In the Wake of Wanting

  “I sense that about you,” she says. “I admire that about you. But sometimes, you don’t have a choice.”

  Before I even have a chance to tense up at my interpretation of what she said, even if she wasn’t implying I should break some sort of “moral” rules with her right now, in this room, she gets a tighter grip on my shoulders, moving away from the sore spot and digging her thumbs in aggressively. “You’re hopeless.” She pats my biceps and stands up in front of me. “Make an appointment with the athletic trainer or with a professional masseuse. You’re just getting more tense.”

  “You were helping!” I insist. I rotate my shoulder slowly, feeling the tender muscle. “Already that feels better.”

  “Well, the rest of you is tightening up. I make you nervous or something.”

  I nod my head–barely, slowly at first, but then adamantly to show her that she’s right. “In the sauna with you? Yeah. You do. But to be fair, any girl would. It just feels wrong.”

  “Says the rule-abider.”

  I smirk at the nickname. “Coley? Doesn’t it to you?” She shrugs and looks away. “Maybe it doesn’t feel wrong, but it doesn’t feel right, either.”

  “I’m just helping a friend.”

  “But the fact that you just called me a rule-abider makes me think you acknowledge this as against the rules, somewhere.”

  She walks toward the door, wiping perspiration from her forehead with the towel. I keep my eyes above her shoulders, even though they want to look elsewhere. “If you were my boyfriend, a hefty discussion would be required after something like this with another girl.”

  “See?”

  “Let’s go,” she says. I follow her out of the sauna and grab a fresh towel on my way out of the locker room, drying myself off. “I wasn’t looking at this from her perspective. I don’t think our relationship is easily understood.”

  “No,” I respond. “I don’t really understand it half the time.” She turns around and looks at me sympathetically. “Just being honest.”

  “It’s easy. You’re my friend and my boss.”

  “I am not your boss,” I argue playfully, opening the main door for her.

  “Then we’re just friends. That makes it even easier.”

  chapter eight

  On a Thursday evening in mid-February, Stanley, Asher and I are all doing homework together at the frat house on 113th. There’s a lot of noise coming from the other floors, but the study is relatively quiet tonight.

  “How’s your story coming?” Asher asks.

  “Which one?” I counter tersely, still perturbed that he and Professor Aslon saddled me with three articles this week–all news and no fluffy features.

  “The one about the bribery claims at the secondary school.”

  “That one’s submitted. It should be in the editor inbox. They’re strong allegations, but not unfounded.”

  “You’ve got your bases covered?”

  “Of course. I know better than to report on something like this without well-documented sources,” I assert.

  “Just making sure,” he says as he pats me on the shoulder. “Which other ones do you have?”

  “The one about the budget shortfalls in the math department and the story covering the ever-deteriorating conditions of the Wiley dorms–still featuring sketchy heating!” I say sarcastically. “Did you know they’ve now given electric blankets to all the residents? And added it to their housing bill for the semester?”

  “That’s a load of bullshit,” Asher says. “Once we publish your article, that’ll change.”

  “I’m so glad I don’t live there anymore.”

  “Yeah, but it gave you a nice advantage for the story… don’t you think?”

  “Well, yeah. I definitely have a perspective no one else has. It’s too bad no one wrote it when I was a resident, though. I froze my ass off in the winter, and subsequently sweated it off in the spring.”

  “Hey, are you guys bringing anyone to the formal Saturday?” Stanley asks, changing the subject.

  “Stupid Valentine’s Day formal,” I murmur. “Yeah, how would that look to Zai? You can’t bring friends to that event, no matter what.”

  “No,” they both agree.

  I think about Coley and wonder if I would have invited her if it wasn’t Valentine’s Day. I think I could have. Zaina knows about her. She knows we’re friends, and Zaina’s taken some of her guy friends to events at Oxford. Nothing formal, but they’re just clothes. “Hey, Asher, you never told me if you asked out Coley at the beginning of the semester,” I tell him, thinking enough time has passed to bring it up and wanting his side of the story.

