3. Riggs
Riggs
T he Theta Chi house is a goddamn zoo tonight. Bodies everywhere, packed so tight you can barely move without grinding up against someone. Music pounds through the walls, but I barely hear it over the roar of voices and laughter.
I don't want to be here. My skin feels too tight, like it's trying to crawl off my body. There's too much energy thrumming through me, too many thoughts ricocheting around in my skull. The ice wasn't enough to quiet them tonight. Not after I saw her.
My teammates practically dragged me here. “You've been brooding too much, Rhodes,” Martinez said, clapping me on the back. “Time to live a little.”
But this doesn't feel like living. It feels like drowning in a sea of fake smiles and hollow conversations. I weave through the crowd, muttering half-assed apologies as I bump into people. A girl in a skimpy Medusa costume winks at me, her plastic snake headpiece bobbing precariously. I barely register her existence as I push past. It’s not even Halloween yet.
I spot Johnson by the keg, his Viking helmet askew as he does a keg stand. The crowd around him cheers, counting up to some ridiculous number. It's all so fucking pointless.
I grab a red cup from a nearby table, not caring what's in it. The liquid burns going down, but I welcome the sensation. Anything to dull the razor-sharp edges of my thoughts.
My eyes scan the room, searching for an escape route. Maybe I can just Irish goodbye my ass right out of here.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image of Maren that's been burned into my retinas since this afternoon. The way she looked at me, like she could see right through me. Like she knew every dark thought I've had this past year.
“Riggs!” A voice cuts through the din. I turn to see Amber making her way towards me. She's dressed as some kind of fairy, glitter sparkling on her cheeks. “I didn't think you'd show up!”
I force a smile, but it feels more like a grimace. “Yeah, well, here I am.”
Amber laughs, the sound too high and too fake. She leans in close, her breath hot against my ear. “Want to get out of here? Find somewhere quieter?”
A year ago, I would have jumped at the chance. Amber's hot, she's into me, and she's offering an escape from this hellhole. But now? The thought of going anywhere with her makes my stomach churn.
“Sorry,” I mutter, stepping back. “I need some air.”
I don't wait for her response, just turn and push my way through the crowd. I need to get out of here before I suffocate.
The cool night air hits me as I stumble out onto the front porch.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try and go over plays in my head. Nothing feels right anymore except hockey. Not school, not my social life.
“Hey, Captain!” Johnson's voice cuts through my thoughts. He's grinning, a stupid foam sword in one hand and a red Solo cup in the other. “You gotta check out the basement. They've got this whole 'Underworld' thing set up. It's sick!”
I nod, not really listening. Johnson doesn't seem to notice, already turning to drag some poor freshman into the house for another keg stand.
I lean against the porch railing, watching the chaos unfold in the front yard.
A group of guys are wrestling on the grass, their costumes tangled and torn.
Two girls in matching angel outfits giggle as they try to walk in impossibly high heels, clutching each other for balance.
The whole scene is like some fucked up Renaissance painting.
My eyes drift to a circle of freshmen huddled near the bushes. They're passing around a bottle of something that looks suspiciously like bottom-shelf vodka, wincing with each swig. One of them, a scrawny kid in a half-assed werewolf costume, looks up at the house with wide eyes.
“I heard she lived here,” he stage-whispers, loud enough for me to catch. “Before…you know.”
A girl in the group rolls her eyes. “That's bullshit. She never lived in the Greek houses.”
“Well, I heard she partied here all the time,” another chimes in. “Before she went psycho.”
I grip my cup tighter, the cheap plastic creaking under my fingers. These idiots have no fucking clue what they're talking about.
The one kid leans in, his voice dropping even lower. “Hey, you know what we should do? We should call for her. I heard if you say it three times in front of a mirror, she appears.”
A chorus of nervous giggles ripples through the group. One girl shakes her head vehemently. “No way. That's bad luck.”
“Come on,” the kid pushes. “It's just a stupid urban legend. What, are you scared?”
Another guy in the group, this one dressed as some kind of superhero, steps forward. “I'll do it. I'm not afraid of some psycho bitch.”
Before I know what I'm doing, I'm moving towards them, my feet carrying me across the lawn. The group falls silent as I approach, their eyes widening in recognition.
“Hey,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “What's her name?”
The ballsy kid swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “W-what?”
I step closer, towering over him. “The girl you're talking about. What's her name?”
They exchange nervous glances, none of them willing to meet my eyes. Finally, the superhero speaks up. “Maren. Maren Marino.”
I nod slowly, my lips curling into a smile that feels more like a snarl.
