him yet or are you hiding like a sissy?
Me: I’m not hiding. I’m doing recon.
Blue: Lies! Ten bucks says you’re in some dark corner or pressed against a wall doing your best to blend in. You probably haven’t had a drink. Hell, you probably haven’t even talked to anyone.
Me: Wrong again. I spoke to the guy manning the door.
Blue: Thea, Thea, Thea. What am I going to do with you?
Me: Uh…
Blue: Rhetorical question. Listen closely. You’re going to leave your corner, chug some liquid courage, march up to your Golden God, and confront him. And then, you’re going to find a hot, willing co-ed and dance until your feet hurt.
Me: No to the dancing. Yes to the rest.
Blue: 2 out of 3…I’ll take it. I wish I was there!
Me: Yeah, yeah. Says the girl out on a date with her dream guy. Speaking of, WHY ARE YOU TEXTING ME?
Blue: Stop procrastinating.
Clearly, parties aren’t my thing—along with crowds, and you know, just people in general—and Blue knows that. Gah! Sometimes I hate how well she knows me. But that’s what happens when you’ve been best friends with someone for six years; they know your quirks and fears, your dreams and desires. Unfortunately for me, mine are all tied up in one boy—well, man now.
I’m not sure why I thought confronting him at a party was a good idea, but it’s too late to turn back now, because here I am. Blue is totally right, I’m procrastinating. The question is…why? What’s the worst that could happen? You know, other than Dane, a God in his own right, not having a clue of who I am and laughing me straight out of this damn frat house.
Divine status or not, we have history. Admittedly it didn’t end well, but surely, it’s enough to grant me an audience with him.
So why are you making such a big deal out of talking to him? I ask myself. Maybe because he left you in his wake and never once looked back, my inner-asshole replies, trying to sabotage my budding confidence.
“Nope. Not today, asshole,” I mutter to myself, steeling my resolve. “I’ve got this. I am a strong, independent woman. I fear no man. The only thing holding me back is… me.”
I step out of the shadows, my eyes locked on my target, as I swipe a solo cup from the island and fill it with beer. I bring it to my lips and chug the lukewarm liquid. After tossing the cup, I wipe the foam from my lips with the back of my hand and set off toward my former best friend and lifelong crush, ready to demand answers.
TWO
Dane
“PLACE IS PACKED,” I mumble, sinking back into the ugly-ass chartreuse-colored couch, my legs spread wide and my beer clasped loosely in my hands.
“Hell yeah,” my right-hand man—literally and figuratively—Anton replies. “There’s not a better place to be tonight than the Zeta house.”
He’s wrong though. I’d rather be back in San Clemente, because if I was, it’d mean everything was fine, that my dad was healthy and not laid up in an ICU hospital room. I keep telling myself things could be worse, that he could have died. But he made it, and I’m here to help in any way I can. The drink in my hand, my friends by my side, the ocean at my back and a veritable buffet of hot, willing, and eager co-eds to choose from are just cherries on top. So, yeah, while I’m twenty-five-hundred miles away from where I want to be, I know I’m exactly where I need to be.
“Dawn patrol before class?” my friend Brooks asks from his spot next to me on the couch. The three of us are posted up on this oversized monstrosity in the middle of the room, observing the mayhem while sipping ice-cold beers stocked specially for us—because fuck drinking that warm keg swill.
All around us, bikini top and short-shorts clad women dance seductively, vying for our attention. I’m about to answer him when the sight of a blonde and a redhead locking lips while grinding on one another steals my attention away.
Brooks reaches out and smacks the backside of my head. “The fuck?”
“Bros before hoes,” he says, smirking.
“Yeah,” Anton echoes. “Boards before bitches.” My two friends lean forward and bump their fists together.
I roll my eyes but answer him all the same. “Never miss a day. I’m like the fucking postal service—I always deliver; rain or shine, I’m down.”
“Good. ‘Cause it’s gonna pour.”
“Torrential,” Anton adds.
The