3. Laine
3
LAINE
I pull two armfuls of hangers from my tiny closet. “What does one wear to a date auction?”
“That depends on if you’re the bidder or the one being auctioned,” Macy says, leaning over her stack of homework.
“Does Paul know you’re going to a date auction?” Jeanie asks.
Paul? I rack my brain, and Jeanie must be able to read the confusion written across my face. “Paul…Paul, your boyfriend,” she says flatly.
Oops. “Of course I remember Paul!” Barely . We dated for two months, but we tired of each other quickly. He hated that I couldn’t make up my mind on anything, and I hated that he insisted we always have a plan for every little thing. He actually started drafting a three-month schedule of the movies we should watch together. When I suggested we watch Little Women rather than The Godfather on December fifth, as was his plan, I knew by the look in his eyes that we were doomed. Soon after, we had the whole your-life-is-a-rollercoaster-that-I’m-not-tall-enough-to-ride talk. “It didn’t work out,” I say. “Didn’t I tell you about that? I’m taking a break from dating. A long break.”
Jeanie’s disappointed expression isn’t because she actually likes Paul. She barely knew him. Rather, her downturned lips are the result of her belief that most of my relationships are surface level.
Maybe she’s right. After almost six years at NYU, I can’t go be out near the university for more than a couple of hours without seeing someone I know. It’s always a simple connection: Sadie who took me to my first karaoke bar, Mike who dragged me to the school’s abysmal baseball opener last year, Carrie who modeled for me during my brief stint as a photography major. I know dozens—no, hundreds —of other students. I’ve made countless memories.
However, there’s not a single person at school I would bare my soul to or who I would call in an emergency. I don’t have anyone I’d consider my “best friend.” Not Jeanie, not Macy. They’re just two of the many friends I have on rotation. They both work with me at Washington Square News , the student newspaper.
“Is there anyone specific you’re trying to score a date with?” Jeanie asks.
“I’m writing an op-ed on the Zeta Psi auction and whether date auctions are a reasonable way to fundraise. I don’t suppose either of you wants to come? I’m not bidding—keeping it professional and all—but there’s bound to be some guys worth going for.”
Jeanie and Macy agree immediately, both almost as spontaneous as I am.
Thank goodness I dressed in my usual abundance of layers. But even with my patchwork coat, plaid sweater vest, button- down, and green beret, the evening chill begins to set in. Only a fraternity would plan an outdoor rooftop fundraiser in February. Still early on in the semester, there are more people than I usually see at an event like this. Everyone bops between the keg and the DJ, who is really just one of the members of the frat with his iPhone hooked up to the Bluetooth speakers. And apparently, he has an affinity for mediocre house remixes of Rihanna songs.
Despite arriving almost thirty minutes late, we came at the perfect time for the betting to start. A guy in a backwards hat, a Vineyard Vines shirt, and giddy, glazed-over eyes takes the microphone. “Alright, alright, everyone!” he says, a constant chuckle bubbling under every word. “Welcome to our annual Zeta Psi date auction. We’ve got a fire selection for you all tonight. Some nerds, some jocks, some romantics. No matter your taste, there’s gotta be a Zete for you.”
The crowd claps and hollers as the influence of the cheap beer works its way into everyone’s bloodstreams.
“Now remember,” Jake says, putting on his best serious face, “either person on the date can end it at any time. But whether you’re only together for the party or if you keep the party going all night, it’s for charity. So. Don’t. Be. Stingy!”
The betting begins with the leadership of the frat. The president is dressed in a full suit and carries a red rose, the treasurer comes out dressed like Tom Cruise in Risky Business , complete with black Ray Bans and boxer shorts, and the secretary strums a guitar, serenading each girl who raises a hand to bid on him.
Every guy has a shtick, and I work frantically, taking as many pictures and notes as I can.
After almost an hour, I start to lose interest—and the feeling in my fingertips. I take a break from pictures to ask one-off questions to those around me, hoping for good snippets I can throw into the article .
But then, he takes the stage.
I almost don’t recognize him. A big, black cowboy hat sits atop Sutton Davis’ head, and he dips his chin down to try to avoid drawing attention to himself. Aside from the hat, Sutton is dressed simply, in a sage-green sweater and tan pants, not much of a cowboy. While the other guys were sure to make a show of commanding the stage, Sutton hardly moves. Even so, the crowd chatters in excitement.
“ Hello ,” Macy says in a singsong voice, giggling as she grasps my elbow.
“Next up,” the announcer shouts into his microphone, somehow still just as energetic as he was at the start, “we have Sutton Davis, a Zete alum! Sutton is a sexy cowboy, hailing from the small town of West River, Montana. After this semester, he will be graduating with his master’s degree in English and American Literature. If you’re interested in learning about riding bareback, Sutton Davis is the guy for you.”
Even from across the rooftop, I can see Sutton’s cheeks glow red. Clearly, he didn’t approve of the double entendre.
“Let’s start the bidding at twenty!”
