Chapter 8 Damon #2
Most dual occupancy dorm rooms on campus have a small common area in the center of the room with seating and some sort of table.
Even though I have a single, it also has a sitting area off to the side that has a pull-out couch and a coffee table that has a feature where the actual table part can be lifted up and unfolded so it can double as a small dining table, or it can be converted to a taller bar-style table.
The bathroom is modern, with white marble and chrome fixtures, and it has everything we could need, including a sink with a massive mirror above it, a big soaker tub, a separate shower, and of course, the toilet. Compared to the locker room-style bathrooms the freshmen get to share, we got spoiled.
The silence in the room feels different tonight, and I toss my bag onto my bed as I go over to my dresser to turn on some music.
I’m the only person I know who has an actual stereo system instead of just using my computer or another device to play music, and instead of being full of clothes, the top two drawers of my dresser are crammed full of CDs I’ve collected over the years.
Maybe it has to do with the way I grew up, or because music is such a huge part of my life and work, but I keep physical copies of all the music I listen to on top of the digital copies I have and the streaming services I use.
The next two drawers contain my mixing equipment and the various things I use to make my music.
I could leave my equipment out since I don’t have to worry about a roommate messing with my stuff or anything like that, but it’s easier to keep my side gig secret if I don’t have evidence of it all over my room.
I take a few seconds to scan my CDs, then grab one of my comfort listens and load it into the player.
The heavy beat of one of Three Days Grace’s early albums fills the room, and some of my unease melts away as the familiar notes pulse through my speakers.
I crank the music up just because I can, then sink down on the edge of my California king bed just as my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pull it out, expecting a text from one of my sisters, but it’s from West.
West is a year younger than me, and we met at boarding school when we were assigned to the same dorm my junior year.
We ended up being neighbors, and we bonded over our mutual love of music when he knocked on my door during frosh week to ask what song I was listening to because he could hear it through our shared wall.
That conversation was the start of the longest and closest friendship I’ve ever had, and while we’re polar opposites in pretty much every way, we just click.
Other than that one message he sent me a few days ago, I haven’t talked to him since before the rave, and I open our text thread.
West: have you looked at my insta recently?
Damon: no
Damon: why?
West: because I did a thing
Damon: a thing?
West: yup and I’m kind of freaking out
A photo of a feminine hand with a perfect manicure and a massive diamond ring on the third finger appears in the thread.
I gape at the photo for a few beats. What the hell? Did West get engaged?
My first reaction is to write “what the fuck did you do?” but I have enough wits about me to instead type out what I hope is a more neutral response.
Damon: I’m gonna need some context before I say anything
West: can I call you? I really don’t want to type everything out rn
Instead of answering, I get up to turn down the music and hit the call button. I hate talking on the phone, but West is right, this warrants an actual conversation.
“Hey.” He picks up on the first ring.
“Hey.” I lower the volume of my tunes so I can hear him. “You did a thing?” I prompt when he doesn’t say anything and flop back down on my bed.
“Yeah.” He lets out a shaky exhale. “I proposed, and she said yes.”
“Really. Wow.” I shake off my surprise so I can at least pretend like I’m happy for him. “I mean, congrats. That’s…wow.”
He snort-laughs. “Tell me how you really feel, bro.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been a weird few days, and I just got in from traveling, so my brain is still playing catch-up,” I say lamely. “Congrats. I mean it.”
He huffs out another strained laugh. “Thanks. I’m still in shock too, so it’s fine.”
“You’re in shock, even though you’re the one who proposed?” I ask carefully.
“Yeah.” I can practically hear him shrug. “I wasn’t really planning to, but it just kind of happened.”
“How does proposing to someone just kind of happen?” I can’t help asking.
“Well, she’s been dropping hints for months that she wants to get engaged.”
“Wait, she has?” I cut in. “You never told me that.”
“Yeah, she started over the summer, but it wasn’t a big deal. Just little hints here and there,” he says dismissively.
I bite my lip so I don’t say how I really feel about his confession.
West and his girlfriend McKenna got together last Valentine’s Day, so that means she started talking about getting engaged after less than six months together, and it hasn’t even been a year yet.
“But she really started pressing things when I got here after Christmas to spend time with her and her family. I didn’t really think too much of it since her sister just got engaged a few months ago, and I figured she was just feeling pressure or whatever to do the same.
I thought things would quiet down when we got back to school, but her parents threw a big New Year's party and invited my family, and I guess everyone was expecting me to propose then, and I fumbled it.”
“You fumbled it?” I can’t keep the dismay out of my voice.
“Yeah. Apparently she spent the whole night waiting for me to do it, and when I didn’t, we got into a huge fight, and she accused me of stringing her along for the last three years—”
“Three years? You haven’t even been together for a year yet,” I splutter.
