Chapter 3 – Thomas
Chapter Three
Thomas
Kit remembers when I used to love parties like this.
He doesn’t understand how or really why things have changed so dramatically for me.
It’s not like he doesn’t know every dirty detail of what happens.
Kit just buries his pain in lines of coke and Xanax prescriptions.
I can’t do that anymore. I can’t even bring myself to try.
All I have is a little bit of liquor and even that I ought to quit if I want to stay sane.
I might fuck up if I’m drunk and spill my secrets to the wrong person.
I can’t do that.
I have to hold onto what happened and let it hurt.
I can’t even tell Violet. My sister has enough going on with Jack and mum and dad’s divroce.
She’s taking it hard and she wasn’t even there to witness the worst of the arguments and the worst of dad’s behavior.
If Vi knew what dad did to mum, she wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye anymore.
“Can you stop being a depressed fuck and tell me what to wear?” Kit snaps me out of my daydream.
Fuck’s sake, who cares? It’s a college party.
We’ve been to thousands of parties and Kit always spends ages choosing what to wear.
I try to fix my hair but it won’t lie down flat and it’s suddenly a messy light brown mop. Ugh. Hair takes too much effort.
“Who cares. I’m wearing sweats.”
“How are you going to get laid wearing sweats?”
Kit’s obsession with wetting his cock will get him in trouble one day. I don’t see the point in rushing into bed with a girl. I don’t trust myself near women anymore, especially not with drugs and alcohol involved. Tonight’s a good night to quit drinking.
“I’m not.”
Kit rushes over to me and grabs my face, practically shaking my bloody head.
“What do you mean? Thomas. We’ve been here three days. How can you live without it?!”
Kit had sex for the first time three days ago and I understand it’s all very exciting to him.
Sex is fine. Great with the right person.
But there isn’t much of a point without the right person, is there?
I don’t want to sleep with a girl I barely know.
That doesn’t make me less of a man. I’d rather not wake up with strange purple bumps on my cock.
“I’m fine.”
“Fine? When do you even masturbate?”
Kit and his sick fucking questions. What I do with my cock isn’t anyone’s concern, especially not my roommate’s. I kick his football back over to his side of the room. Kit catches it beneath his foot and sends it flying into his closet.
“Are you gay, Charles?”
“Call me Charles again and I’ll kill you,” Kit says, turning his fierce blue gaze upon me.
He’s such a fucking Barclay, except for his ability to get girls.
But somehow, he got Clover. I don’t know why I think about her at all, but her face pops into my head.
She’s not as dark as Sylvia, but she still has nice skin and her hair is weird…
cool… but weird. I’ve never seen anything like it before.
“Charles… I suggest wearing a shirt that brings out your eyes.”
“What’s wrong with pink?” Kit turns in the mirror, admiring himself as usual.
Ah well, why not take advantage of his cripplingly low self-esteem? “You look gay.”
“Homophobe,” he grumbles.
“Honest.”
“Wanker.”
“Twat.”
That’s how most of our conversations have gone for the past ten years. Kit. He is a wanker, but he might have a good heart deep down. It’s unclear. I reach for his stash of green and start rolling us a spliff with raw tobacco.
“I’m going to try her again tonight. Clover.”
My muscles tighten. I don’t know why. Just hearing her name reminds me of our little encounter earlier.
Kit was late to practice again, so he missed the entire situation with Clover.
No point bringing up the entire affair. I’ll deal with her later.
Tonight, if I’m lucky. Perhaps Kit’s right. I need clothes.
“What about this?”
“You’re changing out of your sweats?”
“Yes. Thoughts?”
“It’s a white shirt,” Kit says. “It’s hardly haute couture.”
“Exactly.”
“Brush your bloody hair.”
Kit’s right. I look sloppy and I need another tattoo, quite frankly.
Tonight, I’ll cover up most of my ink, which I hate.
I’d rather show off. I modified my body to send a message, not just to piss off dad, but to piss off everyone.
This is who I am, Thomas Bainbridge, a work of fucking art.
I have plans for more, but that’s for another time.
Kit hands me his flask and I allow myself a few sips of Barclay rum.
