m.): Absolutely. Sweet dreams

Then, something entirely out of character.

Patrick (mobile, 11:50 p.m.): <3

It was a dead end all around. He once again considered calling Art, or even texting him, but he decided against it. It was really late, after all. Patrick picked up the remote and switched on the television, flipping rapidly between Jimmy Kimmel Live!, the Late Show with David Letterman, and The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. Nothing particularly struck his fancy until he noticed the adult pay-per-view channel. He had a full pay check and shit, it wasn’t like the people at the motel front desk had any idea who he was. Besides, it was a sleazy motel, so they had to know people were jerking it in their rooms, right?

He scrolled past After Midnight, Body Heat, Young and Willing (gross), and hesitated over Dorm Room Desires. It wouldn’t be what he wanted, he knew that. He wasn’t dumb enough to think that once he clicked on it, he’d see exactly the type of person he was picturing, be it Tashi, Kinzie, or Art. Especially Art. When he got to hand pick his own pornos, he usually settled on a blonde guy with a girl who looked as much like the current girl in his rotation as possible. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and that tightness in his pelvis was getting worse by the minute. 

He decided to be a chooser after all and turned the t.v. off, but his resolve only lasted about three minutes before he was clicking the remote to pay way too much money for Dorm Room Desires. Patrick was a beggar after all, it seemed. 

It started immediately and made him jump immediately to lower the volume because Jesus, whatever happened to fluff? Just a direct jump into extremely loud moaning and… yeah, okay. Patrick hadn’t necessarily intended for a girl-on-girl film, but he wasn’t complaining about the three girls (three, holy shit) in one dorm shower. More like girl-on-girl-on-girl, actually. It wasn’t actually super explicit. No nipples or anything, but all three of the girls were covered in soap bubbles. One girl, tall and thin, had long blonde hair and an angular face with squinted eyes. Patrick found himself gravitating toward her face more than the other two, a red head and a brunette, both of whom just didn’t strike anything for him. They were pretty, obviously, sexy even, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the blonde. It was a little funny. Patrick didn’t usually like blonde girls but this one had a cute pointed face that he liked. 

He reached down to the front of his shorts and tugged them down just enough to free his cock, thick and fat with the anxious excitement that had been steadily building for the past few hours. It was already drooling, already fully stiff, which had nothing to do with the porno and everything to do with Patrick’s general routine. He jerked off a lot before bed, so he ended up feeling particularly antsy around bedtime. He kept his eyes on the blonde as the redhead took her soaped up hands and rubbed them up over the blonde’s breasts, which were small and cute, pretty and hand sized. Patrick spit into his palm and reached down to grip himself at the base.

It was impossible to imagine the rough callouses on his palms as those of a girl, especially not the girl in the movie. Her hands were small and soft, smooth. Patrick took his time getting started, running his palm along the length of him slowly, dragging it painstakingly without the pressure he liked, just a way to tease. He pretty quickly forgot about that as the blonde started running her hands over her own body, cupping and holding her breasts, pressing them together to create a slight divot of cleavage for water to drip between. He imagined her crawling over his lap, breasts hanging as she clambered on all fours over him, bouncing slightly as she settled above his lap. He gripped his cock tighter and slipped his hand up and down more quickly. 

The blonde girl’s face was so pretty, soft blonde eyelashes fluttering, full pink lips falling open and exposing cute bunny teeth, and water sliding down the softly rounded bridge and end of her nose. Her wide set blue eyes fluttered closed and her eyebrows knitted together, her face rosy in all the right places. He thought about telling Art about Gracie a few months back, about telling him about her in the shower and Art arching his pelvis up off the bed to reach into his palm, head tilted back, pretty throat exposed like the girl in the film was now, resting the back of her head against the shower tiles, hand reaching up for a grip she couldn’t get as someone else, hand reaching out and Patrick touching Art’s hand with his own, the girl in the video reaching out as someone, maybe Patrick, dipped down between her legs. He imagined it filling his mouth, warm like skin, slightly salty with sweat, filling it all up as Art’s mouth hung open, no, the girl, he was thinking about parting her lips with his tongue, warm like skin, slightly salty with sweat, strong thighs from years of tennis, plush thighs, a calf and ankle adorned with an anklet finding its way across his shoulder…

Patrick’s hand quickened and then suddenly, without warning, the tight band tensing in his belly, stretched taut like a rubber band, then released with a snap that sent himself pulsing waves of warmth over his palm for several seconds, gasping with the climax, reaching his left arm back above his head to death grip onto the pillow upon which he rested. Immediately as the ebbs of orgasm soothed over him, clarity began to set in and he reached for the tissues on the bedside table to clean his palm with. It took a few swipes, and fuck, he hated cleaning up with tissues because it always left the little wet crumbled balls of paper behind, but it was better than using his clothes to clean off. Now spent, Patrick realized that he should shower but decided that he wouldn’t until morning. 