“Correct,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“So if you want to go inside and walk into the bathroom and turn the light off and speak her damn name three times like she's going to crawl out of the mirror or appear behind you in the tub, go right the fuck ahead. But you sound fucking ridiculous. Grow up.”
The group stares at me, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. I can practically see their alcohol-soaked brains trying to process what just happened.
I turn and stalk back towards the frat house. These fucking idiots.
Bodies press against me, writhing to the music, but I barely notice. My mind is a broken record, replaying their words over and over as I walk past the kitchen.
As I round the corner, I hear voices. Familiar voices. The football team.
“Dude, no one has seen her with a guy since it happened,” I hear Jackson say, his words slightly slurred. “She's like, untouchable now.”
“More like unfuckable,” Thompson chimes in, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “She's fucked in the head, man. Total psycho bitch.”
I freeze, my hand gripping the doorframe so hard I think I might splinter the wood. My vision narrows, tunneling in on the group of meatheads huddled around the kitchen island.
“I heard she's on all kinds of meds now,” another voice chimes in. “Like, heavy duty shit. Probably drooling half the time.”
They laugh, the sound grating against my ears like nails on a chalkboard.
I swallow hard, rage burning in my throat like acid.
Thompson's voice cuts through the haze of anger clouding my mind. “You know, if you call out her name in a mirror, she appears behind you.” He chuckles, the sound grating on my already frayed nerves.
“Maybe I should try it,” Jackson says, his words slurring together. “Think she'd let me fuck her or she’d stab me first?”
I move before I even realize it. My fist collides with his jaw. Hard. Quick. No hesitation.
The crack of bone over music.
Jackson stumbles back, clutching his face. Silence. Shock. Someone mutters, “What the fuck, dude?”
I breathe heavily. Don't apologize.
My classmates stare at me, confused. The music keeps pounding, but it feels distant now, like it's coming from underwater. My knuckles throb, a dull ache that's almost satisfying. Jackson's looking at me with wide eyes, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
“You don't know shit,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous. “None of you do.”
Thompson steps forward, his chest puffed out like he's trying to intimidate me. It's almost laughable. “Back off, man. We were just joking around.”
“You talk about her like that again, and I'll do worse,” I snarl, my voice barely above a whisper but carrying enough venom to make Thompson take a step back.
I shouldn't care. She isn't my problem. She isn't my responsibility. She isn't mine.
My feet carry me through the house on autopilot, weaving between sweaty bodies and discarded red cups. The air smells of spilled beer and cheap perfume, cloying and suffocating. It reminds me of her scent that night—copper and lilacs, intoxicating and deadly.
I find myself in the upstairs bathroom, gripping the edges of the sink so hard my knuckles turn white. The mirror reflects a stranger back at me—angry and dangerous, a far cry from the golden boy captain everyone expects me to be.
For a moment, I swear I see her standing behind me. But when I whirl around, the bathroom is empty save for the shower curtain swaying gently in the breeze from the open window.
I turn back to the mirror, my breath fogging the glass. The urge to say her name is overwhelming, a siren song I can't resist. “Maren,” I whisper, the word hanging in the air like a prayer. “Maren. Maren.”
Nothing happens, of course. She doesn't materialize in a puff of smoke or crawl out of the drain like some B-movie horror movie. But I can feel her presence all the same.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock myself back to reality. The icy droplets trickle down my neck.
Something prickles at the back of my neck, an instinct I can't shake. Slowly, I lift my eyes to the window.
And there she is.
Standing just outside, watching. A smirk barely touches her lips, like she knew I'd snap. Like she was waiting for it.
I exhale slowly, my throat tight.
Maren lifts a hand, her movements slow and deliberate. For a moment, I think she's going to wave, but instead, she blows a kiss.
I can almost feel the phantom touch of her lips against my skin, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
I watch transfixed as her lips move. Even through the glass, I can read them clearly: “You said my name.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. She heard me. Somehow, impossibly, she heard me call for her.
Before I can react, before I can even think about calling out to her, Maren turns. The movement is fluid, almost catlike in its grace. One moment she's there, her eyes locked on mine, and the next she's melting into the dark.
I lunge for the window, yanking it all the way open with enough force that the old frame groans in protest. The cool night air rushes in, carrying with it the faint scent of lilacs. Her scent.
“Maren!” I call out, not caring who hears me. But it's too late. She's gone.
I lean out the window, scanning the yard desperately. But there's no sign of her. Just drunk college kids stumbling around, oblivious to the fact that their urban legend just made an appearance.
My mind races, trying to make sense of what just happened. Was she really here? Or am I finally losing it, seeing things that aren't there?