Teddy Wayne - Loner

Yet Liam was nowhere to be seen. I tried to piece together why you’d remained with him through your affair. Perhaps it was so that you wouldn’t feel as though you were just the other woman, desperately pining after a taken man, and had kept him around to make Tom jealous. Or maybe it was for whatever social status he supplied you with that Tom couldn’t because your relationship had been illicit.

You and Suzanne colonized the same sofa as before and I sat next to you, no longer banished to the armrest. Cole Porter lyrics crooned over the sound system as grandfatherly benefactors limped about. Harvard had lost the game, demoralizing the fan base and further buoying my own spirits; I’d been dreading the mass celebratory atmosphere, the drunken woo-hoos in the streets, the spoils of war that would all redound to the benefit of the gridiron heroes (glory, fellatio). Now the victory parade was only for me.

My phone trembled in my pocket. A text from Sara:

I found one of your Lactaid pills under my bed today. Dot dot dot.

I didn’t respond. She sent another message fifteen minutes later:

(Subtext: Thinking of you.)

A twenty-something alumnus, vice president of moving money from one account to another, insinuated himself into our space and hit on you, directing an occasional word to Suzanne out of politesse. “I have to meet some friends at the Charles,” he said. “You should come.”

His canvas belt was embroidered with little anchors and sailboats. I remembered a childhood story about a classmate’s uncle who had been garroted by a taut cord while sailing, and cast the alum in my mental reenactment.

“Thanks, but we’re good here for now,” you said.

“We’ll be at the bar late. Stop by whenever.” He winked. “I’m staying there, room 201.”

“God, I should write my essay on the alumni ,” Suzanne said after he left. “They’re even worse than the current members.”

“What’s the essay for?” I asked, eager to guide the conversation toward my bailiwick.

Suzanne hesitated.

“Can we not talk about school right now?” you cut in. “We’re almost on vacation.”

“Duly noted,” Suzanne said. “Who needs a refill?”

She went to the bar. “Do you have any special plans for Thanksgiving?” I asked you.

“Just hanging at home with good ol’ Larry and Margaret.”

“That should be relaxing.”

You expelled air between your tongue and palate, generating a cynical t sound. “Gag me.”

“I know,” I said, gag em . When Suzanne returned you made more space for her, our pelvises making unbroken if involuntary contact on the crammed sofa, how quaint that you had once touched your elbow to mine in class and now we were almost literally joined at the hip. The two of you resumed talking as I fantasized about the future with you: champagne and sashimi and sofas but, more important, the thrill of savoring these things by your side, the ecstatic rush of being alive, right here, right this moment, that had so rarely visited me in my lifetime of safely plodding preparation for the future.

Liam appeared, ruiner of everything good.

“Veronica,” he commanded in his uncouth baritone. Just that one word, as if you were a pet. I could provoke a breakup by informing him of what had been going on with Tom through a pseudonymous e-mail, but I was one of a select few — if not the only person — who knew, and you would figure out I was the source. You might end things on your own anyway, especially under the influence of your gender class; you knew he was a repressive force who sought to silence you. And yet that was what apparently attracted you to him.

“What’s up, Suzanne?” Liam said, planting himself between the two of you on the couch. He reached over to the antipasto board occupying the coffee table where we had previously snorted cocaine. Slicing a thick coin of sausage, he popped it into his mouth as if he were a meat grinder.

“How were the other clubs?” He gnashed the red meat between his teeth and cut another piece of sausage.

“They were lame, but they had—” Your eyes bulged with alarm. “You’re bleeding .”

He’d nicked his index finger with the knife and blood was leaking out.

“Oh,” he said lunkheadedly. “Whatever.”

You took a cocktail napkin from the table and wrapped it around his finger. “ Baby , you have to be more careful,” you cooed with a tenderness I had no idea you possessed.

It was all an act. You were exaggerating your caretaking so he wouldn’t suspect you of infidelity.

“Liam, you know David,” you said.

He looked at me. “David from English,” he said. “David from Lamont.”

“Yep,” I said, afraid of making eye contact with either of you, even though I was in a position of power, knowing all about a situation of which he was completely ignorant.

“So you guys pulled an all-nighter?”

Detecting a note of unease in Liam’s voice, I waited a beat before answering, hoping to preserve your impression of me as a trustworthy ally while simultaneously arousing his suspicion. “Yeah, it was a really late night.”

“And Thursday night, too?”

“Uh-huh,” I said. (I’d spent that night overhearing Steven practice his magic act.)

“Enough with the cross-examination,” you interrupted. “Yes, we worked until very late both nights. Jesus.”

“I’m just making conversation,” he said innocently. He turned to me. “She’s always saying I don’t engage her friends enough.”

“You’re being a dick,” you hissed.

A crocodile grin spread over his face. “You’re so cute when you’re angry.” He squeezed your pouting cheeks together with his uninjured hand.

“Fuck off,” you said, pushing him away. “I’m going home. The alumni here make me sick.” You stood up and put on your coat.

“She’ll be fine,” Liam announced as the three of us watched you stomp off. He carved himself another piece of sausage before joining his friends by the pool table.

“And the fun never ends,” Suzanne said, leaving for the bar.

I caught up to you again on Mt. Auburn Street.

“What do you want?” you snapped as I matched your stride.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just heading back, too. You are going to Matthews, right?”

After entering our dorm you sped upstairs ahead of me, not pausing to say good-bye at the fourth-floor landing. You hadn’t even thanked me in person for the second essay. In a few days you’d be back in New York. All the momentum I’d built up would be lost.

The dorm was quiet, everyone out at one of the Harvard-Yale parties. I went to my room and wrote you an e-mail:

It’s polite to say good night to someone. Especially someone who’s done a lot of favors for you and is looking out for your best interests.

A few minutes passed. You didn’t reply. I followed up with a stronger message:

P.S. I’ve been thinking it over. TB abused his power and he’ll continue doing it, if not with you, then someone else. I’m emailing the Ad Board now. It’s the right thing to do.

I was composing a third e-mail — a draft of the letter that I would threaten to send to the Ad Board — when the knock came. I carried my laptop with me as I opened the door.

“David, it’s really not a good idea to get mixed up in this,” you said, the hallway light haloing your hair.

“Guys like him always think they can get away with stuff like this,” I said. “Someone needs to stop him.”

A girl walked down the hall. You waited until she passed.

“He won’t do it with anyone else,” you said quietly.

“If this were a friend of yours, you’d do what I’m doing,” I said in a normal voice. “You’re scared, you feel like you’ve done something wrong, but you haven’t. He’s exploited you with his position. You’re the victim here.”