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Oh, we’re on, aren’t we?
8
Ty
This is amistake.
I shouldn’t have told Lance about my fantasy, but once we were alone together, I couldn’t keep this all in my head anymore. I had to tell someone. Anyone.
I definitely shouldn’t have encouraged us to meet at Sigma Alpha to mess around, and Lance shouldn’t have gone along with it. But before he left the meeting room, he said,“I have another class, and then I’ll meet you at Sigma Alpha.”
This has huge mistake written all over it. It could wind up being an epic fail that leaves both of us, or one of us, embarrassed as hell. Although, if there’s anyone I trust to experiment with, it’s the guy who kept secret what happened last spring.
I return to my frat house, telling myself I’ll get some work done on a group project I have in Ethics, Law, and Policy, but it turns into mindless scrolling on socials.
Nothing takes the edge off, though, so I start pacing my room like I would before a big exam. Biting my bottom lip, I check my phone for what must be the hundredth time. Lance’s class must’ve ended thirty minutes ago, but he hasn’t texted me to let me know he’s on his way.
Maybe now that he’s had time to think about what a stupid idea this is, he’s changed his mind. Can’t say I’d blame him, but my heart sinks at the thought of not exploring this, ofbeing left wondering what the hell is going on. Just as bad would be having a guy I’ve considered a worthy adversary suddenly looking at me differently whenever we see each other at TaskFrat challenges or around school.
No, he wouldn’t do that to me.
I start texting him, then stop.
Fuck, if he’s looking at his phone, sees the ellipsis come up, he’ll know I stopped, so I go ahead and send the question that’s burning on my mind.
Still coming over?
I stare at the text feed, waiting for a response, when the ellipsis appears, indicating Lance is replying, giving me some relief that at least he’s still talking to me.
Then it stops.
Then starts back up.
Then stops again.
When it doesn’t pick back up again, it’s soul-crushing. This has been my fear all along—that he wouldn’t come. And he won’t. I can feel it in my bones.
Once he had time away from me, he must’ve gotten his head on straight—as if anything is straight about any of this—and decided he couldn’t follow through with messing around with a guy.
I wish he would just say that, not leave me wondering what he’s thinking.
I know it’s a shit idea—if he needs space, I should give it to him—but I’m not letting him get away without telling me to my face, so I grab my keys and wallet and start for the door.
When I open it, I freeze in place. Lance is standing outside, wide-eyed, his phone in his hand.
As seems to be a familiar pattern for us the past few days, I’m thrown. “I thought you weren’t coming over,” I blurt.
His lips twist into a frown. “I considered it. Got to thedoor when you texted and figured this was my last chance to bail.” He smirks awkwardly, and all the frustration I’d worked up dissolves. Having him here brings me visceral relief.
I step aside so he can come in, then close the door.
“You want something to drink? I have some beer, White Claw…”
“I could have a White Claw.”
“I only have peach-flavored. That work?”
“This is Peach State. Why would we have any others?” He smiles, disarming me in that way he has.