Chapter 22 #2
I shut down my heart, which starts racing as my phone vibrates in my pocket. He’s responded to my message. And I’m too scared to read it. Not that he’ll say anything new that hasn’t been said before. Whether they’re begging for another chance or calling me a cold-hearted bitch, it’s nothing new.
Rules be rules.
Post keg stand, I am ready to get out of here. Find a place to read this message alone, in peace. Maybe throw my phone without hitting a drunk frat guy.
As I flee, I notice the makeshift bar out of the corner of my eye and swerve for a quick detour because that beer didn’t even touch the sides. But there’s something somber in the air.
The bartender is a generic frat boy with short blond hair, sunglasses on his head even though we haven’t seen the sun since seven, and a salmon polo shirt that screams nepo-frat-baby.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he was conceived here.
He’s shaking a cocktail like he’s pleasuring it, distracted by his deep conversation with another frat guy who’s leaning on the bar in a way I can’t see his face. Just a mop of curly hair.
It takes me less than a second to register they don’t notice me. And there’s a barely touched bottle of peach schnapps within arm’s reach. I snatch it and pivot toward the door. Beggers can’t be choosers.
In the warm, late-summer night air, I make my way to the quad and take a seat on a bench, creating enough distance from the scene of the crime so it’s safe to remove the sticky cap of the schnapps, and take a large gulp.
I choke. It’s sickly sweet and so thick, it should come with a warning.
Not to be drunk fast from a bottle in moments of self-preservation.
Not that I’d heed the warning. I take another large gulp. The quicker I get this down, the faster I’ll stop feeling. At least that’s what I hope.
The burning in my stomach is not from the sugar syrup they call schnapps—it’s a knowing. An understanding.
Love is family. Sex is fleeting. Marriage is a sham.
I repeat it like a mantra until the screaming in my head stops.
“Hey,” a male voice says, interrupting my trip down memory lane.
Me, fifteen years old, upstairs in my bedroom listening to the yelling match between Mom and Dad I wasn’t supposed to hear that went down the night she finally left his cheating ass.
Annoyed, I look up and see the unmistakable thick mop of curly dark hair of the frat boy from the bar. Busted.
“Here,” I say, stretching out the bottle, though I’m still not facing him, assuming the reason he followed me was to get the schnapps back. For what? Other than a toothache, I don’t know.
There’s a soft chuckle, and I turn back around to see him taking a seat next to me. I return the bottle to my lap. His black ripped jeans show off his bare hairless knees. I glance up at his face and finally get a good look at him.
Behind his soft hazel eyes, is concern. Calm the fuck down, bro. It’s one bottle of schnapps from your $20 cover charge frat party.
“Are you okay?” he says, ignoring the contraband.
I take a deep breath. Okay, so he’s not here to reprimand me for stealing from the stash. And his concern is not for the schnapps. Interesting.
“I’m Xander, by the way,” he says. “I saw you leave in a rush …” He holds eye contact with me.
“With a bottle of schnapps.” His lips tip up at the ends, making his eyes sparkle.
“And I know no one in their right mind would actually drink that stuff out of pure enjoyment.” His tone is so gentle, it almost gives me goosebumps.
For a split second, I consider being embarrassed.
An objectively hot male, named Xander, with very nice forearms and hairless knees, has locked his eyes on me.
But being embarrassed only matters if you want someone to think about you in a certain way, and it turns out, I don’t care what this guy thinks of me.
I’m never going to love him. Or sleep with him.
Love is family. Sex is fleeting. Marriage is a sham.
I decide honesty is the way to go.
“I’m Ash and I’m a ‘cold-hearted bitch.’ ” I let go of the schnapps to air quote “cold hearted bitch” without thinking through the physics of it all.
Xander catches the schnapps before it lands and places it gently on the ground, without skipping an intriguing eyebrow raise.
I continue, ignoring how his actions have closed the distance between us on the bench.
“I just cut someone loose via text message,” I say, shrugging. “I’m an asshole.”
Before I can launch into the worst bit about all this, Xander interjects. “I highly doubt that.”
I press my lips together to stop myself from smiling.
“You don’t know me. I could most definitely be an asshole.” I cock my head and look at him. Say what you will about the schnapps, it’s pumping confidence through my veins.
“What’d you say in your text?” he says, and there’s a glint in his eyes, like he’s testing out whether he can get away with teasing me. “I’ll be the judge.” And for the first time since 10:59 PM, which is approximately forever in breakup years, my heart feels lighter.
“Like you aren’t already judging me,” I say. At least he’s pretending to be captivated. Which is all I need to continue. “See: peach schnapps.” It’s a segue I can’t resist. I pick up the bottle and take another long gulp, grimacing at the end.
“You’re right,” he says, standing. “If you’re going to drown your sorrows, don’t do it with that.”
I glance up at him and his ripped jeans and white T-shirt.