  “Yeah, I decided it wasn’t a good idea, trying to date someone on the paper. What if I didn’t like her, you know? That’d be messy.”

  “I guess so, yeah,” I say, looking at him sideways as he stares into his advanced statistics book. That lie came very easily to him.

  “She seeing anyone yet?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “She’s still the most fuckable girl I’ve met this year, though. Don’t think I don’t, uh… think about her.” He bites his bottom lip lewdly.

  “Jesus, Asher,” I say, pushing the table away from me angrily. Both he and Stanley look up at me, surprised. “Sorry. I mean… do you have to be so blunt about that?”

  “Well, isn’t she? Oh, wait. Zaina wouldn’t want you to admit anything like that. I’ll withdraw the question.”

  Stanley laughs at his response, and my skin burns hot in frustration and ire.

  “I’ve invited Pryana,” Asher says.

  “How is that not dating someone from the paper?” I ask him, referring to our managing editor, the woman who is set to replace him next year.

  “It’s not a date. We just thought it would be fun to dress up and hang out together for once, and since I’m not currently dating anyone and she’s never dating anyone, I just thought, what the hell? I’ll take Pryana. She’s cute enough. Plus, she and Coley have become friends, so maybe that’ll make her jealous.”

  “But… you don’t want to date Coley.”

  “I still want her to know what she’s missing.”

  “Oh, she sees it every day, Asher,” I tell him sarcastically.

  “Does she talk about me?” he asks. He apparently didn’t pick up on the sarcasm. I sometimes think his ears filter it out when he simply doesn’t want to hear it.

  “Here you go again,” Stanley cuts in, “thinking everyone talks about you. Thinking everyone wants you. Asher Knoxland. God’s Gift to Columbia University.”

  “Did you have the shirts made yet, Stan?”

  I laugh at them both and conveniently forget to answer Asher’s question.

  “I’m going stag,” I tell Stanley. “Are you bringing Kim?” He nods.

  “You know they don’t like it when guys come stag,” my fraternity brother tells me.

  “I’m well aware, but I don’t have a choice in the matter. I know I’m not the only one.”

  “It just doesn’t look good in the pictures.”

  “I’ll stay out of them. Not a problem,” I vow.

  “Maybe there will be a Kappa Sig without a date that you can hook up with–not literally, of course,” Stanley suggests, referring to our sister sorority.

  “I don’t think that’s how it works,” I rebut. “Aren’t there… expectations?” I think back to Asher and Pryana going and look over at him after I ask the question.

  “Pryana and I have an understanding. I’m getting her a car back to her apartment after the dance.”

  “Ahhh. That sounds distinctly un-Asher.” He flips me off.

  “Or, hey, since we’re staying in Manhattan, there are always women ready to party,” Asher says to me. “You can just wait outside of a club–oh! Go to Thin Ice. They only let models in there, and they always come out wasted. Just bring one of them with you.”

  “Why don’t I just hire a hooker?” I say sarcastically. “Since when did we become Betas?
We’re the good guys. This stupid dance is supposed to be for our girlfriends or women we care about–not for some random chicks. The only reason I’m not bringing a friend is because it’s Valentine’s Day and because the fraternity did stipulate that there was some meaning behind this formal, and Zaina wouldn’t like it.”

  “All right, all right,” Stanley says. “I’ll stop harassing you.”

  Two nights later at the Carlyle, just as soon as the photographer begins setting up to gather all of my brothers and their dates together for pictures, I conveniently make my way out a side door of the ballroom and undo the bowtie I’d worn for the evening. It was about the most uncomfortable I’ve been in a very long time. I’ve never been to a dance where I’ve been relegated to wallflower status. I’ve always had a date. Always. And while I danced with plenty of my brothers’ dates, I couldn’t help but see pity every time I looked in their eyes.