Immediately, six hands shoot into the air.
“Thirty?”
Even more hands.
“Forty-five?”
I push through the crowd to get closer to the stage. Jeanie and Macy follow at my sides. “One hundred!” I yell, cupping my hands on either side of my mouth.
The announcer catches my eye and says into the microphone, “One hundred to—is that you, Laine Rodriguez?”
I smile, not bothering to figure out where I know the announcer from.
Sutton looks up, his eyes connecting with mine, and his eyebrows immediately furrow low .
“One-fifty!” someone behind me says.
“Two hundred!” I yell back. I can practically hear my wallet cursing at me.
“Who is that?” Macy asks me.
“My TA for Shakespeare. This could be my only shot at a tutoring session.”
“Two-twenty-five!” another person yells.
“Tutoring,” Jeanie hums. “ Right . Doesn’t hurt that he’s drop-dead sexy.”
“So much for your new no-dating rule,” Macy adds.
Looking at Sutton on the makeshift stage, I can see why I am needing to bid so high. With how overwhelming my entrance to class was, it was hard to see exactly what Sutton Davis looked like. But objectively speaking, he is good looking. He has a square, sharp jaw and a strong nose fit for a Greek statue. He’s tall— very tall—and broad, and all at once I can actually see him as a Montana cowboy. Though, admittedly, my knowledge of the cowboy life is minimal, so in my imagination, Sutton is at a high-noon duel, backdropped by twirling tumbleweeds.
“We can do better than that!” The announcer laughs, wrapping an arm around Sutton’s shoulders, which are more rigid than a piece of plywood. “Come on, you know what they say. Save a horse, ride a cowboy!”
Immediately, Sutton covers his face with one hand. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look more like the embodiment of kill me now.
“Two fifty!”
I curse and rifle through my Mary Poppins bag of a purse, shoving past loose hair ties and crumpled receipts. I count out all the cash I can wrangle, even desperately resorting to digging for coins.
Looking back up, I find Sutton’s eyes already on me, and I swear I see a hint of disappointment shadowing his features. I shrug and mouth out the words: I’m out.
“Two fifty going once…twice…”
Just then, Macy and Jeanie both shove bills into my palm. After a quick squeal, I add all the cash up.
“Two hundred eighty-seven dollars!” I yell, thrusting my cash into the air. “And thirty-seven cents!”
The announcer whistles into the microphone. “That’s our biggest bid of the night, folks!” He counts down the longest three seconds of my life until I finally hear, “Sold!”
It’s impossible not to smile when I see Sutton walking down the stairs of the stage, hunching his shoulders in a failed attempt to disappear into the shadows.
I flick the brim of his hat. “This is a good look.”
“I’m not supposed to go out with students I TA for,” Sutton says, still blushing.
I shrug. “That's no problem.”
“And you won’t be saving any horses, if you know what I mean.”
“Now that is a disappointment.”
Instead of answering him, I say a round of thank-yous and goodbyes to Macy and Jeanie, who promise to snag some more quotes for the article on my behalf.
“Come on, cowboy.” I grab Sutton by the elbow and lead him inside. Once the door closes behind us, a tense silence fills the hallway. I release him, clearing my throat.
“Where are we going?” he asks, looking like I might say something like “to harvest your organs.”
“We’re going to study.”
“How do I know you’re not planning on something sinister? Like torturing the exam cheat sheet out of me.”
“Do I seem like the kind of girl that would do that kind of thing?” I raise an eyebrow. “More importantly, would that actually work? Because I’m pretty desperate. ”
As we wait for the elevator, I turn to face Sutton head-on, needing to crane my neck to look up into his eyes. This close, I can smell his cinnamon gum, which he chews anxiously. “I promise I won’t torture you for sensitive information.” I hold my pinky out. After a few seconds, he wraps his pinky around it, and the warmth of his hand travels up my entire arm. “I must say, you don’t strike me as a frat boy, Sutton.”
“Frat boy alumnus ,” he corrects, a hint of a smirk at his mouth.
I snort. “Like that’s much better.”
“It wasn’t really my scene. But rent was way cheaper if I stayed at a frat.”
“Fair.” I know all too well the struggles of New York rent.
I don’t waste any more time. The entire walk and subway ride to my apartment is filled with questions for Sutton about the first two weeks of class I missed. By the time we get to my front door, he has already explained the major bullet points from the first week of class.
I was lucky to find any apartment I could afford on my own, even if that means my life is constrained to four hundred square feet. My micro apartment is small, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in stuff . Sutton walks along the front wall of the room slowly, overwhelmed by the disorganization and clutter. Each step is hesitant, as if he will detonate a bomb with one wrong step. I swear his face pales when he looks at the whiteboard calendar on the wall, half finished, half covered with Post-it notes. It’s the perfect representation of the way my brain processes.
I take my coat off and throw it on one of my two barstools.
