In the Wake of Wanting (14 page)

“You don’t hate it? Sometimes I think it annoys you.”

“It doesn’t annoy me. It’s challenging. Sometimes it’s frustrating. But it feels good to finish one, and I’m always proud to see them in print. Proud of you; a little amazed at what you can do.”

“Don’t act like you get nothing out of it,” she says, still massaging my sore shoulder. “Don’t forget you’re being graded by proxy.”

“I guess I am. I’ll happily mooch off your talent.”

“You have your own. The ability to make people feel–it’s a gift. And it’s rare to see it in news journalism. You make it seem artistic.”

“I’m doing better this year. Now that I know that’s what Aslon wants.”

“But your whole blog is about emoting with the people you’ve met. You didn’t do that last year on
The Wit
?”

“No. I thought it should be dry. Factual. I was following rules. But Aslon told me to stop doing that. I’m very good with rules. I find it very difficult to break them.”

“I sense that about you,” she says. “I admire that about you. But sometimes, you don’t have a choice.”

Before I even have a chance to tense up at my interpretation of what she said, even if she wasn’t implying I should break some sort of “moral” rules with her right now, in this room, she gets a tighter grip on my shoulders, moving away from the sore spot and digging her thumbs in aggressively. “You’re hopeless.” She pats my biceps and stands up in front of me. “Make an appointment with the athletic trainer or with a professional masseuse. You’re just getting more tense.”

“You were helping!” I insist. I rotate my shoulder slowly, feeling the tender muscle. “Already that feels better.”

“Well, the rest of you is tightening up. I make you nervous or something.”

I nod my head–barely, slowly at first, but then adamantly to show her that she’s right. “In the sauna with you? Yeah. You do. But to be fair, any girl would. It just feels wrong.”

“Says the rule-abider.”

I smirk at the nickname. “Coley? Doesn’t it to you?” She shrugs and looks away. “Maybe it doesn’t feel wrong, but it doesn’t feel right, either.”

“I’m just helping a friend.”

“But the fact that you just called me a rule-abider makes me think you acknowledge this as against the rules, somewhere.”

She walks toward the door, wiping perspiration from her forehead with the towel. I keep my eyes above her shoulders, even though they want to look elsewhere. “If you were my boyfriend, a hefty discussion would be required after something like this with another girl.”

“See?”

“Let’s go,” she says. I follow her out of the sauna and grab a fresh towel on my way out of the locker room, drying myself off. “I wasn’t looking at this from her perspective. I don’t think our relationship is easily understood.”

“No,” I respond. “I don’t really understand it half the time.” She turns around and looks at me sympathetically. “Just being honest.”

“It’s easy. You’re my friend and my boss.”

“I am
not
your boss,” I argue playfully, opening the main door for her.

“Then we’re just friends. That makes it even easier.”

chapter eight

On a Thursday evening in mid-February, Stanley, Asher and I are all doing homework together at the frat house on 113
^th
. There’s a lot of noise coming from the other floors, but the study is relatively quiet tonight.

“How’s your story coming?” Asher asks.

“Which one?” I counter tersely, still perturbed that he and Professor Aslon saddled me with three articles this week–all news and no fluffy features.

“The one about the bribery claims at the secondary school.”

“That one’s submitted. It should be in the editor inbox. They’re strong allegations, but not unfounded.”

“You’ve got your bases covered?”

“Of course. I know better than to report on something like this without well-documented sources,” I assert.

“Just making sure,” he says as he pats me on the shoulder. “Which other ones do you have?”

“The one about the budget shortfalls in the math department and the story covering the ever-deteriorating conditions of the Wiley dorms–still featuring sketchy heating!” I say sarcastically. “Did you know they’ve now given electric blankets to all the residents? And added it to their housing bill for the semester?”

“That’s a load of bullshit,” Asher says. “Once we publish your article, that’ll change.”

“I’m so glad I don’t live there anymore.”

“Yeah, but it gave you a nice advantage for the story… don’t you think?”

“Well, yeah. I definitely have a perspective no one else has. It’s too bad no one wrote it when I was a resident, though. I froze my ass off in the winter, and subsequently sweated it off in the spring.”

“Hey, are you guys bringing anyone to the formal Saturday?” Stanley asks, changing the subject.

“Stupid Valentine’s Day formal,” I murmur. “Yeah, how would that look to Zai? You can’t bring friends to that event, no matter what.”

“No,” they both agree.

I think about Coley and wonder if I would have invited her if it wasn’t Valentine’s Day. I think I could have. Zaina knows about her. She knows we’re friends, and Zaina’s taken some of her guy friends to events at Oxford. Nothing formal, but they’re just
clothes
. “Hey, Asher, you never told me if you asked out Coley at the beginning of the semester,” I tell him, thinking enough time has passed to bring it up and wanting his side of the story.

“Yeah, I decided it wasn’t a good idea, trying to date someone on the paper. What if I didn’t like her, you know? That’d be messy.”

“I guess so, yeah,” I say, looking at him sideways as he stares into his advanced statistics book. That lie came
very
easily to him.

“She seeing anyone yet?”

“Not that I know of.”

“She’s still the most fuckable girl I’ve met this year, though. Don’t think I don’t, uh…
think
about her.” He bites his bottom lip lewdly.

“Jesus, Asher,” I say, pushing the table away from me angrily. Both he and Stanley look up at me, surprised. “Sorry. I mean… do you have to be so blunt about that?”

“Well, isn’t she? Oh, wait. Zaina wouldn’t want you to admit anything like that. I’ll withdraw the question.”

