He smiles at me, giving me a little wave. “Fucking some lucky girl upstairs all night?” he asks.
He gets up from the chair and sways a little.
“I, uh, passed out upstairs,” I tell him, which is at least partly the truth. “Did you have a good night?”
“No. It was pretty bad, not going to lie,” he says.
“What happened?”
He takes a breath and begins spilling out a level of raw honesty that must have to do with the liquor. “Just reminded that my past mistakes will probably ruin the rest of my college career. No big deal. Really used to be proud of being a fuckboy, but I don’t want it anymore.”
“Whatdoyou want?”
He shrugs. “To feel something.”
Real.
Relatable.
A little bit too relatable.
“You can change how people see you. It just takes time. And maybe drinking until dawn doesn’t help.”
He laughs. “Guilty as charged. You know, you’re not so bad for a Daggers guy,” he tells me. “Wes needs to chill out about you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Noah shrugs. “You know. His wholerah-rah, Sevan tries to sabotage everything we doshit. He thinks you tried to ruin that last car wash we did before you got hurt.”
I know what Noah’s referring to.
At that car wash, there was a guy who came through with a classic Mustang, like mine but red. I heard the engine making a sound that tipped me off to the fact that it needed major work done.
So I told the guy he needed to fix his car. And he didn’t like that.
When he said “stay in your lane and wash my car, kid,” I took that exactly how anyone would take it.
I told him to fuck off.
And rolled up my sleeves.
Weston naturally had a stick up his ass for weeks afterward. He said I “sabotaged the car wash,” lost us a customer, and made a bad reputation for Crimson College and the secret societies in general. But I don’t kiss ass for strangers when they treat me like a peasant, especially when I was only trying tohelpwith the Mustang.
“Can’t say I regret what I did.”
Noah nods. “I’m gonna go find something else to drink,” he says. “Maybe water.”
“Sounds like a very good plan.”
As he walks out I catch a glance of the big, leather-bound planner that Noah always keeps.
There’s a part written in green ink, right along the top of the day the alumni dinner is happening:
VIP - Private table - Onyx Only. Talk with Roman and Wes beforehand.
I don’t know what that means.
I also don’t want to know.