Which brings it back to the question of monogamy. “Maybe it isn’t the BJs, but who’s giving them…”

“Taylor. I think you’ll just drive yourself crazy trying to imagine what’s going on in his head,” she says.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to imagine if I could get him to return my texts.”

“Listen.” Sasha tries to mask her tone of frustration with something comforting, but it just comes out sounding impatient. She’s trying, but consoling isn’t her thing. “I don’t know him, so I can’t be your dick whisperer, but I will say this: if you really thought he was that guy, you wouldn’t have been wasting your time on him. So that tells me maybe something else is going on.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, maybe he’s having his guy period. My point is, whatever his deal is, it isn’t you. That isn’t the first place your head should go.”

“No?”

“No, babe. Seems to me like he’s been crazy for you since the moment you two started fake dating. So either he’s dealing with some shit or he’s just an asshole. And if it’s the latter case, you’ll be lucky to be rid of him. So stop stressing. You two will talk at some point and then you can decide. Until then, let it be. You’ve got to start backing yourself, Taylor. No one else can do that for you.”

On the one hand, she’s right. Assuming I’ve done something wrong, that I’m not good enough, is the first place my head always goes. That’s just what happens after you’re bullied and fat-shamed in your formative years.

On the other hand, I don’t know how to be as chill as Sasha. I don’t know how to not let shit get under my skin. How to just turn off the part of my brain that is clawing at the walls.

She has no idea how much I started to care about him, even though I warned myself not to. She doesn’t know all the ways he’d steeped through the layers of my life. You can’t un-dye fabric, dammit. Breakups are destructive and it’s impossible to completely bleach someone out of your existence. There’s always that tint they leave behind, a stain that never leaves you.

I had really hoped I could avoid Conor becoming one of those stains.

“With that said,” she announces, getting up to grab her car keys from her nightstand. “If he does you dirty and you want to set his car on fire or sabotage his skates so he snaps an ankle, I’m here for you, girl.”

A smile touches my lips. I love her. Sasha’s the person I’d want standing beside me with a shovel in the pouring rain while we bury the body.

“Come on, you dumb bitch.” She sticks out her tongue. “We can ride by his house one time on the way to the bar.”

Malone’s is slammed for a Sunday night. There’s a dart tournament going on, and a few minutes ago the entire Sigma Phi house crashed through the doors after clearly pre-partying somewhere else. So far, Sasha’s had to fend off three droopy-eyed drunks, shooting down their pathetic pickup lines like Wonder Woman deflecting bullets with her golden bracelets.

“Remind me why we’re here,” I shout over the group of loud guys chanting “chug, chug, chug!” in a nearby booth.

Sasha pushes another Malibu and pineapple at me and clinks our glasses. “You are in need of dick saturation.”

“I don’t think that’s my problem.” Glumly, I suck down almost my entire cocktail in one long sip, then lean against the bar and people-watch.

“Yeah, well, you’re wrong.” She tosses back her vodka and Red Bull. “Thorough scientific study has proven that when a man has your head messed up, only significant quantities of both dick and alcohol can cure your malfunction.”

“I’m gonna need to see some peer reviews on this data.”

Sasha flips me off.

“I’m just in time.” A tall guy in a Briar Basketball T-shirt appears in front of us. He’s sporting a bright toothpaste commercial smile and print model dimples.

Sasha must not be totally disgusted by him, because she takes the bait. “For what?”

“You two need another drink.” He nods at our nearly empty glasses and waves at the bartender. “Whatever they want, and a rum and Coke, please. Thank you.”

I don’t miss the pensive narrowing of Sasha’s eyes at his please and thank you. See, what’s important to understand about Sasha Lennox is that her best friend growing up was her great-grandmother on her father’s side, who at various stages in her life was a WWII Army mail carrier, a prison GED teacher, and briefly a Catholic nun. Which is to say, a boy with manners gets Sasha halfway to game time by just being polite.

“I’m Eric,” he tells us, flashing those well-maintained teeth at Sasha.

“Sasha,” she says coyly. “This is Taylor. She’d love to meet any tall, dark, and handsome friends you have lying around.”

I give her a cut-it-out glare, which she ignores. She’s too busy drowning in the depths of Eric’s…manners. He gives the all-clear to his buddies at a table across the room, and the two guys wind their way toward us with their beers. Their names are Joel and Danny, and the five of us get cozy and acquainted, Sasha and I craning our necks at the skyscrapers Briar’s recruiting as college basketball players these days.

When Danny shuffles a bit closer to me, Sasha digs her fingernails into my arm as a means of telling me she’s not letting me flee. I nudge her a few feet away so we can talk privately.

“I have a boyfriend,” I remind her. To which Sasha pops a sarcastic eyebrow. “I think.”

“You don’t have to jump on their dicks,” she replies. “Just smile and nod and drink up. A little harmless flirting won’t kill anyone.”

“If I saw Conor flirting with another girl—”

“But you’re not seeing him because he won’t return your texts. So pretend you’re alive for a few hours and enjoy yourself,” she says, pushing a shot at me after Danny insists on ordering us all tequila.

“To basketball,” Sasha raises her shot glass.

“To Kappa Chi,” Eric answers.

“To hockey,” I mutter under my breath.

After we down our shots, Sasha pulls out her phone and holds it up to grab a group selfie of the five of us.

“There,” she chirps.

“There what?”

She crops the image and adds a filter before posting the pic with several choice hashtags.

#girlsnight #kappachi #briaru #fuckpucks #bigballs

“Let Conor ignore this,” she says with a grin.

The thing is, I don’t want revenge. I don’t want to make him jealous or remind him what he’s missing. I just want to understand what changed.

Later, when I’m back at my apartment, getting into bed and trying to talk myself out of texting Conor again, I realize I missed a text from him earlier.

HIM: Sorry. Talk tomorrow. Goodnight.

Somehow, this is worse than him not responding at all.

28

Conor

A shrink would classify my behavior of this past week as self-destructive. Or at least that’s what Hunter’s girlfriend accused me of doing today, and Demi is halfway to being a shrink, so she’s legit. Apparently she ran into Taylor on campus earlier, prompting her to text me something along the lines of, “The fuck did you do to her???”