Oh Zeus!
My current personal philosophy is that I have given up.
This does not mean I have abandoned discipline, standards or the fundamental obligation to look excellent while making questionable decisions. I remain a Fairfax. We do not collapse into death with bad hair.
I have merely given up on whatever self-control I managed to gather. Because Will looked tense when he came home last night, and this morning I woke up with the unbearable conviction that he might need encouragement.
Not from me personally.
From the internet.
At eight twelve, before my judgment had properly connected to the rest of my brain, I sent him a message Jenny once sent me during a particularly violent week of deadlines.
Maddy: Good morning you sweet little donut. Just in case no one told you today, you’re stronger than the doubts in your head and smarter than the problems in your way. You’ve already handled shit that once felt impossible, so walk into today knowing you can handle whatever shit life throws at you.
The original version did not contain the word shit twice.
Jenny had copied it from a motivational podcast hosted by a woman who spoke as though she had invented confidence herself, and Jenny believed her. So I believed her.
I sent it to Will because he had spent most of last night at the dining table with game footage open on his laptop, one earbud in, shoulders tight, jaw tighter.
Nate threw crackers into Will’s mouth from the other side of the room. DJ watched part of the footage with him. Will participated in all of this with a level of normalcy, then went back to the film until everybody slept.
He looked stressed.
That was all.
A normal roommate might notice that and say, Hope you’re okay.
I had called the six-foot-four captain of the Princeton basketball team, a man who could probably crush a normal doughnut between his tits, a sweet little donut. And sent him a paragraph about overcoming adversity.
At eight fourteen in the morning.
I’m sure Will is very male, very capable and probably does not need an inspirational affirmation from his roommate before class even happens.
But the message had already gone.
This means that I, Maddy Fairfax, a woman who does not chase men and has never required external validation from somebody wearing basketball shorts, have spent the entire morning periodically checking whether one motivational text has altered the course of Will Mercer’s life.
Perhaps he found it moving.
Perhaps he showed the whole basketball team and they are currently discussing whether I have suffered a light kick in the head.
Perhaps he blocked me.
“Fuck nonchalance,” I announce while walking across campus with Jenny. “I can’t be chilled around this man. I keep having the urge to text him every mindless thought that enters my head. I sent him a motivational message.”
She is wearing a tiny black skirt, high boots and sunglasses despite the fact that we are entering a building where the sun has very little influence.
Jenny takes a drink of coffee and looks me over. “Did you send him the sweet-little-donut one?”
“Yes. I gotta stop being myself and acting on every single impulse.” I stomp forward.
“That one’s good. It made you feel better.”
“I was under academic stress. Will is a basketball player who reminds his own reflection in the mirror that feelings do not convert into measurable athletic performance. He probably doesn’t need to be told he’s stronger than the doubts in his head.”
“Everyone needs to hear nice things.” She lowers her sunglasses. “Has he replied?”
“No.”
“Has he read it?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
I put the phone against my chest. “That information is private.”
“Oh my God. You checked the time.”
“Obviously I checked the time. Read receipts exist to provide data.”
“Read receipts exist because Satan became a software engineer.”
We cross the courtyard towards the lecture hall. Jenny is not enrolled in my psychology class, but the lecture is large enough that nobody will notice an extra brunette entering with coffee and opinions.
“You think it made his day?” I ask, then close my eyes immediately.
That was the end of my dignity. The question has escaped me before I can stop myself.
I have been reduced to wondering whether a boy enjoyed my text, which is exactly the kind of emotional erosion I have spent years preventing through excellent boundaries, strategic exits and never asking questions whose answers could lower my self-esteem.
Jenny bumps her shoulder into mine. “I think it probably did.”
I find us a seat in the middle of the hall and settle down first.
“Nonchalant is out anyway.” Jenny settles beside me, smoothing her skirt beneath her thighs before tossing her ponytail over one shoulder.
“Pretending not to give a shit is exhausting, especially when your entire internal system is screaming,” Her voice goes high and honey-sweet.
“‘I wore the sexiest lingerie I own, it is uncomfortable as fuck, but it’s pretty, so somebody needs to appreciate the sacrifice.’”
“And fuck me properly so the suffering becomes worthwhile,” I finish.
