♥ ♥ ♥
MY PHONE IS A HEAVY WEIGHT IN my pocket, the unsent messages to Ivan almost burning a hole through my jean shorts.
I'd typed and retyped paragraphs time and time again, my patience wearing thin with each and every word. It makes sense that I don't study Literature or something because by the third line of my first paragraph, I wanted to throw my phone out my bedroom window.
Refraining from doing that, I decided the last place I wanted to be was my room, his spot on my bed staring at me like an accusation. So, I'd thrown my books and my ass into my car and decided to drive somewhere to get my thoughts off last night.
I was about to pull into a cute vegan coffee shop I'd discovered last week when I remembered I had a test.
At that point, I was fully convinced that the universe is out to get me.
So, I shot a hateful glance at my books and decided the library at school would work just as well as an iced matcha latte.
I don't know at what point in the journey from my car to the library I decided that a drinking game worked better than either of these things.
But, hey, nothing gets your mind off fucking your best friend's brother more than liquor, right?
So, here I am, my arm linked through peppy, cheerful sorority girl Kenna Westbrooke. I have half the mind to unlink my arm from hers, but the other option was walking beside Aryan. And I'd rather eat shit.
Still, the trace of his gaze is difficult the ignore. It's so distinct that I want to turn around and ask him what his problem is. But that would imply I care about Aryan Shankar and his stupid problems. And I don't.
I have my own problems.
Ah, there it is again. The urge to throw my phone.
I don't partake too much in the party scene of UCLA, so I have no idea who to expect as Kenna steers me toward the campus's parking lot.
What greets me are two SUV's, trunks popped open to strike against the daylight blue sky. They're facing each other, parked opposite within the still parking lot, the little sliver of space left between their open trunks is shaded wholly by a leering, leafy tree that drops small yellow leaves into the lot like rainfall.
A small girl wearing ripped jeans stumbles out of the back of one of the cars. The front strands of her hair are dyed neon green. Her eyes pass over us as if she's expecting company, though they stall on me momentarily.
I pretend I don't notice her staring as Kenna drags me forward.
Kenna is very much like her Instagram paints her to be. Except for the reassurance that she and Shankar were not a thing whatsoever.
That was comforting, to say the least. I don't think I could stomach someone who would fuck Aryan Shankar, far less let them rope their arm through mine.
I'm beyond thankful when she finally drops my arm though, to throw her arms around the green-haired girl. I think it's far too hot for hugging but I keep quiet. I'm fine as long as no one tries to hug me.
Before I could even learn the green-haired girl's name, she speaks, eyes trailing me up and down distastefully. She's so short, I note. She's even shorter than Kajal and I'd mused about how Dima had chosen Tinker Bell as a girlfriend when I first met Kajal. "You brought Fakhoury's daughter."
That's enough for my cool look to harden into a glare. I stare down Green Powerpuff Girl.
I'm not the tallest, constantly reminded of this as I spend more and more time near Shankar, not the toughest either. But I could take her. Pipsqueak.
I wait patiently for her to open her mouth again.
However, Kenna proves to be good at damage control, throwing a glance between my glare and Buttercup over here's twist of lip, she pulls apart from the hug and slaps her hands on the small girl's shoulders. "This is Mira," she introduces.
Behind me, I hear Aryan, who I had wilfully forgotten was there, shuffle on his feet and clear his throat. He moves until he's near my side and I resist the urge to shift away.
But Buttercup is looking at me. If private school taught me one thing, it's to refrain from showing too many emotions around potential enemies. And it's clear as day, from the near disgusted glow of her gaze, that Buttercup doesn't like me.
I want to say I'm surprised, even offended, because I'd never spoken to her in my life. But I know better. This is how people are.
This is why the schemes and parties of the UCLA student body never interested me. I'd had Dima. I didn't need anyone else.
But I'm standing in this parking lot, all by myself, and all I can do is glare back. Dima wasn't here.
Aryan cocks his head at Buttercup. "I heard there was booze."
At the sound of his voice, about three heads stick out from one of the SUV's. A bright-faced, familiar-looking boy grins at him. "Is that the Aryan Shankar I hear?"
The Aryan Shankar. I resist the urge to laugh.
Kenna does it for me though, even going so far as to slap her knee. "Yeah," she says between breathless laughs, "the Aryan Shankar. You can't miss that accent, luv."
Aryan tosses her a disinterested look.
The familiar boy stumbles from the trunk of the SUV, and, as promised, in his hand he clutches a half-drunken bottle of Smirnoff.
His eyes pass over me as he steps forward and it's then I remember him. Right, Parker.
Almost on cue with my realisation, he claps Aryan on the shoulder, sloshing vodka onto the asphalt. "Ry, bro."
Again, the nickname amuses me. This time, when I attempt to conceal my mocking smile, I catch Kenna's eye and she's full on grinning at the dumb nickname.
They don't do the testosterone handshake this time though, considering Shankar still had a handful of schoolbooks.
Parker grabs half of the books, biceps flexing with the movement. More vodka splashes onto the floor. I worry he'll drop the books as he goes, but he's pretty coordinated for someone who's tipsy at noon.