Not too much drinking or I’ll lose my head.
I can’t afford to do that and I can’t afford to get expelled.
I’d do anything to stay out of the Bainbridge house right now.
I don’t want to be there to witness my parents’ relationship burning and then fizzling out at once.
Love isn’t real, is it? It’s just a lie people tell themselves when they’re ready to breed.
Fuck’s sake. I dunno when I got so cynical, but I doubt I’ll change.
After two spliffs, Kit drives to the party.
It’s his party, but he’s late, naturally.
Barclays would all hire people to wipe their arse if they could.
They’re the only family in this country dad fears, not like there are many Barclays left in England.
Once we get to the party, I feel that familiar urge to drink, to use, and to consume until I feel nothing.
But I can’t do that anymore, can I? I have to be better than that so I don’t hurt another girl. Clover.
There she is lurking around my head again.
Bloody hell. There are plenty of other girls at the party to talk to.
Kit only takes a few minutes to forget Clover and disappear into the first girl who gives him any attention.
Some shrill blond, I dunno her name. Probably Sarah.
Every fucking British girl’s named Sarah.
Not like Thomas is anything common, but mum would have never named me something common.
Like Clover. That’s common. I don’t know why she isn’t here yet. I should text Syl.
Thomas: Syl. Are you coming?
Sylvia: Still not talking to you.
Thomas: You just replied.
She replies with a .gif of the character Annalise Keating from that bloody television show throwing a purse over her shoulder and rolling her eyes. Fuck’s sake. How many times does she want me to apologize for allegedly being a dick? We’re friends but… my team’s my team. I have loyalty, you know.
Whatever. I lurk in the corners of the party, making idle chit chat with a few people and fending off some aggressive flirtation.
After refilling my cup of water for the third or fourth time, I heard that familiar, twangy American accent.
It’s her. Before I can get a hold of myself, I find myself stumbling towards her.
I was an awkward kid and you might think shooting up to 6’3” by eighth grade would have made things better but… it didn’t.
Beanpole. I grew out of that and into some muscle.
That smoothed things over with women. Girls.
Women. When I first noticed that they were bloody noticing me, I lost myself in them, as many of them as possible And then I met someone.
She’s gone now, and she isn’t coming back, but I don’t want to meet another girl.
I can’t handle myself with women. I become a monster, someone I don’t really want to be.
If I let things get too far with them, I know I’ll become just like my father – a monster.
She fills her glass with more alcohol than a woman her size should drink.
I mean, really? And that dark-skinned girl who isn’t Sylvia and definitely does not look like Sylvia (because that would be racist) taps her glass to Clover’s and they pound them back.
Why are the only Americans at this school black?
My sister would probably box my ears for asking.
I just find it odd, is all. Doesn’t matter.
I want a drink, even if maintaining even a tenuous hold on my sobriety is a much better idea.
I watch the girls from my spot on the wall for a few moments. Fuck, I could use another spliff. I nicked my first ever joint from Theo Hargreaves’ jacket at a Christmas party when I was twelve and things were never the same between me and Mary Jane.
“Kola, let’s take another shot!” Clover says.
She sounds happy and she has a nice smile.
Clover. Too bad I know what I do about her.
Jude and Kit? It’s not a smart idea at a place like this.
Sleeping around leaves you with a reputation, it doesn’t matter how progressive everyone pretends to be.
They might not say what they think out loud anymore, but they still say it.
Slut. As my sister loves reminding me, girls have it harder in so many ways.
Kit and Jude won’t get the reputation, Clover will.
She doesn’t look like a slut. She looks… normal. Maybe even pretty. I dunno.
I never thought a black girl was pretty, until Amina, I suppose.
But Amina’s different. She looks like a very miniature model.
She stands out. Clover… she looks… I dunno.
I ought to find her normal, but I don’t.
I know it’s fucked, but Clover gets me rock hard.
Maybe that’s her problem, she has the effect on too many men.
As long as she avoids Kit’s drunken, stumbling arse, no one will touch her tonight. I can make sure Kit stays out of her way. She’ll have to worry about Jude tonight. She’d better have a plan for staying away from Jude.