Catnip

03 | In Which Caleb Makes a Deal With the Devil

Caleb scoffs. "Blowing your girlfriend off for a cat? That's a sure-fire way to get laid."

Daniel's face reddens. "I, uh, I'm not . . . I mean, it's not like –"

"Not like that, sure. You won't be saying that when she dumps your ass this weekend."

His gaze dips to the floor, and Caleb supposes he's gone and done it again: offended someone with his bluntness. But really, after taking all the facts into account, it's clear that it's not his fault when people react negatively to his words, not really, because shit ought to be put into perspective every once in a while. He's just telling it like it is.

He reaches his table and sits, expecting Daniel to head back to his corner of the cafeteria, wherever the hell that might be. But he doesn't move, just stands there and frowns as Caleb slaps mayonnaise on his chicken burger.

"What're you doing?"

"Having lunch." Caleb draws the words out, his patience wearing thin.

"Right here?"

"Where else?"

"Don't be stupid," Daniel says. "Come sit with us."

"I'm cool." Then, as an afterthought, he adds, "But thanks for the offer."

"So you'd rather sit by yourself than sit with me and Britt for half an hour?"

Caleb shrugs and takes a bite of his burger. He doesn't understand why it's such a big deal, anyway. As far as he's concerned they're not friends, barely just acquaintances, and he might not feel completely comfortable sitting here without Marnie, but he's bound to feel even less comfortable sitting with Daniel and his unofficial rival instead. Not that Daniel's a bad guy, but he has his crowd and Caleb has his, and outside the mutual Marnie connection their paths have no reason to cross. Period.

(Another reason to add to the growing list of reasons as to why the cat-sitting thing is a god-awful idea.)

"Okay." Daniel shuffles from foot to foot, and Caleb notices he's wearing a pair of battered sneakers in place of the dreaded cowboy boots. Damn, the poor prick actually listened to him? "I guess I'll see you later, then?"

"Sure. Later," he says, his burger tasting sour as it travels down his esophagus.

Only once Daniel's rushed off to his table on the opposite side of the cafeteria does Caleb decide that he's maybe (read: seriously) taken his asshole-itus too far. Damn Daniel for wearing fucking sneakers, a subtle but effective form of guilt tripping that has Caleb sighing and muttering curses and striding across the cafeteria to pull out the chair across from the textbook-wielding Brittney Woods, all the while feeling like human scum. (Not like that's enough to make him apologise. How was he supposed to know Daniel would take some throwaway comment seriously?)

The couple glance up as he sets his tray down and sits. Daniel trails off from his sentence to grin at him in that open, easy-going way of his, while Brittney, to her everlasting credit, has mastered the look of absolute apathy to a tee and barely even bats her eyelashes. It's a talent Caleb deems as admirable even in his unofficial rivals.

"So," he says casually, "what's on the study menu today, Brittney?"

Silence on one end. Then, as if concluding that his presence can and will be tolerated, she slides the textbook in his direction and says, "Asymptotes."

"Everyone's favourite topic."

"Mm hm. Did you know apparently there's a test on Thursday? A test Mr Weinberg hasn't mentioned once –"