I’ve never been so hungover.
My Friday-night shift at the library is brutal. Almost not survivable, really. It has to be some kind of human rights violation to force a student worker to stare into the glare of a computer screen, drag around a cart of books (with a broken wheel that squeaks so loudly it’s like an ice pick to their frontal lobe), and argue with other students about their overdue books all while battling what is categorically the worst hangover of their life.
“Are you getting sick again?” Margie asks me when she catches me slumped over the front desk with my head buried in my arms. “Because if you are, just go home. Don’t even clock out. I’ll say you were here, and they’ll pay you for the full shift.”
I almost take her up on the offer. But I’m stubborn, so I stay. That’s why. No other reason. Not because I keep watching the front doors. Not because I keep imagining that I hear them creak open, see a glint of light off the glass, catch the movement of a tall, dark-haired boy coming inside. Every time, my chest seizes up with panic.
Because if Vincent walks into the library, then I’ll have to face what happened last night. Which means I’ll have to confront all the evidence indicating Vincent hooked up with me more for his friends’ sake than for his own—the audience at Starbucks, Jabari presenting me as a birthday gift, the kid at the bar trying to get us upstairs to Vincent’s room, our unbalanced alone time (Kendall, 1; Vincent, 0), my missing underwear—and, perhaps even worse, all the evidence I’m still clinging to that it all meant as much to him as it did to me.
But luckily for me, I don’t have to unpack all that tonight.
There’s no sign of Vincent.
Of course there isn’t, that pessimistic voice in my head whispers. He’s already gotten what he wanted.
• • •
On Saturday, Clement has an away game. I only know this because I make the mistake of opening Twitter while I’m supposed to be reading Chaucer, and the first thing that pops up on my feed is a clip of Vincent triumphantly sinking a three-pointer.
I slam my phone face down on the kitchen counter. It doesn’t help. When I squeeze my eyes shut, I still see him—his bare arms flexing, his hair dark against his sweat-dampened forehead, his mouth curled up into a cocky smile as the blurred crowd in the background jumps to their feet to cheer and applaud him.
Good for him. Glad he’s doing well.
I snatch up my highlighter and recommit myself to wading through Chaucer and his archaic English, which is suddenly less painful in comparison. Nina, who’s washing her weekly collection of water glasses and mugs in the sink across from me, arches an eyebrow.
“You good?”
“Fantastic,” I mumble.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” she says, “and you should reach out to Vincent.”
I flip the page of my book a little too hard. It tears a little at the bottom, right along the spine.
“And why would I do that?”
Nina slaps the faucet off and sets another glass on the drying rack. “Because your pity party has turned into a forty-eight-hour rager, and it must be getting exhausting. You did it. You were appropriately miserable. Now can you please talk it out with him so you can either make up or, like, vandalize his car Carrie Underwood style? Anything but this sad girl hour shit.”
“I am not sad.”
“Right. Sorry. My bad—you’re a coward.”
The word lands like a brick.
“I beg your pardon?”
Nina smiles, just a little, like my reaction confirms it. “I’m not trying to insult you, so I’ll make this nice and simple. Do you still want to be with Vincent or not?”
I swallow hard. “Not anymore.”
“Because his teammates will know? And you can’t bear the thought of people knowing that you—a grown woman—want to fuck another consenting adult?”
“Because I felt objectified,” I correct. “You were there, Nina. I saw your face. You got the same sketch vibes that I did. Jabari left Harper upstairs and went to hold another girl’s hand. The rest of the team was trying to get me alone with Vincent. There was a team mission. What if it was a game to them? What if they were keeping score? Boys do that. I’ve read articles about sports teams that have spreadsheets.”
Nina narrows her eyes at me. “You think Vincent’s teammates tried to hook you guys up?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“So, they did exactly what Harper and I were doing?”
I open my mouth, then shut it, then try again. “It’s different. You know it’s different.”
“How is it different?”
Why does it feel like Nina’s not taking my side on this?
“They’re boys, Nina. And if you list out every little shred of evidence I have from that night, it’s the classic setup for the it was all a bet trope.”
Nina smacks a palm to the counter.
“There it is! I knew it! You make a narrative out of everything. Look—yes. Sometimes art imitates life. But you always oversimplify things so you can tuck them into neat and tidy boxes. It’s like you’re doing a literary analysis of your own fucking life to avoid actually living it.”
“I don’t do that,” I argue. Oh, God, I do.
“You do,” Nina says. “It’s self-sabotage. Because if you can convince yourself you already know how it ends, then you get to walk away without having to actually be a real person and live your life. Sometimes it feels like you don’t want to do anything. I get that you’re not a big fan of parties and crowds, but sometimes it feels very I’m not like other girls.”
It’s like she’s struck me across the face.