"You good, Mira?" He asks as he passes me by, as if we're the closest of friends.
Aryan brushes past me. "She's good." He drops the books into the SUV. "Not like she had to carry her own books or anything."
I roll my eyes after him.
Kenna slaps him on his back. I smile at that. "Oh, shut up, Shankar," she accuses plainly. "What are all those steroids for anyway?"
Aryan rubs his back and says, "I'm not on steroids."
"Please," Kenna replies, "all athletes are on steroids." She jabs a finger at Parker. "Are you on steroids, Parker?"
Further proving her point, Parker straightens from depositing the book and gives a slow nod. He's too drunk to consider that he probably shouldn't be admitting that.
Kenna shakes her head at Aryan.
Aryan rolls his eyes at her. "I'm not an athlete."
As far as I'm aware, he's in engineering. Something with robots. Physics and all that stuff that hurt my head. I'm a firm believer that Maths only works when you understand it, otherwise, it's the Devil's work. And I'm not too fond of gambling my chances with numbers.
"That's not what you tell those Kappa Kappa Alpha bitches to get them in bed now, is it?"
Aryan crosses his arms and leans against the SUV. "If your sources were right, Kenna," he said, "you'd know that we don't do much talking."
Parker nudges him, grinning. "Only screaming, huh?"
Drunk college boys are a different breed.
Just as I was about to throw up, Aryan speaks again, stealing the bottle from Parker's hands. He takes a swig. I wonder if he's like me, calculating his very move, or if he's just naturally good at standing in front of people. But the heart-breaking responding grin that frames his lips as he lowers the bottle is all natural, like sunlight beside my artificial LED lights. "Oh yeah, mate," he mocks, "screaming until their voices are gone."
Yeah, definitely gonna throw up.
"Do you listen to yourself before you speak, Shankar?" I fire before Kenna can. I can tell she was close on my heels, judging by how much she looked like she wanted to whack him upside the head.
Parker glances between us.
Aryan only rolls his eyes. Unlike when Kenna snaps at him, he doesn't fire back at me. Instead, I watch him raise the bottle to his lips again, barely wincing at the burn of the vodka.
I kind of want him to snap back.
Parker clears his throat awkwardly. He looks at me and smiles while Aryan scowls. "So, we playing or what?"
•••
There are ten of us in total, spread between the two open SUV's in the UCLA parking lot.
I don't recognise any of the faces. There's a pretty, curly-haired girl with cinnamon-coloured eyes sat beside Parker as their legs hang out the back of the trunk opposite me. She's wearing a pair of cute gladiator sandals that hug the coppery skin of her ankles.
Whereas I was looking at her shoes, Kenna, sat next to me, well, she was looking at everything else.
There are five of us to a SUV, leaving one person each to lumber in the backseat of the respective cars, sticking their head between the seats to receive a shot poured into their Red Solo Cup.
At the sight of the Red Solo Cups handed out by Parker, Buttercup, who sat to my extreme left, Kenna and one other person separating us thankfully, wrinkled her nose and remarked, "So, fuck the turtles, huh?"
I'm mildly upset that I agree with anything that comes out of Buttercup's mouth but I didn't coach mom and Petra into recycling and minimising plastic use just to say fuck the turtles. Buttercup has a point.
I still haven't gotten her name and I don't think I will anytime soon. I don't mind sticking with calling her Buttercup though.
As Parker finishes filling Aryan's cup, I resist the urge to meet his gaze. Two heavy swigs from Parker's bottle and I realise I've never seen Aryan Shankar drunk. He sits directly opposite me. An unfortunate placement, that leaves his shoulder leaning casually against the interior of the trunk, his eyes on the contents of his cup as he swirls it about.
I do the same, staring into the clear liquid.
I didn't much like vodka. I never quite got over the burn.
I think about how Ivan used to make fun of me for it. I think about how Dima doesn't like it that much either, though he made me swear I won't tell his babushka that, lest he hear a water of life dialogue in rapid Ukrainian that he could barely keep up with.
And then I shake my head completely, looking up from my cup.
Aryan is staring at me.
I look away. I look at Kenna.
She's still eyeing the pretty girl so I gently nudge her with my elbow and whisper, "You do know that we have a test after this, don't you?"
She blinks at me. She hasn't even had a drop yet she's dazed. Huh, I mean, the pretty girl is rather pretty.
"We do?" She asks. A grin. She tips back her cup seamlessly. "One for luck, eh?"
I can't help but grin back. My lips move to form the silly toast Ivan had taught me so long ago then I stop short. I frown. I down my cup.
Parker whistles at us. "Ladies," he says, "the game hasn't even started yet."
Kenna and I share an unapologetic glance.
She lifts her glass. "Top us up, my good man."
At the mocking British accent she'd decided to adopt for my good man, Aryan too tips his cup back, rolling his eyes as he does. I watch his jaw clench alongside the burn and I look away when he lowers the cup.
Parker sighs and tops the three of us back up.
When he sits back down, Aryan drawls, "So, what are the rules of this game?"
