“America Weekly, please hold.”
“No, no, no, no, no!” I yell into the phone, but the cheesy instrumental music doesn’t care.
It’s the fifth time I’ve called, after being repeatedly disconnected. I’ve been on hold on and off for three hours.
The music stops and a man answers. “Hello, Features Desk. This is Carl speaking.”
Holy shit, a person.
“Ohmygod, hi, my name is Cassie Davis and I need to talk to features editor Stephen Bing.”
“He’s out for the rest of the day.”
What? “No, he can’t be. There’s a story about me—no, more like a story I wrote. But I have to stop it, and I need to talk to him.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you. He’s at the Supreme Court right now, and he doesn’t have a phone with him.”
“Oh my God, this can’t be happening.” I press my hand to my forehead.
“Wait, what’d you say your name was?”
“Cassandra Davis.”
“You’re the frat girl, right?”
People ask me this all the time, when a class is letting out, or when I’m in line at Campus Coffee. But it feels completely different coming from someone who works at one of the biggest magazines in the world.
“Uh, yeah.”
“I’ve been working on your story all week. I think I can help you.”
“Oh thank God.”
There’s a shuffling sound on the other end. “Let me just grab an open conference room, and then you can catch me up.”
“Okay. Oh my God, thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
He laughs. “Okay, I’m all set, so why don’t you first tell me why you want to stop yourself from getting the break of a lifetime.”
“Okay, so the first one who was cool was Duncan...” I take a deep breath and explain how the project developed and so did my friendships with the guys. How everything I thought was black-and-white turned out to be gray the more I dug.
“And I just feel like, in feminist literature, there’s this phrase where what’s personal is political. That’s kind of the basis of this project, that patriarchal ideas also affect our friendships and romantic relationships, and create issues that need to be addressed. But just because the personal is political, doesn’t mean you can use the same tools to approach relationships that you use for dealing with political issues. When women can’t vote and you fight for that right, you don’t need to care what your opposition thinks of you, you can use whatever tatic you want as long as you get enough votes for the amendment.
“But when we talk about social equality, how bias plays a role in friendships, we’re talking about changing hearts and minds. Disbanding this frat won’t get rid of the problems, which, yes, exist. It will just spread those people out and make them angry.
“We need to talk about nuance. We need to differentiate between seemingly mean comments made to me because friends of any sex give each other shit and always will, and comments that illustrate double standards and are a result of negative societal ideas. To see what’s humor that pushes the envelope and what’s bigotry disguised by a punch line. If we don’t make that clear, those guys are just going to be pissed off because they think people are ‘PC policing’ them for the former, when we’re really talking about the latter. And I just don’t think the piece as it stands does that. I think it will do more harm than good. For the boys here and the entire Greek system, but also for feminism and women on college campuses.”
I breathe.
“Damn. We should just run that in the magazine.”
I laugh. “So you see what I mean?”
“Yeah, I really do. And you know, I was in a frat back in my day.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Sig Nu.”
“No way!”
“Yeah. And I’ve also been writing about gender issues for years and consider myself a card-holding feminist.”
Huh.
“Okay,” he goes on. “I’ll tell you what. I’m gonna talk to Steve as soon as he gets back from Washington. Even all your great points aside, I think it’s as simple as we can’t run an article without the author’s consent, and I don’t care that, legally speaking, you gave up the rights. I mean, they’re your journal entries, pretty much a diary, and nothing screams off the record more than a diary. Honestly, I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I’ll get back to you after I talk to Steve on Monday. But you can relax—it’s taken care of.”
“Thank you!”
I hang up and set my phone down on the desk, able to breathe again.
Almost immediately there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
I look up as Jordan pushes the door open. “Peter wants everyone downstairs.”
“That can’t be good.” I stand up, leaving my phone on the desk. I have no pockets, and I’ll be back up in a few minutes. Hopefully not to pack.
“I don’t know. He was smiling.”
“Really?”
The whole chapter is crammed in the living room, and Peter’s standing on the hearth, watching everyone file in with a ridiculous grin on his face.
“That everyone?” he asks as people shove over, and Jordan and I take a seat on the couch.
“Okay, men and whatever... Cassie, you get the idea. I have some fabulous news. Miss Alexandra McNeely, who some of you might have met when she graced us with her presence last Saturday, has volunteered to testify before the housing board as to what happened that night. And the housing board, for the first time ever, has agreed to hear testimony before they make a decision. Now, there are no guarantees, but when I spoke to the Greek adviser—who, as you all know, sits on the housing board—he said if her story checks out the way I told it to him, which of course it will, then our acts of Good Samaritan–ism will mean not just clearing these charges but taking us completely off probation.”
A cheer erupts throughout the room.
“Now, everyone...” He waves his arms. “Back to your rooms to celebrate in a non-probation-breaking way!” He steps down off the hearth, laughing.
Jordan turns to me and says, “That’s awesome!”
