Chapter 6
six
PARKER
Parties weren’t my bag. I’ve never managed to enjoy them unless I had a girlfriend who did the moving for me. I liked parking in a corner and chatting with a few close friends. It wasn’t that I didn’t like people. Instead, I preferred small groups and talking shop rather than boasting about epic conquests or parties. Postgrad parties were made for getting pissed and hooking up with cohort members.
Now, in my final year, I knew better. Students who were longer in the tooth treated other postgrads as co-workers rather than potential hook-ups. This was my work. I wanted to be respected and respectful. Relationships weren’t prohibited and best avoided if you co-taught with someone or shared a PhD supervisor. Everyone else was fair game, but shitting where you ate always came with risks. Bianca was a safe choice as she was mature, and her research was unrelated to mine. We could talk shop but never risked reporting to the same people or fighting over the same jobs.
I never understood how Paige McCallister and Bianca related. Paige was a party girl who lacked academic focus—flitting from one guy to another. Bianca was studious and dedicated. She treated postgrad like what it was—a job. She was everything Paige wasn’t—and fitter.
Giving it a shot and casting my fears aside, I arrived at their house with a bottle of whisky. I assumed hostess gifts were still appreciated, but when I presented the booze to Paige, she looked at me like I had two heads and told me to open it. I did. I dug in. A little liquid courage couldn’t hurt.
I spotted Bianca in the corner, talking to a few friends. I sauntered to her with my drink. Her friends sensed I wanted an in and dispersed. I was grateful for that. Maybe I would manage to convert tonight after all?
“Hey there!” Bianca said excitedly. “How are you doing? Get any work done?”
“I sent a paper off,” I said proudly.
“Good for you. Super nerdy, but I feel you. I wish I could say the same.”
“What did you get up to?” I adjusted my stance nervously
“Oh, just shopping. Went to London with Paige. Nothing much. Trying to get in that retail therapy before I must buckle down again.”
God, her accent was so adorable. I loathed how nervous and flustered she made me feel. Still, I had little to talk to her about apart from school. Why was I so shit at this?
“I saw you volunteered to help with Model UN?” I asked.
“Just the student fair. I need to do service hours for my honour society,” she said.
Shalebrook’s academic clubs prized both marks and service. I refused to participate in scholarly societies, but that was how Bianca rolled. She was a brown-noser, but I’d give her a pass—especially in his skirt.
“Ah.”
Bianca sipped. “You doing it, too?”
“Yes. Just like helping. I have a few favourite students participating.”
“Should we have favourites?”
“Look, there are the very talented academic stars and then there are the kids who got here on their parent’s coattails. Seeing the undergrads who deserve to be here grow into confident scholars legitimately makes me happy. It keeps me going.”
“That’s sweet.” Bianca looked bored.
I was fumbling.
“But, you know, they’re all undergrads… so…”
“Yeah! God. I don’t know how you manage teaching and grading! Ugh. I don’t care for it,” Bianca said.
A guy appeared. I didn’t know him. He didn’t introduce himself, just swept her away. She was off.
“Sorry, Parker, I gotta go for a sec,” she said.
The alpha types always won out. I’d never be that guy. I wasn’t disfigured but wouldn’t lift weights for hours a day. I leaned into nerddom, satisfied with my research. As Bianca hung over the fit shithead who’d pulled her away, I lost hope. Maybe I should have cut my losses months ago, but it hurt. She was painfully perfect—adorable, sweet, clever. She was more than just pretty.
Then, a spark of hope emerged. Bianca came back and threw her arms around my shoulders.
“Sorry about that, Parker. Can you get me a drink?” Bianca asked.
I couldn’t tell her no. Excited by the possibility of impressing her, I agreed to do her bidding.
“Of course, B,” I said. “What do you want?
“Gin and tonic. But like… with some aromatic gin and… vermouth.”
So not a gin and tonic at all?
People who believed they could alter the entire balance of a drink and still call it that annoyed the hell out of me. I wondered if they lived on another planet. There was nothing wrong with making a drink up, but just give it a name and be ready to annoy your next bartender. Did all girls do this to be difficult? Did they make their drinks this way? I didn’t know. The last time I’d had a serious girlfriend had been ages ago; she only drank wine. Still, if I argued with Bianca, I had not a shot in hell at making her see I was the guy.
Proceeding to the kitchen’s makeshift bar, I turned all the labels around. People had gotten them all out of skew. How could you even know what you were using? I found a more aromatic gin that someone must have bought because it was expensive—as it tasted like pine needles. I focused next on the vermouth. Anyone would have that, right? I spotted it, but a girl stood texting, blocking me.
I waited momentarily, pulled a face, made a grumbling noise, and tried to telegraph my annoyance. Nothing. So, I reached over. And, as I did, she turned to face me, leading my hand—now almost fully deployed—to brush her right breast.
I stared, deer-in-headlights. She looked stunned.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry. I was reaching for the ver?—”
“You felt me up!”
“No, no, I swear, I was just reaching?—”
“Has no one told you just wait your turn?”
“I’m sorry, I did. You were zoned out on your damn mobile phone and?—”
“That’s no excuse! You can communicate with me in English!”
She looked appalled, then even more annoyed.
“Oh. My. God! You’re him!”
“What?” I asked.
“You’re the dickhead from the coffee shop!”
“What?”
“You ran into me and then threw a fit about me almost destroying your laptop and insisted on buying me a new cup of coffee out of spite!”
The kitchen lighting was terrible, but I put it together now. She was Latte Girl!
“No, you are the one who ran into me! You’re Latte Girl.”
We both pointed a finger at the other. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, annoyed.
“Sorry, princess,” I sighed. “We just keep running into one another! Can I please just grab the damn vermouth and?—”
She took the drink from my hand and stared at it. “This yours?”
“No, it’s for… a friend? ”
“A friend… a girlfriend?”
I shrugged. I didn’t want her to know how poor my game was. She didn’t get to feel superior here! Latte Girl swirled the gin around the glass and contemplated her next move. Then, she raised it to her lips and sucked it all down before slamming the cup on the table. She muttered something in what I assumed was French as I stared, astonished.
“Don’t call me princess, dickwagon! Don’t fuck with me again!”
“I didn’t fuck with you. How dare you!”
“You took my drink; I take yours. Tell your girlfriend I’m sorry for her,” Latte Girl said.
The entitlement astonished me. Who was this girl? Why did she assume everyone was out to get her? How dare she!
“You don’t need to be such a pain in the arse! Jesus Christ! Why are you so insufferable?”
Her face balled up in a painful, sad scowl. I immediately knew I shouldn’t have said it. Why would I say it? I didn’t know this woman! I expected her to throw something at me. She would have been justified. Instead, she started to cry, running off to the garden.
I watched after her, confused. Well, I’d hopefully not see her again. This was the last time I came to a goddamn house party!