It's Buttercup who speaks up, "Simple. We go around a the group and we get to pick one person to ask a question. That person gets to decide whether they want to answer or drink—,"
Aryan cuts her off, shooting Kenna a look, "No, Kenna." Kenna grins at him, already anticipating his words. "That doesn't mean you get to drink every round. At least answer one question."
"Oh," added Buttercup, "whoever has taken the most shots by the end of the game has to streak across campus."
At that, the group explodes in a flurry of reaction. Parker whoops. Kenna says a quick, That's all you've got? Aryan groans, probably anticipating the freshman sorority girls who would pay big money to witness that sight.
Once we'd all cooled down, Buttercup leans forward, cup braced on the knee of her torn dark jeans. "I'll start."
I'm not even surprised when she calls me. "Fakhoury."
I resist the urge to leap off the trunk and smash her head onto the asphalt.
Instead, I thinly reply, "It's Zahed."
The others shift at my tone. Aryan looks at me carefully. I debate bashing his head into the asphalt too. Who first, I ponder, Buttercup or Shankar?
"Is it true that your dad fucked Victoria's Secret Angels in his and your mom's bed?"
I feel the temperature rise to boiling.
I distantly hear Aryan's sharp, "What the fuck, Melissa?"
Melissa, I think. She seems like a Melissa.
I blink past the red. I blink and blink until all I see is Melissa's ugly neon hair as I lean forward. I smile.
"A quick Google search would tell you yes. You don't have to wast your time asking me," I say in the calmest of voices.
She merely shrugs. "I was curious."
I don't drop my smile. I think it's permanently there until it's my turn again, the game having starting rockily and progressing onwards until Kenna had to empty her cup when the person next to her asked for her body count. She'd shrugged and said, "I don't remember, if I'm being honest."
After that start, I think they're holding their breath when the question reaches me. I know they're expecting me to strike against Melissa in retribution. But, Melissa is barely tall enough to fall onto my radar. She's dirt under my shoe and I hope she knows it.
It's only Aryan who isn't very surprised when I call him. "Shankar."
He leans forward, eyes settling on me lazily. One of those small yellow leaves from the tree overhead had fallen into his dark hair. I think about picking it out. Then, I realise that's the single shot of vodka on an empty stomach speaking. I realign my thoughts to bashing his head in.
"Yes, Zahed?"
I cross my arms and regard him cooly. "Are you sure your Kappa Kappa Alpha girlfriends aren't crying?"
My smirk is quick.
Kenna's laugh is loud.
I'm not finished though. I tilt my head at him. "From disappointment?"
Aryan's eyes flash, a thousand shades of darkness peering across at me in the sunny parking lot.
Kenna's laugh only gets louder. I worry she might double over onto the parking lot's floor. I hope she doesn't. I'm starting to like her and the head-bashing today is strictly reserved for Melissa and Shankar.
She slaps her knee, clutching her side. "Now that I think about it," she wheezes, "those bitches started investing in waterproof mascara at some point."
This time, I join her laughter. Biting my lip, I glance over at an unimpressed Aryan Shankar. I ask Kenna, "By chance, were they getting the Too Faced Better Than Sex mascara?"
This prompts another round of laughter from Kenna and I.
"Get it, Shankar?" She half-chokes past her laughing. "Better Than Sex?"
I believe we've sufficiently bruised his ego because Aryan tips back his cup. Parker protests, "That's not how the game works—,"
When he lowers the cup, he's smiling though. "Yeah," he grins across at me. It's pure evil. "But I needed it to put up with Zahed."
I find myself grinning back.
Finally.
"Do your worst, Aryan Shankar," I tell him.
His eyes spark. I watch the gears start spinning.
I even glance down at my wrist for a hair tie, feeling the temperature rise about a hundred degrees under those dark eyes. I lower it when I realise there is none.
However, Kenna, still flush-faced from our bout of laughter, pulls a red scrunchie off her wrist without me asking and hands it to me. "Here you go."
I blink. I realise I've had Dima as a best friend my entire life and had come to the conclusion that if I forgot a hair tie at home, I would simply have to deal with dark locks of hair in my face. I accept Kenna's scrunchie with a small smile. Things like this make me appreciate female company.
As soon as I lift my hair off my neck, pulling it up and starting to twist the scrunchie around it, I pause. Aryan's eyes are on me again. No, Aryan's eyes are on my neck.
Last night replays behind my eyes. And I curse Ivan in about a dozen languages as all the feelings I'd run away from in my rumbled bedsheets this morning return. Fucking Ivan Nazarenko, that absolute piece of shit, that son of a bitch, that motherfucker. We didn't leave marks on each other. That's not how it worked.
My red ribbons down his back would fade come morning. That's how it worked.
Not this.
The fact that it's Ivan makes me want to drop my hair immediately, to hide my shame and all it's ugly truth. But it's Aryan Shankar who's looking at me. And no way in hell was I going to back down from that motherfucker.
I hold his stare and finish the ponytail. His lips quirk at me.
"Nice one, Zahed."
•••