He runs his hand through his hair, but his curls can’t be tamed.
They flop back in place. It’s adorable. I notice a small tattoo on his bicep.
A blue swallow. Cute. And hot. Plus, he’s got a personality.
All things that any sane human woman would want in a guy.
And then, he flashes me his dimpled grin that, when combined with those curls, makes my stomach bottom out.
“Let me buy you a real drink,” he says, taking the schnapps out of my hands and discarding it in a conveniently located garbage can. “Then you can tell me all about exactly what makes you an asshole. I’m curious.”
And for some reason, I find myself nodding.
Five minutes later, we’re sitting at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican bar off campus.
One that’s imperceptible to university students who favor ramen and stealing food from the dining hall, which is a total rookie mistake because the drinks are cheap and they don’t card here.
I’ll never tell. Xander found it the first night of O week when he was craving tacos.
“Two margaritas,” Xander says, giving me a gentle bump in anticipation, as if to say, you’re about to drown those sorrows real good. Funny thing, on the walk over, I hadn’t thought about the breakup. Or my mom. Or The Cheating.
I learned about Xander.
For instance, I learned that he isn’t a frat boy.
He’s a junior, like me. He’s just got that raw charisma that sucks even upper classmen into his orbit.
And he’s majoring in criminal justice. I want to make a joke about that, but somehow the words escape me.
Instead, I can’t stop thinking about how my cells are vibrating at the direct contact.
The bartender slides two salt-rimmed margaritas across the bar. Xander and I clink our glasses, and each take a sip at the same time.
“Holy wow,” I say, my mouth still watering, wanting more. The most interesting alcohol I’ve had so far has been White Claw Citrus Squeeze. This is something else.
“Right? Sweet, sour, salty, bitter—sounds like a Taylor Swift breakup song,” he says.
“Sounds like chemistry,” I say, turning the glass in my hand, like it’s the subject of a thesis.
Title: “Margaritas and the Effects on Happiness.” As I take another sip, a voice in my head corrects the title.
Xander and the Effects on Happiness. Shuuddduppppppp, brain.
His lip twitches into a half smile, his hazel eyes amused by my response.
I can feel myself slipping into his orbit. And one thing I know for sure: I can’t.
“If we’re going to hang out, I need to set some ground rules,” I say, deciding to get ahead of whatever this is.
I want to taste the margarita in his mouth.
I also do not want to be sending a text message to Xander in the near future: I can’t see you again.
Sorry. I just don’t think I’d recover. Something tells me I must protect whatever this is at any cost.
“Ground rules?” Xander says. I pick up the coaster stained with my glass outline.
“Do you have a pen?” I ask the bartender. He hands me one.
“Ashleigh & Xander’s Rules for Hanging Out,” I say, dictating the words I’m writing in my terrible chicken scratch.
Xander leans in closer to me. I can smell the freshness of the lime on his breath. It sends a shiver down my spine. A preview to what his mouth would taste like. I ignore it.
“Rule number one. No dating,” I say. After I finish printing it on the coaster, I steal a glance at Xander. I wonder if he knows he might be the reason for this list. For me to get some self-preservation going before it’s too late.
“Like for a month?” he says, and it comes out low.
“Forever,” I say, matching his tone of voice. I bite my lip as I look over at him. He steals a glance at my lip, and I subconsciously release it from my teeth. He returns to looking me in the eyes.
“Fair enough,” he says. This time, his voice comes out harsh, like he’s exercising every ounce of restraint not to convince me I’m making the wrong decision.
My pulse races. The chemistry crackling between us is undeniable.
That is until I remember seeing a flash of bare legs on top of Dad’s office desk that belong to Alice, his receptionist, and not my mom.
His pants around his ankles. A fucking cliché.
And a memory that has the effect of a wet blanket.
I remind myself that this isn’t an emotional decision. This is strategic survival. And so I solider on.
“Rule number two. No sex,” I say, the word sex lingering in the air between us suggestively. This time I don’t dare look at him even though I feel his eyes roam my face.
Let’s not linger here a moment longer.
“Rule number three. Never fall in love,” I say, finishing it off with a very pointed period. Nothing like uttering the L word to a guy you just met to pump the brakes.
I hold up the coaster and examine it.
Ashleigh & Xander’s Rules for Hanging Out
Rule #1: No dating.
Rule #2: No sex.
Rule #3: Never fall in love.
I smile at my handiwork.
Xander takes it out my hand, our fingertips brushing, setting off a chain reaction of wanting.
He places the coaster down and leans into me like he’s going to tell me a secret.
“So, friends?” he says, and he looks up at me through his mop of curls. His lips are wet from his most recent sip. My body gravitates to his, already willing to discard the coaster along with the rules.
Before I have a chance to respond, the bartender slides two shots of tequila across the bar.
Xander cuts the engine.
Just like that, eleven years have passed and I’m brought back to the UCLA parking lot.