Sutton’s gaze moves to my bookshelf, the one my dad named The Hobby Graveyard. There’s an unfinished piece of embroidery, still on its hoop, a tackle box of bracelet beads, and film canisters on the top shelf .
When Sutton looks back at me, I shrug. “I like trying new things.” Having him here, looking at my belongings, feels more intimate than I anticipated, and my skin prickles with that realization. “Come on. No time to waste.”
With no couch and limited options, I sit on the edge of my bed. Sutton takes the open barstool.
For three hours, Sutton and I hardly look up from my homework. We read through the first two acts of The Tempest , and I’m struck by how naturally Sutton delivers the lines. Reading the play on paper makes my head spin, but hearing him read it out loud makes everything fall into place. He takes on a confident air, expressing exactly what I imagine the characters are feeling in every scene. It’s almost enough to keep my full attention, but I still end up tapping my fingers or twisting my rings around here or there to try to keep my hands occupied.
By eleven-thirty, all fragments of my attention span have shattered, and I collapse onto my bed belly-first, facing Sutton sitting on my desk chair. He couldn’t stand out from my room more if he tried. While everything around us is busy, colorful, and loud, Sutton is calming.
“Are you really from Montana?” I ask him, interrupting the monologue he was reading.
He nods.
“Are you really a cowboy?”
For the first time, Sutton smiles— really smiles—and it takes me off guard. Dimples dig into his cheeks, and his piercing eyes soften. “ Was a cowboy is a more fitting, I think.”
“Why aren’t you anymore?”
“Long story.”
“Make it short, then.”
Sutton straightens, his smile fading. “I never wanted to stay at the ranch forever. ”
“Why not?”
“Family complications. Why were you and Ms. Carr arguing?”
“Family complications,” I mimic, smiling in hopes that it will lighten the mood. Sutton stays quiet, patiently waiting for more. “She hates that I am indecisive. That it is taking me six years to finish my degree. That I can’t commit to much of anything, at least in her eyes.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” he says.
“It is. And really, it’s pretty ironic of her to be so judgmental, to call me a quitter.” At Sutton’s raised eyebrow, I add, “Long story.”
One side of his mouth lifts. “Make it short.”
“On the day of my high school graduation, my mom told me that she left my father. It came out of nowhere. They said they didn’t have a big fight or anything. They didn’t even try to make it work. Even though they were high school sweethearts, they apparently woke up one day and realized they weren’t in love.”
Sutton nods slowly. He clearly doesn’t know what to say to that story, because he changes the subject. “I hope I didn’t distract you from bidding on a real date tonight.”
“I was just there to cover it for the student paper.”
“You’re a writer?” he asks.
I shrug. “I guess so. I bounced between majors for a long time. Not because I’m a quitter, but because I wanted to try everything out. I loved chemistry and dance and statistics. Eventually, I got a job at the paper and realized that journalism was my ticket. When I’m interviewing people, writing their stories, I get to live through them.” I smile to myself. “I want to experience everything life has to offer. Since that’s impossible, experiencing things through the stories of others is the closest I can get.”
Sutton makes a little hum .
“Does that make sense?” I ask.
“Complete sense. It’s the same reason I want to be an editor.”
Even though my instinct drives me to want to speak, I follow Sutton’s style and stay silent, hoping it will prompt him to continue.
“Growing up, I loved feeling like I was living a thousand lives through the books I read. I could float the Mississippi River or survive a plane crash or befriend a wolf. And now I want to bring books that are full of life to other kids.”
“So why not write yourself?”
He narrows his eyes a bit, as if to discern if I’m joking. Finally, he says, “No. I don’t think I have any stories worth telling.”
I shift a bit, tense in the thick silence between us. “Thank you for helping me tonight. I owe you.”
Sutton gives me a smile just big enough to hint at his dimples. “Anything for charity.”
I walk the five steps to the front door and open it for him, watching as he leaves down the hallway. Just as I turn to go back into my apartment, Sutton calls my name out, stopping me. When I spin back to him, his jaw is clenched and his lips are tight, as if he’s trying to stop himself from talking.
“This class is important enough for you to spend three hundred dollars for a few hours of tutoring?” he asks.
“Absolutely. I need to graduate. I need to prove to my parents that I can do this. And…I want to prove it to myself.”
Again, Sutton tightens his mouth before releasing a slow breath. “What is your schedule like next week?” By his expression, it looks like he is actually in physical pain from his words.
I glance over at my whiteboard calendar. “Work, then book club Monday, cookbook club Tuesday—”
“You have two different types of book clubs? ”
“Yes. I’m interviewing a group of soon-to-be graduates on Wednesday. A friend has their art studio debut Thursday…” My voice trails as I try to remember any other commitments I might have forgotten.
Sutton shakes his head, looking like he’s holding in a laugh. “I’m guessing you usually have plans on Fridays, but if you ever need another tutoring session, those are the one night a week I sometimes have off.”
“Really?” I ask, my limbs feeling lighter than they have in weeks.
“Really.”