“I am like other girls,” I argue. “I make a point not to think I’m better than other women, and you know that.”
“So why were you able to full-on maul Vincent when it was just the two of you, but Harper and I had to physically drag you into the basketball house to get you to fucking talk to him? Huh? What’s all that about?”
“Because I was nervous,” I splutter. “I’m not good at this stuff, Nina. I’m not like—”
“Other girls?”
“That is not where I was going with that!”
Nina huffs, turns to shove her favorite mug onto the shelf, and then presses the cupboard door shut. When she spins to face me again, her expression is maternal in a way that makes me feel like I’m in elementary school again and my mom is asking me why I can’t just go over and say hello to the other kids instead of clinging to her leg.
“I love you, Kenny,” Nina says. “And that means I have to tell you when I think you’re in the wrong before you make a complete mess of everything.”
I think of Vincent’s face, bathed in magenta and cyan party lights. The ragged sigh he played off with a shrug. I’ve already made a mess.
“Can you please stop treating me like a child,” I beg Nina. I feel nauseous. My skin is tight. “Just because you like parties doesn’t mean I have to. And just because you go on tons of dates and hook up with people all the time—”
“So, I’m the whore best friend?”
I frown. “The what?”
“I’m just saying.” Nina shrugs. “It sounds like you’re the poor virginal main character, and I’m the whore best friend who’s only around to cheer you on while you go after the guy. I’m a supporting character. A plot device. I lent you my hottest bodysuit, dragged you to a party—because God forbid the bookworm go to a party of your own free will—and then I strategically slipped out of the picture so you could get the golden boy alone.” She folds a damp tea towel on the counter and gives it a proud pat. “I’m the whore best friend.”
“No, you aren’t,” I protest. “You’re not a whore, Nina.”
“And you’re not a child. So, stop acting like one and have some fucking agency.”
I’m so stunned, and my body is so shivery and overheated, that all I can think to do is slide off the kitchen stool and storm off to my room.
Like a child.
• • •
The next few days are miserable.
Chaucer kicks my ass. Then I learn we’re doing some Shakespeare next. Someone in our building takes my laundry out of the dryer and puts theirs in instead, stealing a dollar and wasting an hour of my life. I trip over a curb while crossing the street onto campus and make eye contact with a girl from my women’s literature class.
I don’t see Vincent at all, except in a very vivid nightmare.
(We’re in the basketball team’s house, except the floor plan is all scrambled and wonky, the way they tend to be in dreams. I’m chasing Vincent. I try to scream his name, but nothing comes out, and he keeps getting swallowed up in the crowd of faceless strangers.)
It’s a rotten week.
It doesn’t help that Nina and I are in some kind of horrible Wild West–style standoff, and Harper, who’s made it clear she won’t pick a side, has gotten mad at us for fighting and decided to ice us both out too. The three of us don’t fight often. We’ve never shuffled around the apartment in silence, coming and going without a word and waiting until the coast is clear to use our shared bathroom. I know I’ll have a break from the tension this weekend—Nina’s improv class is taking an overnight road trip to do a festival, and Harper’s headed home for the weekend to celebrate her grandmother’s hundredth birthday.
I can’t tell if I’m thankful that we’ll all have time away from one another or if I’m dreading the possibility that our standoff could trickle over into next week.
I feel sick. I can’t eat.
Because now, I’m able to admit to myself in the quietest of internal monologues, I know I have three people I have to apologize to.
Thursday evening, I curl up on the living room couch with my (horrible, boring, overrated) anthology of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Nina’s at the kitchen counter with a history textbook. Harper is in her room, the door wide open as she packs her bag for her trip. We’re still not talking, and it’s tense, but we’ve all made the decision to be in one another’s space. It’s a little passive-aggressive. It’s also a clear sign that we’re all desperate to make a point, to be seen and heard, and to settle things.
I know I should be the one to apologize first.
But Harper, of all people, is the one who cracks.
“You guys,” she announces from her bedroom doorway, her voice small and tired and a little bit furious, “I’m really tired of this.”
And then her face scrunches up, and the tears come.
Nina and I freeze, then lurch into action. I pop up off the couch, my Shakespeare tumbling to the floor (where it belongs), and hurry across the living room as Nina leaps up from her stool and throws her arms around Harper’s shaking shoulders.
“I’m tired of this strong Black woman shit,” she croaks into Nina’s armpit.
My stomach sinks like a rock. Maybe I’ve made Nina into my whore best friend, playing right into the stereotype of the sexually liberated bisexual Latina, but I’ve done worse with Harper. I’ve made her the cynical, strong, hardworking friend, and I’ve ignored that she too had everything blow up in her face at the party.