The days on tour tended to blur together. The matches blurred into one, each day and night blended into a coagulated blob of time that seemed to last forever and only for the length of time as a blink. Two days after his Dorm Room Desires escapade, post his first and second wins, Patrick pulled out his Blackberry to finally talk to his best friend, sitting in his motel room, on the shitty bed that made his lower back ache with curls of scoliosis.

Patrick (mobile, 7:11 p.m.): Hope it’s all good over there.

Artie (mobile, 7:12 p.m.): It is. How’s tour?

Patrick (mobile, 7:15 p.m.): It’s good. I miss you tho. I’ll visit next week, k?

Artie (mobile, 7:17 p.m.): That’s good. I’ll be glad to see you. :)

Patrick (mobile, 7:20 p.m.): :) 

Artie (mobile, 7:25 p.m.): Demi said she’s coming to my match on Fri

Patrick (mobile, 7:25 p.m.): Oh? What happened to leaving it be?

Artie (mobile, 7:27 p.m.): She’s just a friend

Patrick (mobile, 7:28 p.m.): Just a friend that u wanna fuck

Artie (mobile, 7:30 p.m.): Patrick

Patrick (mobile, 7:31 p.m.): Am I wrong

Artie (mobile, 7:34 p.m.): No comment. Pleading the fifth. 

Artie (mobile, 7:35 p.m.): She’s a nice girl Pat

Artie (mobile, 7:35 p.m.): She’s not like 

Artie (mobile, 7:36 p.m.): into me

Patrick (mobile, 7:38 p.m.): Why r u lying to me 

Patrick (mobile, 7:40 p.m.): bitch 

Artie (mobile, 7:43 p.m.): Whatever

Patrick (mobile, 7:45 p.m.): xx

The envy lay heavy in his lower belly, coiled like a snake hiding in the grass. He was envious of a lot of things. Envious because he wanted to watch Art’s match. Envious because he wanted someone to show up to his match for him. Envious that Art wanted to fuck this girl. Envious that this girl wanted to fuck him. He had thought it was a lot more things before he’d started listing them, so it was actually just the four. 

Patrick wondered about Demi. Were she and Art hanging out? Were they studying together or were they “studying” together? Why was he around her enough to invite her to his match? Patrick wasn’t afraid of boyfriends, not even a little bit, especially not shitty ones, but Jesus, he had thought that Art was a better man than he was and was someone who would back off at the presence of a boyfriend. Perhaps he’d rubbed off on Art a little more than he’d originally thought. This pleased Patrick. He liked when Art tried to get the things he wanted instead of waiting for them to fall into his lap. It was something about the way the light hit his eyes when he was desperately wanting that Patrick loved so much. 

Besides, Calvin was a fucking loser. Annoying, big mouthed, an asshole to his girl… who wouldn’t pick Art when those were the options? Demi wasn’t either of their usual types, though, so Patrick was struggling to see it. Patrick had thought she was pretty and actually quite magnetizing, but it was a little strange to hear that Art was so infatuated. He hadn’t said as much, but he and Art had known each other extremely intimately for the past six years, so Patrick knew what he was like with a crush. Demi just seemed like a slightly unusual focus for that energy, but Patrick supposed it was better than Art’s crush being centered on Tashi or Kinzie. That took out the element of competition, which Patrick liked more than Art did. If Art was there, he’d say some shit like You just like it ‘cos the girls always choose you. Patrick couldn’t deny it either. They did usually like Patrick, but that was usually when he lost interest. It wasn’t as fun if they weren’t into Art too, if the want didn’t circle between the three of them. 

Patrick pictured Demi, pictured her at the CoHo, sitting curled all small and sweet, shyly avoiding his eyes. It wasn’t about her being a curvier girl necessarily, but she was so shy that when he tried to picture her and Art, he couldn’t fully do it, although he thought they’d look good together. It would be difficult not to look good with Art. He could make anyone look great, no matter what. Art had just never really liked such a shy girl before, which confused Patrick a bit. Confident girls like Tashi were the most fun for the push-pull between him and Art and for the first time, he was struck with the realization that Art might not want to share Demi with him if he ever got her, which felt a little concerning. Art didn’t like being left out and neither did Patrick. 