She points her coffee at me. “Exactly. Always wear your prettiest lingerie. You never know when destiny will appear and appreciate the effort.”
“Always.”
Since the beginning of our friendship, Jenny and I have found a new dating philosophy: wear the best clothes, put on the prettiest bra and remain prepared for destiny.
But if destiny fails to appreciate how much work goes into arranging tiny straps over several inconvenient body parts, tell destiny to fuck off immediately.
“And double-text,” Jenny adds.
“No.” I look at her in genuine alarm. “Never double-text.”
She looks as horrified as I feel. “What do you mean, never?”
“You never double-text. It looks desperate.”
“Says who?”
“Everyone.”
“Who is this everyone? The people who ignore messages and then convince you asking for clarification is humiliating?”
I consider this.
Jenny continues, gaining momentum. “If somebody gives you an unclear answer, ask again. If you forgot something, send it. If you want to confirm plans, confirm them. Why should you sit around pretending not to want information because some emotionally constipated idiot might think two consecutive bubbles are weird?”
She has an excellent point.
“Right,” I laugh. “If they communicated properly, you wouldn’t need to repeat yourself.”
“And technically the second text is not desperation. It’s an attempt to correct their inadequate communication.” Jenny points her coffee at me again, her eyes beam.
Our voices echo the half empty lecture hall. We’re way too early for the class today.
Across the aisle, several football players are gathered around a row of desks, speaking with a deliberate lack of subtlety. I recognise most of them from Mike’s practices and the games Jenny has dragged me to because her brother plays quarterback.
A guy with excellent hair leans across the aisle. “You’re the girls who made Mike famous. Maddy and Jenny?”
Jenny removes her sunglasses. “I’m the Jenny, this is the Maddy, and yes, Mike’s celebrity status is currently pending shooting day and final approval.”
Counting on my girl to be the Queen. Funny, dominating and sexy at the same time. She’s my inspiration, truly.
The player laughs and leans over the empty seat between us.
“Wait. Fairfax?” The other football guy looks at me again. “Oh shit. I’ve heard about you.”
Here we go. My brother used to hang out with football players too so maybe he said a thing or two. It could also mean approximately twelve other things.
He laughs. “Didn't Mercer nearly get with your sister?”
My eye snaps up at him instantly. She has one quarterback brother. So unless I have missed a fairly major Laurent family announcement, he means my sister.
“I saw some of the test shots. They looked good.” The excellent hair announces.
“They are not finished,” I tell him.
“Mike already posted one in the team chat.”
My eye twitches. “Those were angle testing shots.”
His friends begin objecting loudly. The one speaking to us has excellent hair, thick and pushed backwards in a way that appears careless but probably involves at least two products. He is broad through the shoulders, clean-shaven and very aware of the effect of his smile.
“If you girls are free after this extremely boring psychology lecture,” another player says, leaning over the desk in front of Jenny, “we could get coffee. The boys want to know how they can become more like Mike.”
His attention moves towards Jenny’s mouth and stays there without subtlety.
“We drink matcha,” I tell him.
“Matcha works,” the first player grins.
It is never a bad idea to expand one’s professional circle. Collins once told me never to make enemies when friendship remained an option, although this advice came from a man who has somehow accumulated enemies on three continents, so the reliability of the source is questionable.
Still, football players have audiences.
Audiences have value.
Friendly matcha is business.
The professor enters before the conversation can continue, and Jenny settles into her chair beside me with the bright anticipation of somebody attending live entertainment.
“What are we learning?” she whispers.
“Obsession.”
“Oh, excellent. I love learning why people dating the same people then call it a type.”
That is not what we’re learning today but I don’t have to be the person who breaks the news to Jenny. My professor with an incredibly soothing voice will, in about three minutes.
I type diligently for twelve minutes, before Jenny writes ‘hot hair likes me or you?’ on top of my notebook.
I write beneath it: ‘he likes ur mouth’.
She adds instantly while suppressing a smile: ‘see!!! destiny.’
Jenny lasts another five minutes while the professor goes on explaining repetition compulsion, which is a concept describing the human tendency to repeat familiar emotional patterns even when those patterns are destructive.
‘Will’s star sign???’ She writes on my notebook again.