3. Freddie

FREDDIE

THEN – SOPHOMORE YEAR – SEPTEMBER

I ’m suddenly cornered by a body, and unfortunately, it’s not one of the gorgeous women I’ve been charming all night. Instead, I’m face-to-face with what appears to be a freshman’s first encounter with tequila.

“Dude,” he slurs, his breath a noxious cocktail of liquor and regret. “Someone yakked in your plant pot.”

Great. Nothing says a successful party like botanical vomit. It’s one of the sacrifices of being roommates with three guys who absolutely love to party, though—well, two, really. Alfie doesn’t count as someone who likes to party. He’s more the type who begrudgingly accepts sharing his space with other humans, as long as he can get stoned and listen to music.

I gently push the kid back, but he sways like a Jenga tower in an earthquake. My hands fly to his shoulders, steadying him. “You good, bro?”

He reaches for his drink—a sad, plastic cup of what I’m sure is more bad decisions waiting to happen. I snatch it away. He stares at the empty air with a look of betrayal.

“Yo, Freds!” Ethan’s voice booms from the kitchen, cutting through the chatter and music. “Your turn, man!”

Ah, Ethan. One of my best friends and the bane of my existence, all rolled into one hyperactive package. He’s the kind of guy you want at a party—if your idea of a good time involves potential property damage and at least one noise complaint. But beneath the chaos and terrible life choices, Ethan’s got a heart of gold.

Last year, we found a baby bird in the garden, and I swear to God, Ethan turned into a helicopter parent overnight. YouTube videos on bird care, 3:00 AM feedings—the works. He named her Birdie (he insisted it was a “her”—he’d checked, apparently) and bawled like a baby when she finally flew away. It was simultaneously the strangest and most endearing thing I’d ever witnessed.

I glance at my new drunk friend. He’s short—then again, everyone’s short to me—probably 5’9”, tops. I tower over him like a giraffe at a petting zoo.

“Take it for me, Ethan!” I yell back.

“What?” comes the predictable response. Sometimes I wonder if Ethan’s actually deaf or just selectively hearing-impaired when it comes to me.

I grab a water bottle from our stash by the door. It’s an old trick an upperclassman taught me in my first year—always keep water bottles by the front door. It leads to fewer drunken mishaps and slightly less miserable mornings for everyone. “Time to call it a night,”

He nods, his head bobbing like a dashboard ornament. I order him an Uber, ignoring his slurred insistence that he can “totally walk, bro.” Yeah, right into a ditch, maybe.

As I wait with him, he dozes off on my shoulder. Great. I’m now a human pillow for wasted freshmen. Exactly how I wanted my first party back at UMS to be.

I help him into the car and pay the driver, plus a tip, because I’m not 100% sure he won’t vomit in the poor guy’s car.

Before heading back into the party, I take a swig of his abandoned drink.

Ergh .

Mistake. I spit it out immediately.

He must’ve been holding it for a while, because it’s warm—warm. The taste lingers, bitter and unpleasant.

I glance at it again, considering a second try. I need a bit of liquid courage before rejoining the party. Ethan is clearly in one of those moods, which means the night’s going to end with the four of us wasted, listening to old Beatles albums with Ethan opening up about how “Love would be a fine thing.”

A soft cough breaks the silence. I turn to see a girl perched on the porch steps, looking like she’s trying to blend into the woodwork.

“Didn’t see you there,” I say, taking her in. She’s cute, in a “mom’s love me” kind of way.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’m sort of hiding.”

I ease down next to her, noticing how she shifts away slightly. Ouch. Am I really that intimidating? She takes a slow sip from her cup.

“Whatcha drinking?” I ask, trying to sound friendly, but pretty sure it comes across as creepy.

She eyes me warily. “Same as everyone. Beer from the keg.”

“Can I have some?”

She glances at the bush where I just sacrificed my last drink and eyes me. “Are you going to spit it out?”

I can’t help but laugh. “I promise not to disrespect your drink.” I flash her my patented charm-the-pants-off-you smile, the one that usually has girls tripping over themselves. “That last one was cursed. Probably that guy’s failed attempt at jungle juice.” I point my thumb in the direction of the car.

She doesn’t swoon. Doesn’t even blink. Just hands me the cup without a word, like I’m some kind of drink-tasting peasant. Her attention is fixed on a tree swaying with the wind.

The beer slides down my throat, cool and crisp. It’s actually decent, which is a miracle at this point for me. I take another swig, because hey, I paid for it anyway. Or at least 1/4 of it.

“Are those wildflowers?” she asks suddenly, pointing to a patch of what I’d written off as weeds near the porch steps.

I turn, squinting into the darkness. “Uh, probably just haven’t mowed in a while.”

She shakes her head, and for the first time, I see a spark of real interest in her eyes. “No, look—those are Rocky Mountain Bee Plants, the tall purple ones? And those yellow ones are Blanket Flowers. Someone must have planted them deliberately.”

“Yeah, well we only just moved in. We were all in dorms last year; it was probably the previous students. You know your flowers,” I’m actually impressed.

“They’re crucial for native bees,” she continues, warming to the subject. “We’ve got over nine hundred species of bees in Colorado, and most of them are solitary—they don’t live in hives like honeybees. They need these late-blooming flowers to prepare for winter.”

She takes another sip of beer, then points to a different cluster. “Those little white ones are Yarrow—they’re super tough, can handle our crazy weather. Bees love them.” She glances at me. “Most people see weeds, but these native plants have evolved alongside our local pollinators for thousands of years.”