  And I was so tired of hearing my pathetic self say, “My girlfriend is at Oxford,” that I stopped saying it altogether. I ended up resenting Zaina more than missing her by the end of the night. I consider going up to the room I’d paid for, but decide to get my coat from the coat check and take a walk. It’s not nearly as cold as it should be in February. It actually feels nice, and in the open air of the city under the darkness of the moonlight, it’s the first time in four hours there are no eyes on me.

  I feel free.

  Deciding that walking through Central Park is not the best idea dressed as I am, I stay on the perimeter of the park but walk all the way back to Columbia and end up at Ruvelyn’s Café where I’d admittedly hoped to find a certain freshman reading, studying, or writing late this Saturday evening. I glance around, though, and she’s not here. Of course she’s not. It’s Valentine’s Day. What single girl goes and hangs out alone in public on Valentine’s Day? Or, hell, maybe some smart guy asked her on a date.

  “What can I get you, Trey?” Frank, the barista, asks me. “Caffe Americana?”

  “Please.”

  “You know you didn’t have to dress up like that for me,” he teases, fluttering his lashes. He is gay, but I know he’s kidding.

  “Yeah, yeah. Laugh all you want,” I tell him, sitting down at the tall table I’d first sat at with Coley.

  “You didn’t get ditched by a date, did you? Tonight of all nights.”

  “No, I just came from our fraternity formal. I was already dateless.”

  “You?”

  “He has a girlfriend at Oxford.” I turn around to see Coley emerging from the hallway where the restrooms are. She’s wearing her ripped jeans again and a red sweater with woven stripes in the pattern.

  “Hey, you!” I say, standing up to face her. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Speaking of fancy,” she says back to me. “Look at you.”

  “I wear this shit all the time back at home,” I joke with her. “At the Holland house, it’s what we wear: tuxes and formal gowns. This is my Wednesday suit, in fact. It’s not even my nice one.”

  “Stop it.” She laughs, settling at a table that has a bunch of books already spread out. I see her red purse–it would have been a dead give-away that she was here if I had just looked at the table.

  “Drinks up, Trey. Too bad about your Oxford girl,” he says, glancing quickly at Coley and then back at me.

  “Thanks.” I walk over to her table. “You’re pretty trusting to leave your purse out like that.”

  “Frank said he’d only take my cash and leave my credit cards and lady products,” she comes back quickly with a smirk. “He was watching my stuff for me. We go way back… to last semester, you know?”

  I grin at her skeptically. “You’re not doing homework tonight, are you?” She shakes her head and chews on the end of a pen. I glance down at her open Moleskine notebook. “Poetry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you, uh… inspired by the date and writing love poems?” I ask playfully, kicking the leg of her chair.

  “Can you sit down so I don’t strain my neck talking to you?”

  “Of course, sure,” I say, happily taking a seat at her table.

  “I’m not inspired by the date, no. But I am writing love poems. My favorite topic.”

  “You are such a romantic.” Looking more closely at the paper, I see little doodles all over it. “Look at the hearts, laureate! And the swirls. If the poetry’s anything as pretty as the page, man… I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks. So why are you here? Shouldn’t you be across town at your formal?”

  “The dance part was wrapping up. All that was left was drinking with the very few single guys who were there in one of their rooms, or going up to my empty hotel room, and I wasn’t really ready for either of those. It’s a nice night. I went for a walk instead and needed some coffee when I got cold. I just happened to get cold right here.”

  “At Ruvelyn’s, huh?”

  “It’s a great location, what can I say?”

  She shakes her head at me. “Was it as miserable as you thought it would be?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I told you. You needed to change your attitude before you went. You didn’t do what I said, did you?”

  “Nope,” I admit. “I can be a little stubborn.”

  “Oh, I know you can. You’re unyielding sometimes with your editing,” she complains, as she’s been known to do about this topic.

  “It’s. My. Job. Coley. How have your grades been so far?”

  “All As.”

  “And how many of your articles have been in the Wit?”

  “All of them.” I nod my head smugly. “Yes, and it has everything to do with the editing and nothing to do with the writing itself.”