Patrick’s tournament game was at almost exactly the same time as Art’s first match at Stanford. Art sent him a good luck text and he sent one back including a ‘don’t choke loser’ in reference to Art’s audience. He knew that Art would be feeling nervous, tucking his chin down in the way he always did when he was trying to pretend he wasn’t. Art usually got nervous before a match and Patrick didn’t, plus Art took more stake in an audience presence in general. It didn’t hurt that Patrick almost never had people watching for him specifically, but he couldn’t help but do a scan as he stepped out onto the court. He wasn’t even sure who on Earth he could be looking for. Tashi and Kinzie were on Stanford campus, Art was literally playing a match a six hour drive away, and Patrick didn’t know Demi like at all aside from the two conversations he’d had with her so there was no reason for her to be there. His dad had never been to one of his matches before and Debbie was definitely still in Florida, though when she’d been able to, she’d watched his matches on t.v. Such a low level Future wasn’t being broadcast anywhere but locally, however, she’d probably be watching the website and refreshing for score updates obsessively and waiting on his post-match call. 

Still, Patrick found himself disappointed not to recognize any faces in the audience. Despite what he knew, and the rationalizing he went through to justify the lack of presence, a feeling echoed hollowly through him and he found himself a little sad about the whole thing.

He played the entire match on auto pilot. For the first set he was a little too soft and missed a few easy balls, which he knew had his coach tugging his hair out. Then he overcompensated for the second set and the fire came out, though it felt less powerful without the mitigating power of ice. As a duology, he and Art were perfectly matched. Without him, Patrick was good, obviously, but there was nobody to reel him back in when he started in and lost control of all his fire. 

Patrick won by the skin of his teeth. It was tighter than he would have liked it to be. In the end, as he knelt to tie his shoe, he found himself unsurprised that he didn’t care about winning nearly as much as he cared about Art not being there to see it. Later, at his post match celebratory dinner, he ended up absconding from the table to stand outside the diner when he realized that Art was calling him. They’d bantered over text about it a little earlier, but this was different.

“Hey,” Patrick said into the receiver, trying not to sound too excited.

“Hey,” Art said, sounding breathless the way he did after laughing.

“How are-”

“How’d your match go?” They said at the same time. Patrick laughed.

“C’mon, you have to ask? Obviously I had it in the bag,” Patrick said.

“Obviously.” Patrick could practically hear Art rolling his eyes at him.  

“Nah, it was good. I wished you were playing with me. Doubles are more fun.”

“You don’t have a new doubles partner?”

“I haven’t done a double yet. Wait, do you?”

“Yeah, just here. He’s good. Not as good as you, though. S’not as fun with someone else.” Patrick couldn’t help the smarmy grin that overtook his face.

“You miss me?”

“Of course I do.”

“What about your little girlfriend?”

“She’s not my girlfriend. Shouldn’t I ask you the same thing?”

“Kinzie’s not my girlfriend.”

“I meant Tashi, but I guess she isn’t either.”

“No, but I still have dibs.”

“You’re annoying,” Art said.

“I know.” A heavy pause, then Patrick started again, “Your little girlfriend came to the match, you said?”

“Yeah, she did.”

“How was that?”

“It was great. Patrick, she’s so cute,” Art said, his voice getting higher. Fuck, yeah, Art had a real crush on this girl. Whatever happened to staying away? Loser. “She even asked me if I won after, it was really cute. She’s so smart but she doesn’t understand tennis like, at all. She’s so nice, too, we’ve been working together for our writing class and-”

Art went on. Patrick tuned the words out for a while, just enjoying the sound of his voice. He liked the sound of it. Art had such a nice voice. He pictured it in his head, Art beaming, and then wondering if Demi smiled back at him. She did have a nice smile, he thought. His heart did a little twinge thinking about the two of them smiling, and then, oh, what if she gave him a hug? That probably would be cute. Demi was short enough that Art could rest his chin on top of her head. Patrick decided that despite his reservations, he really could see it now, but he did find himself worrying about his role in it in the long term. He’d have to test it out in Stanford next week, he thought, lighting up a Camel and sticking it in his mouth, exhaling a gentle puff of silver smoke that swirled into a pretty cloud against the night sky.