“I know, but we’ve been friends for the past three years,” he says lamely.
I bite my lip so I don’t remind him that being friends with someone isn’t the same as dating them, especially since they both dated other people during those years of their friendship and she used him as her emotional support person to vent about her boyfriends.
It’s not my place to say anything, and even though I know this is a monumental mistake, West obviously needs someone to talk to. Bringing him down when he’s still processing things isn’t going to help anyone.
“So you guys had a fight?” I say to circle the conversation back to him getting engaged.
“Yeah, and that’s when she told me that she needs commitment and to be with someone serious about building a future together and not someone who’s just looking for some fun.”
Thank fuck we’re having this conversation over the phone and not in person, because there’s no way in hell I could keep my disbelief off my face if we were in the same room.
“I thought about what she said, and it made sense, so I talked to her sister, and she helped me pick out a ring and come up with a plan, and yeah…I’m engaged.”
“Wow. Congrats,” I say again, still too shocked to offer more.
“Thanks.” He lets out a soft laugh. “I swear my phone hasn’t stopped blowing up since we posted it, but I figured you were ignoring social media the way you like to do when I didn’t see you like or comment on any of them.”
“Yeah, I haven’t looked at anything for the past few days,” I tell him. “RIP to your notifications.”
He laughs. “Say less.” There’s a pause. “I gotta go get ready for something,” he says distractedly.
“Later.”
“Bye.”
The call ends, and I shake my head as I open Instagram.
I go to McKenna’s profile first and check her stories.
Photo after photo of her, and a few of her and West, all with her ring prominently featured in them, scroll by on my screen, and I stop watching after the first dozen.
She’s also made multiple posts that are just the same photos from her stories with some sappy quotes under them.
I like the posts because that’s what’s expected of me, then navigate to West’s profile to do the same on the single post he made with a photo of them right after they got together and another of them kissing while the camera focuses on her giant ring.
His stories are just reposts of a bunch of hers, and I heart a few of them so he knows I checked them out.
Now that my duty as a friend is over, I exit the app and toss my phone on the bed beside me.
West is a great guy, and he’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a best friend, but he’s almost too nice, and he’s easily manipulated.
I have no doubt that McKenna’s family put just as much pressure on him as she did, and knowing his parents, they’re probably just as thrilled by the news as her family is, even if he’s walking around shell-shocked and confused.
My thoughts wander away from West and his news as the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I glance around my room as the sensation of being watched falls over me.
It’s insane, but I’ve had that feeling on and off since Xave left me in my hotel room last night. Jesus, was it really only last night? Has it really only been forty-eight hours since the rave?
Ignoring the prickle of unease, I lean back on my hands and focus on the music still playing as a sense of bone-deep weariness settles over me.
It’s not surprising that I’m exhausted after traveling all day and barely sleeping last night, but there’s still an underlying edge of anxiety to my fatigue that has my brain half convinced that I’m about to be snatched again, and it’s not going away even though I’m in the safest place I possibly could be right now.
Silvercrest isn’t just an elite, invite-only university.
It’s also a closed campus in the middle of nowhere that’s surrounded by the best security money can buy.
No one who isn’t thoroughly vetted can get anywhere near the place, and with all the cameras and swipe logs around, there’s no way anyone could sneak onto campus.
Especially now, when there are only a handful of students around and a skeleton staff until the new semester starts next week.
Outsiders would stand out, and even with minimal staff and students, there are still multiple levels of security going on.
And besides, even if I wasn’t safe on campus, it’s not like anyone is after me.
The assholes who kidnapped me wanted money, and now most of them are dead.
They had no idea who I really am, and it’s not like the surviving kidnapper is going to hunt me down since he also has no idea who I really am.
It was a crime of opportunity, that’s it.
I don’t even know why I’m still hung up on it. Yeah, it sucked, and it could have been so much worse, but it wasn’t, and I need to stop obsessing and get over it before I drive myself crazy.
My stomach rumbles softly, distracting me from my thoughts as I’m hit with a pang of hunger. I ate breakfast this morning but only had a coffee and a muffin when I was on the plane. It’s well past dinnertime, so it’s no wonder I’m hungry.
One of the perks of getting the house to myself is that I have free rein of the kitchen and whatever’s in it.
Most guys in the frat have no idea how to cook beyond slapping meat or peanut butter on some bread and calling it a sandwich, but I learned how to cook when I was a kid and can throw a decent meal together as long as I have basic ingredients handy.
Standing up, I strip off my jacket and toss it on my bag.
It's silly, but I barely ever get the chance to make food for myself between school and my father’s house, and the thought cooking is way more thrilling than it should be, and I’m smiling as I leave my room and head down to the kitchen to see what I can rustle up.