  “I never said that.” I take a sip of my coffee. “Your writing is outstanding. You’ve turned journalism on its head here, and you know it. Yours has become the most popular section online. You’re like the Buzzfeed of Columbia. Interesting content delivered in a way our audience likes to receive it. Win-win.

  “Professor Aslon sure had a pulse on what the student body wanted. I never would have brought a poet onto the staff to write features. It never would have occurred to me. But I love what you’ve done. And the people you write about love it, too.”

  “Is this my mid-semester review or something?” she asks pertly.

  “Just take a compliment, laureate.”

  “Thank you, Trey.”

  “So… you didn’t do anything special for Valentine’s Day? No nice dinner? No chocolates or flowers?”

  “No,” she says, not looking sad about it. “Someday I’ll have an insanely special February fourteenth with a man who showers me with love. That day’s just not today.”

  “Today’s not over yet,” I tell her. “How would you like to spend a night at the Carlyle?”

  She looks mortified. “No. No, Trey.” It looks like she’s about to cry.

  “Not with me! You should know me better than that! Coley, Coley, no… that’s not what I meant. Shit. I have a room there that’s paid for. A suite. My stuff’s there and I have to go back and get it, but I want nothing more than to go home tonight and sleep in my own bed. I really don’t want to see any of those guys tomorrow. Not really in the mood. But you… you could go pack some things, we could take a cab, I could grab my stuff to take home and get you checked in… you’d have a late check-out at four p.m. tomorrow. They’ll treat you like a princess, bring breakfast and lunch to your room, if you want, and you can write your poetry from thirty-one floors above the park. The room’s stocked with soda and bourbon… if you want… or I’ll take that back with me. It’s all on my dime. I can’t get my money back.”

  “I don’t want to take your room,” she says, but her smile says she likes the sound of it all.

  “It’s either you, or a homeless guy I find in Central Park on the way back. And I’m not entirely sure the hotel staff would appreciate the homeless guy as much as my good intentions would like them to. I’m not going to st
ay there,” I assure her.

  “Colesha?” Frank says loudly and sharply. “You take that nice boy’s offer. You hear me?”

  She starts to giggle and gather her things. “Okay, Frank, okay.”

  “Colesha?” I whisper to her, helping her along. “Is that really your name?”

  “It’s actually Nicolea, but he knows better than to call me by my Christian name.” I had no idea Coley was a nickname. “I despise it, but it’s on my credit cards, which he’s seen… so he makes up other names to drive me crazy.”

  “That’s great.” I turn around and nod to him, thanking him silently. He calls me over, signaling with his finger.

  “We had these to sell today, but we ordered too many. Just, you know… to make her feel more like the princess she is,” he says as he hands me a bouquet of flowers. I get out my wallet. “I know you have money, Trey Holland. Just go. Take them. They’re on the house. You can tell her they’re from Ruvelyn’s.”

  “Thanks.” I hide them behind my back and walk quickly with her to the door, holding it open for her. “So, we walk to your dorm, I’ll wait downstairs while you pack a few things… and then we can get a cab to the hotel. Sound okay?”

  “Sure,” she says. “I can’t believe you’re really going to give me your room. It’s too nice. Maybe I shouldn’t.”

  “Frank said you had to,” I say as we walk down the street. “He also wanted you to take these.” I hand her the robust bouquet of colorful flowers. “I can’t say no to him any better than you can. He’s so persuasive.” I take the books she’s carrying so she can hold the small gift.

  “They smell so good. Thank you. Well, thank Frank.” There’s awkwardness between us for the rest of the walk back to her dorm. “Did you want to come up? I’m sure my roommate won’t mind… if you don’t want to wait down here.”

  “Oh, no,” I say, looking both ways. “The streets have eyes… and those eyes post things on the internet… and the internet goes directly to Oxford. Even though this is completely innocent, there’d be a lot of shit to explain to Zaina if she saw me going with a girl into her dorm.”