“Fuck,” I say, surprised to find myself crying too. “I’m sorry—oh, God, these are white woman tears—”
Harper laughs. I know it’s not for my sake, because it’s her worst laugh. The one that’s half cackle and half scream. It’s a little waterlogged and sadder than usual, but the sound of it is still a comfort. Nina releases Harper, and I dart forward to help wipe her tears with the sleeve of my oversized cardigan.
“Listen, I am a bad bitch,” Harper says, sniffling. “I like being a bad bitch. But just once, I’d like everyone to go soft on me.” She sits down on the stool Nina has vacated and slumps over the counter a little. When she speaks again, it’s quiet. “That’s why I liked Jabari. He was so over-the-top, and so goofy, and I make fun of simps, but fuck. It was so nice to be treated like that.”
Nina winces. “I’m sorry I was selfish this week. You deserved some support.” She glances at me and winces again. “Both of you. You needed a friend, and I let you guys down. I’m sorry about what I said to you, Kendall. I mean, I stand by some of it—”
“Stop,” I interrupt, wincing hard. “Please, Nina. You should stand by all of it, okay? You were right. I’m sorry I got so defensive. And I’m sorry I made you feel like the slutty best friend—”
“The whore best friend. Please, Kendall. Respect my title.”
It’s my turn to ugly laugh. “I’m sorry I made you feel like a supporting character. And you too, Harper—I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel like you’re an archetype.”
“I don’t actually know what that is,” Harper says, “but apology accepted.”
Nina cups my face in her hands. “I love that you think in stories, Kendall. I do. It’s beautiful, and romantic, and deeply entertaining. But sometimes, when I crack a dirty joke, I wish you wouldn’t sigh and act like you’re not thinking the same thing. Because I’ve read some of the books you read, girl. They’re filthy.”
I laugh, but my cheeks get hot.
Nina takes my face and forces me to meet her eyes. “You’re allowed to be horny, and you’re allowed to be sensitive and nervous and all the other things you are. You don’t have to be an archetype either. You can change. You can be whatever you want to be.”
I swallow hard. It’s impossible to laugh this one off.
“I just don’t want to feel stupid,” I admit.
Harper clears her throat. “You know that I believe, above all other universal truths, that men are garbage,” she says. “And I think Nina and I will both respect it if you tell us that you don’t think Vincent is a good guy. If that’s the case, then it’s over. Done. No questions asked.”
“Oh, one hundred percent,” Nina adds. “But, with all the love and support in the world, I really don’t think Vincent is the bad guy here. I don’t get those vibes.”
I swallow hard. “I know.”
“Except the hair, maybe. It’s very sexy villain of him. And while we’re on the subject of golden retriever boys with nice hair . . .” Nina turns to Harper. “Jabari Henderson was utterly whipped for you. I know I said men are garbage, and I stand by that. But I simply refuse to believe he could switch up on you that fast.”
Harper folds her arms across her chest.
“I’m not chasing after a boy,” she says on a sniffle.
Nina looks like she wants to argue, but nods. “Fine. I accept that. Because I’m working on not meddling and pushing my friends’ boundaries so much. What about you, Kenny? What do you wanna do?”
“I don’t think it matters what I want,” I admit, and voicing it out loud makes the fear I’ve been trying to stifle all week wash over me like a tsunami. “Even if I was wrong about everything, and he really did just like me and all his friends were just trying to support him”—the words make so much sense out loud that it physically hurts to hear them—“I still told him to fuck off and leave me alone. I mean, you saw his face, Nina. He was . . .” I shake my head. “I really hurt him. I don’t know how we come back from that.”
“You could start with an apology?”
I scrub at my eyes and groan. “I want to know what he’s thinking without having to put myself out in the open. This is terrifying.”
Nina reaches out to pinch my cheek. “It’s never going to be a dual point of view novel, Kenny. You just have to talk to him and sort it out. That’s all you can do. Try not to overthink it this time, all right? You get way too in your head about everything.”
I sigh then, abruptly, snort.
“What?” Nina asks.
“I’m trying really hard to think of a good joke about head.”
She shrugs. “It’s not too hard once you open your mouth.”
“Fuck. How are you so good at this?”
“It’s a skill. Much like—”
“All right, all right,” Harper shouts. “We get it!”
• • •
We end the night on the couch, all tangled limbs used as makeshift pillows and hair in one another’s faces, with Pride & Prejudice on the TV. It’s Harper’s request this time. She figures we could use a little bit of comfortable, predictable, satisfying romance. She claims she just wants something to put her to sleep so she’s well-rested for her flight tomorrow, but I catch the flicker of bittersweet emotion cross her face at Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy’s first meeting.
I let my eyelids flutter shut sometime after the disastrous first proposal, when Elizabeth is left alone in the gardens, rain-damp and utterly distraught. I’m too tired to stay awake, and I don’t need to worry about how it’ll turn out.
I know they get a happy ending.