“Yep.” I bite my lip, not sure if we should be so happy just yet.
“Cassie,” Peter says as he saunters across the room toward me. “Your friend is really coming through for us, and we really appreciate it.”
“I, um, I’ll tell her that.”
“Please do.”
People don’t heed the celebrating-in-their-rooms rule; they’re already breaking out beers and getting ready to shotgun them right here in living room,
“To Alex!” they say, raising their beers.
“No, to Cassie!” Peter yells.
“To Cassie!”
“This is the kind of loyalty true Deltas are made of. Nice job, kid.” Peter pats me on the shoulder.
I smile despite the poisonous taste in my mouth as he walks away.
“You saved us,” Jordan says.
God, I hope so, I think.
Cheap champagne and cheaper beer flow freely, and someone turns on the music. A familiar melody floats through the air, the kind that swells in your chest, the kind that’s contagiously happy.
The house doors are kept closed, and some underclassmen cover the windows with tinfoil.
Tonight will not be a party that gets out of hand. There will be no random people who sneak in or flirt their way onto the list. There will be no guests. Just family.
I float around the room, my smile stretched across my lips but not making it to my eyes. I make jokes and suggest songs and dance with my friends. And I pretend there’s not an anvil hanging above this happy room, an anvil only I can see. That I put there.
Someone taps my shoulder.
I turn around and find Jordan standing behind me. My false smile turns into a real one.
He leans closer. “What do you say we steal one of those bottles and go out on the lake?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Sounds perfect.”
“Meet you outside in ten.” He walks out through the kitchen.
I finish my beer and chat with Duncan for a minute before excusing myself to go to the bathroom and slipping out the main entrance.
I close the heavy door behind me and hear only a dull hum from the music. The tinfoil does its job well, and outside it’s almost pitch-black. I make my way around the house, the grass cool against my ankles.
The backyard is empty, just a few overturned plastic chairs and beer cans left on tables or littered across the ground.
“Cassie!”
I jump. Jordan is peeking out from behind a tree.
“Oh God, you scared me.”
“Sorry.” He shrugs sheepishly as he steps into view. “I got you this.” He holds out a bottle.
“Perfect.”
We walk forward, and I lean over to kiss him on the cheek.
He takes my hand and helps me through the weeds and mud and down to the little dock.
We walk to the end of the pier, and I slip off my shoes before sitting down. I swing my feet into the cool water, dark in the moonlight. He takes longer to untie his shoes but eventually joins me, handing me the bottle of champagne.
“André?” I examine the four-dollar bottle.
He winks. “Only the best for you, love.” He says the word causally, but it rings in my ears.
“Here, you can do the honors.” He twists off the top and hands it back so I can take the first sip.
“Thank you.” The champagne is probably too sweet and probably too warm, but in this moment it seems pretty perfect. I hand the bottle back to him.
After he drinks he says, “You know what? I think I like our little party better than the one in there.”
I swipe the bottle back. “Me, too.”
“Not to say I don’t love the brothers.”
“Oh, me, too.”
“And, I mean, bros before hoes, of course.” He smiles.
“Hey!” I shove him lightly.
“Oh, calm down—you know I’m kidding.” He takes the hand I pushed him with, weaving his fingers through mine.
I roll my eyes.
“Really, though.” He sets the bottle down on the pier next to him. “You’re the most important person in my life, Cassie.”
I remind myself to breathe.
He brushes a stray hair behind my ear, his eyes fixed on mine. “You’re the only one I feel like I can really talk to, who knows about my life here and at home. And you always know what to say to help me deal with things—you’re so smart like that. You’re...you’re like my best friend. And I think I might be falling for you.”
A million thoughts race through my mind. What I want to say, what I feel. What I should say, knowing how much I’ve lied to him, knowing that all of this is hanging in a balance he doesn’t know exists.
So I don’t say anything. I just lean forward and kiss him. It’s the most passionate kiss I’ve ever had, behind it everything we feel, everything we need, everything I am so afraid we’ll lose.
I lean back and look at him, studying the face I see in my dreams. My voice is thin when I say, “I think I’m falling for you, too.”
We lie back on the dock, our hands just barely touching, and watch the stars sparkling above. Every once in a while one of us sits up to have a sip of the sweet, bubbly liquid. It tastes like the summer that’s just beginning to arrive.
I shift closer to him, and for a moment it feels like this might not have to end. That this—this giddy, happy, amazing love—might go on forever.
“I miss the city,” he says.
“Mmm, me, too.”
“I miss waking up with you...showering with you.”
I wonder if he can see my smile in the dark.
“Not just the sexual stuff. I mean, I love that, but if we’re careful, we can do that here. But the little moments like this... I wish we could have more of them here. That we didn’t have to hide.”
“Me, too.”
I give him a peck on the cheek before sitting up to grab the bubbly. I tilt the bottle up, but only a few drops spill out.
“Champagne’s gone.”