Stanley laughs at his response, and my skin burns hot in frustration and ire.

“I’ve invited Pryana,” Asher says.

“How is that not dating someone from the paper?” I ask him, referring to our managing editor, the woman who is set to replace him next year.

“It’s not a date. We just thought it would be fun to dress up and hang out together for once, and since I’m not currently dating anyone and she’s never dating anyone, I just thought, what the hell? I’ll take Pryana. She’s cute enough. Plus, she and Coley have become friends, so maybe that’ll make her jealous.”

“But… you don’t want to date Coley.”

“I still want her to know what she’s missing.”

“Oh, she sees it every day, Asher,” I tell him sarcastically.

“Does she talk about me?” he asks. He apparently didn’t pick up on the sarcasm. I sometimes think his ears filter it out when he simply doesn’t want to hear it.

“Here you go again,” Stanley cuts in, “thinking everyone talks about you. Thinking everyone wants you. Asher Knoxland. God’s Gift to Columbia University.”

“Did you have the shirts made yet, Stan?”

I laugh at them both and conveniently forget to answer Asher’s question.

“I’m going stag,” I tell Stanley. “Are you bringing Kim?” He nods.

“You know they don’t like it when guys come stag,” my fraternity brother tells me.

“I’m well aware, but I don’t have a choice in the matter. I know I’m not the only one.”

“It just doesn’t look good in the pictures.”

“I’ll stay out of them. Not a problem,” I vow.

“Maybe there will be a Kappa Sig without a date that you can hook up with–not literally, of course,” Stanley suggests, referring to our sister sorority.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” I rebut. “Aren’t there… expectations?” I think back to Asher and Pryana going and look over at him after I ask the question.

“Pryana and I have an understanding. I’m getting her a car back to her apartment after the dance.”

“Ahhh. That sounds distinctly un-Asher.” He flips me off.

“Or, hey, since we’re staying in Manhattan, there are always women ready to party,” Asher says to me. “You can just wait outside of a club–oh! Go to Thin Ice. They only let models in there, and they
always
come out wasted. Just bring one of them with you.”

“Why don’t I just hire a hooker?” I say sarcastically. “Since when did we become Betas?
We’re
the good guys. This stupid dance is supposed to be for our girlfriends or women we care about–not for some random
chicks
. The only reason I’m not bringing a friend is because it’s Valentine’s Day and because the fraternity
did
stipulate that there was some meaning behind this formal, and Zaina wouldn’t like it.”

“All right, all right,” Stanley says. “I’ll stop harassing you.”

Two nights later at the Carlyle, just as soon as the photographer begins setting up to gather all of my brothers and their dates together for pictures, I conveniently make my way out a side door of the ballroom and undo the bowtie I’d worn for the evening. It was about the most uncomfortable I’ve been in a very long time. I’ve never been to a dance where I’ve been relegated to wallflower status. I’ve always had a date.
Always
. And while I danced with plenty of my brothers’ dates, I couldn’t help but see pity every time I looked in their eyes.

And I was so tired of hearing my pathetic self say, “My girlfriend is at Oxford,” that I stopped saying it altogether. I ended up resenting Zaina more than missing her by the end of the night. I consider going up to the room I’d paid for, but decide to get my coat from the coat check and take a walk. It’s not nearly as cold as it should be in February. It actually feels nice, and in the open air of the city under the darkness of the moonlight, it’s the first time in four hours there are no eyes on me.

I feel free.

Deciding that walking through Central Park is not the best idea dressed as I am, I stay on the perimeter of the park but walk all the way back to Columbia and end up at Ruvelyn’s Café where I’d admittedly hoped to find a certain freshman reading, studying, or writing late this Saturday evening. I glance around, though, and she’s not here.
Of course she’s not. It’s Valentine’s Day. What single girl goes and hangs out alone in public on Valentine’s Day? Or, hell, maybe some smart guy asked her on a date.

“What can I get you, Trey?” Frank, the barista, asks me. “Caffe Americana?”

“Please.”

“You know you didn’t have to dress up like that for me,” he teases, fluttering his lashes. He
is
gay, but I know he’s kidding.

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh all you want,” I tell him, sitting down at the tall table I’d first sat at with Coley.

“You didn’t get ditched by a date, did you? Tonight of all nights.”

“No, I just came from our fraternity formal. I was already dateless.”

“You?”

“He has a girlfriend at Oxford.” I turn around to see Coley emerging from the hallway where the restrooms are. She’s wearing her ripped jeans again and a red sweater with woven stripes in the pattern.

“Hey, you!” I say, standing up to face her. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Speaking of fancy,” she says back to me. “Look at you.”

“I wear this shit all the time back at home,” I joke with her. “At the Holland house, it’s what we wear: tuxes and formal gowns. This is my Wednesday suit, in fact. It’s not even my nice one.”

“Stop it.” She laughs, settling at a table that has a bunch of books already spread out. I see her red purse–it would have been a dead give-away that she was here if I had just looked at the table.

“Drinks up, Trey. Too bad about your Oxford girl,” he says, glancing quickly at Coley and then back at me.

“Thanks.” I walk over to her table. “You’re pretty trusting to leave your purse out like that.”

“Frank said he’d only take my cash and leave my credit cards and
lady products
,” she comes back quickly with a smirk. “He was watching my stuff for me. We go way back… to last semester, you know?”

I grin at her skeptically. “You’re not doing homework tonight, are you?” She shakes her head and chews on the end of a pen. I glance down at her open Moleskine notebook. “Poetry?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you, uh… inspired by the date and writing love poems?” I ask playfully, kicking the leg of her chair.