Trillion(53)

“You want another one?” Tennyson, a guy with wavy, sandy blond hair and bold Abercrombie looks lifts an empty bottle of Dos Equis. “Or I can make you something else? I think they have vodka and Sprite?”

“I’m good.” I lift my mango White Claw, which honestly tastes like vomit water but it’s the ‘cool’ thing to drink here. I’ve never been a follower, but since coming to Princeton, I’ve never felt so out of place, and I’ve found myself going with the flow in an attempt to stick out less.

Everyone comes from prominence here. All the girls carry designer backpacks and the guys drive Range Rovers and people talk about their family’s sail boats and vacation homes like they’re discussing the weather.

That, and I’m homesick. I FaceTime with my mom and sister almost every day. It’s not the same, but it’ll tide me over until I fly home for Thanksgiving in a few weeks.

I have a group of girlfriends. Five of us altogether. Two went to the same high school so they’re insanely close and sometimes go on boring tangents about people from their hometown, but they’re not so bad. Plus they know where all the good parties are, where the alcohol flows like water, and if you want a casual hook-up, all you have to do is eye fuck a guy from across the room until he comes over to talk to you.

Tennyson returns with a new beer and sits beside me. Our thighs touch. He takes a swig, watching me, waiting to make a move. I get the impression that I make guys nervous sometimes. One of my friends told me last month that I’m “hard to read,” whatever that means.

“So you’re from Illinois?” he asks.

“Yep …” I take a sip of my lukewarm White Claw.

“And you’re an international business major?”

“Yep …”

We met in Econ 101 at the beginning of the semester, when he chose the desk next to mine and asked to borrow a pen—never mind that he had a razor thin MacBook Air to take his notes. It was something straight out of an 80s movie. The following week, I chose a seat in the back row. He spotted me the instant he walked in and took the spot in front of me. After a while, I got used to it. And it took him months to muster up the courage to invite me to this party at his fraternity.

I don’t normally ‘do’ frat parties, but all my friends have recently landed boyfriends and were embarking on a “quadruple date” tonight. They offered to hook me up with some guy, but I had no interest in being the fifth wheel.

“I’m glad you could come tonight,” Tennyson says. You’d think, with his dashing good looks and family money, everything would come easy to the guy, but he has the confidence of a meek mouse. Shitty parenting, maybe? Hard to know.

“Yeah, thanks for the invite.” I feign excitement, glancing around the room. My attention settles on the couple on the sofa, still going at it. His hand is up her shirt now and she’s grinding on what I’m pretty sure is a massive hard-on.

I catch Tenn staring at my lips. He glances away and takes a drink of his liquid courage. The guy had no qualms stalking me in Econ every week this semester, but the second he has me to himself at a party, he’s a shaking poodle.

I finish the last of my tepid drink and rise from the love seat we’re sharing.

“Getting another?” he asks.

“No.” I take him by his sweaty hand. “Where’s your room?”

His green eyes widen, and in this moment I’m certain he has no idea how hot he is. Maybe his teenage years were sheltered. I’m guessing he went to an all-boys school because he’s got absolutely no game.

He leads me up a wooden staircase and down a drafty hall until we come to a room. The sign on the door says TENNYSON HEARST AND FOSTER BIRCHFIELD.

“My roommate went home for the weekend,” he says, unlocking the knob before leading me inside. He closes the door and flips a switch. Party lights glow from the ceiling. The scent of old things … leather, wooden furniture … mix with new things like expensive clothes and electronics and cologne, creating a dizzying cocktail of sensory overload as he licks his lips and cups my face and presses his lanky body against me.

I slept with a random guy the first week of school, and someone else last month. It helps to fill the void, even if it’s temporary.

Tennyson’s kisses are too wet and he fumbles in his rush to strip down and locate a condom from some wooden box on his dresser, but within minutes we’re tumbling into his extra-long bed, straddling, kissing, tasting, touching, and finally—connected …

But the moment doesn’t last long.

Five minutes is all.

When it’s over, I roll to the spot next to him, our bodies filling the entirety of the narrow twin mattress.

That was … underwhelming.

He turns to me and even in the dim light I spot his proud, satisfied grin.

“We should do this more often,” he says.

“Yeah,” I lie.

“Maybe we could hang out sometime?” He almost stutters. “I could take you to dinner? We could catch a movie?”

Just as I suspected, Tenn’s been crushing on me since the beginning of the school year. It’s sweet. And I’m flattered. But I’m not interested. And not because he’s unpracticed in the sack. If I was into him, if we became a thing, we could explore what we like and what we don’t like and figure out a way to make sex mutually satisfying.