“Really?” He sits up, as well.
“Yeah, it—”
Before I can finish my sentence, his lips are on mine, kissing me feverishly.
I break away to catch my breath. “Okay.” I laugh and set down the bottle, and then kiss him back.
He slips a hand in my hair as we kiss more deeply. I pull him closer, then swing one leg around him. He lets out a moan.
His hands travel to the nape on my neck, then down my back. I weave my hands through his hair, and his hands slip under my shirt, brushing across my waist and upward to cup my breasts over the lace of my bra.
I lean back and lift my shirt by the hem, pulling it over my head and dropping it on the deck beside us.
He takes me in, running his finger along the black lace, which contrasts against my fair skin, even more so in the dark of night.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs.
I smile and kiss him again.
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Thank you.” He kisses me lightly on the lips again.
I lean back. “You know what we should do?” I can feel the mischievous smile on my lips.
“What?” he asks.
“This.” I stand up and slide off my skirt so it pools around my ankles.
I’m wearing tiny black lace underwear that barely covers my ass. My pale skin shines in the moonlight, and the air is colder than I thought it would be now that I’m exposed and no longer in his warm arms.
And even though he’s seen me naked, I feel a bit self-conscious.
I look over my shoulder, and his gaze on me settles all my nervousness, replacing it with a new kind of thrilling feeling in my heart.
I reach behind my back to undo my bra, then slide the straps down my arms and let it fall to the dock.
I reach toward my underwear, and hear a sharp intake of breath from behind me as I shimmy the lace down my legs and step out of them.
I turn around and smile flirtatiously before jumping into the water.
The water is colder than I expected but feels nice. I’m definitely very aware that I’m not wearing a swimsuit, but it feels very...natural. There’s something animalistic about it that’s so hot.
I come back up for air, smoothing my hair back.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” I ask.
Jordan smiles and stands, pulling off his T-shirt.
* * *
We spend most of the night asleep in an old boathouse, cuddled up in a canoe, using some towels as makeshift blankets. I sleep well.
Until I wake up around sunrise, when there’s enough light to see the effing spiders.
After I wake up a sound-asleep Jordan with my screams, we decide to head back to the house to get some real sleep.
It’s full light in my room by the time I get there, but I climb into bed and crash without even changing or getting under the covers.
I wake up sweating, the sun in my eyes. Looking out my window, I estimate it must be around noon. I slide out of my bed and walk over to check my phone, but it’s dead. Wiping the sweat off my forehead, I dig through my desk until I find the charger, then get down on my hands and knees to plug it into the outlet placed so conveniently under the desk.
After standing up, I head to my wardrobe, looking for a cute sundress to wear. Jordan and I made plans to get lunch in Palo Alto, but I don’t know if the white lacy one or the floral one is more cute-but-not-trying casual.
My phone buzzes once, indicating it’s turning on. I mean, it’s gotta be floral, right?
My phone buzzes about fifty more times.
What the...?
I walk over and grab the phone. Seven missed calls and a voice mail from an unsaved number in New York, New York.
Oh my God.
My hands shaking, I click on the message.
“Cassie, this is Carl, and I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Steve won’t budge on the story. In fact, they pushed it up a week because there’s a companion piece they want to run it with. By the time I reached him it was already being printed. He couldn’t have stopped it even if he’d wanted to. It comes out tomorrow. I’m so sorry, Cassie. I really wish I could have helped but—”
The phone falls to the ground, bouncing twice on the carpet.
My brain is going off in so many different directions, but I have only one coherent thought: I need to find Jordan.
I fly out of my room. Maybe if I find him before he reads it, if I can explain the situation, if he hears it from me...
I throw open the door to his room, but all the bunks are empty.
I rush down the stairs and burst into the common room, and for the first time since I moved in, it’s dead silent.
Most people get up and leave when they see me; others just shake their heads at the floor.
“Have any of you seen Jordan?” My voice sounds like I’m crying, even though the tears that sting my eyes haven’t fallen yet.
Behind me, someone clears his throat.
I turn around, and there he is, leaning against the back wall, a copy of America Weekly in his hands. He looks like someone just slapped him.
“You lied...to all of us.”
“I...” My voice starts out weak and fades to nothing. I doubt that syllable even makes it across the room.
“There’s nothing to say.” I’ve never seen his eyes like this. They are usually dark in a rich and warm way, now they look like a stormy sky. For the first time I wish he was looking at anyone but me.
I look around, but everyone else has fled the room.
“I—I tried to be fair, balanced. I say some good things.”
“It doesn’t matter what you said. I trusted—we trusted—” In his eyes I see what he can’t say inside the house, where someone may overhear. You lied to me; all of this was a lie. I thought I was in love with you, and it was a lie.
But it wasn’t a lie. I lied about so many things, big and small. But not the way I felt about him.
He throws the magazine down at my feet and storms out. And just like that, I’m alone, the sound of the slamming door ringing in my ears.