I find myself oddly captivated by the way she talks about these plants—like they’re old friends she’s introducing me to. It’s weird. Usually, when people try to teach me things, I zone out. But there’s something about her enthusiasm that’s kind of... cute.

“So you’re telling me our lazy landscaping is actually environmentally conscious?” I grin. “Wait till I tell Troy. He’s been bitching about mowing for days.”

That gets me a small smile. Progress.

“So,” I say, searching for a conversation starter that doesn’t make me sound like a total douche. I get the feeling this chick isn’t going to smile and giggle at my usual line, I have a dog back home, you know, if we become friends, you might get a chance to pet him.

I know. It’s bad. But the thing is, it’s so bad it usually works.

Ethan tried it once, and he got doused with a drink. I told him, it’s all about the delivery. Charming, not creepy.

“Enjoying the party?” I try.

She snorts. It’s cute, in a “I’d rather be anywhere else” kind of way. I notice she’s fiddling with something around her neck—a delicate silver pendant that catches the porch light. Her fingers trace its edges.

“Not really. I’m only here because my friend wanted to come. She’s waiting for me inside. I didn’t want to seem lame, you know?” Her words tumble out in a rush, as if she’s been holding them back all night. “But honestly? I’m finding it hard with everyone playing drinking games and being so… loud. I don’t even know the rules—this one red-haired guy handed me a cup and shouted ‘You lose! Drink, little dude!!’“ She imitates Ethan in a surprisingly accurate fashion.

Scratching the back of my head, I reply, “Yeah, that sounds like my friend, unfortunately. He didn’t force me here, but is a pain in my ass.”

She grins at me and I feel like I’ve won. I grin back.

“So, drinking games—do I have to join in? I don’t really want to,” she says, shrinking into herself slightly, and I get the urge to throw an arm over her shoulder.

“Of course not,” I promise. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If someone like Ethan starts giving you shit, just tell him to fuck off, or come get me, and I’ll deal with him.”

She nods, chewing on her lip. “Telling a sophomore to fuck off? That was actually at the top of my college bucket list.”

I laugh at her serious delivery. “Ah yes, the classic college experience. What’s next? Regrettable tattoos and even more regrettable hookups?”

That gets another smile out of her. Progress.

“Ah, I could never reveal the contents of my list,” she jokes. “Then it won’t come true.”

“Isn’t that for wishes?”

She shrugs. I don’t know why neither of us has moved yet—she’s clearly got a friend waiting for her, and I know for a fact I’m going to get shit from the guys for missing my turn again.

“You know,” I continue, “not all parties suck. Some are actually... dare I say it... fun.”

She looks at me, head tilted.

“I get it. This probably isn’t the best introduction to life here. You’re a freshman, right?” She gives the smallest nod. “Thought so. You’ll get used to the games and stuff, and honestly, I reckon if you go back inside, you’ll start having a good time.” With me , I fail to add, because I don’t want to scare her off. I’m worried that one wrong move and she’ll bolt before I can even get her name.

She still looks skeptical, so I continue, “Come on, you’ve got to admit it’s fun to let your hair down a little. Let loose, have a laugh. For those guys,” I point toward the door, “drinking helps. For you, maybe it’s dancing or mingling, meeting new people.” Like handsome strangers outside a party.

Her shoulders sag. “I’m not sure I know how,” she admits softly.

I can’t help but chuckle. “Well, you could start by literally letting your hair down,” I suggest, gesturing to her ponytail, which looks tight enough to give her a facelift.

She hesitates, then slowly reaches up and pulls out the hair tie. Her hair cascades down, framing her face in soft waves. For a moment, I can’t think straight.

“I should go in and find Tara,” she says, tucking a strand behind her ear.

As she moves toward the door, I realize I don’t want her to leave just yet. “Wait,” I call out, causing her to pause. “I’m Freddie, by the way.”

She turns back, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Alexandria. Or Alex, I guess.” Her eyes, previously guarded, now hold a hint of warmth.

In the porch light, with her hair down and that almost-smile, she’s... beautiful. Not in the usual ‘I’m ready for my Instagram close-up’ way I’m used to. It’s softer, realer.

“Well, Alex-I-guess,” I say, testing out her name. “If the beer pong savages get too rowdy, just give me a signal. I promise to rescue you from awful drinking games.” I hold my hand over my chest.

She actually laughs at that. “My hero,” she rolls her eyes. But she’s smiling as she heads inside.

Watching her go, I realize that I’m in serious danger of being intrigued.

As I dive back into the party, the bass drums through me. Troy emerges from the sea of bodies, clapping me on the back hard enough to make me stumble.

“Man, where’ve you been? We gotta catch up. I barely heard from you all summer.”

Summer. The word slices through my buzz. Images flicker through my mind like an old film reel—Dad, a shadow of himself in that sterile hospital room; Mom, hunched over a kitchen table buried under a blizzard of overdue notices; Megan, her dreams of college evaporating like morning dew under the harsh blaze of reality.

“Yeah, summer was... busy,” I mutter, plastering on a smile. Troy squints at me, and for a heartbeat, I think he’ll call my bluff. But then his attention scatters like a startled pigeon, drawn to some girl across the room.

“Well, you’re back in the land of the living now. Time to make up for lost time, eh?”

I swallow and nod.

“Damn straight,” I say, injecting enthusiasm into my voice. “Let’s see if I can still drink you under the table, you lightweight.”

As Troy whoops and steers me toward the keg, I make a decision. I’ll silence the Greek chorus of guilt and responsibility in my head. I’ll get so monumentally drunk that I’ll forget all about it.

Tomorrow, I’ll pick up the pieces of my shattered life and try to assemble them into something resembling a functional adult. But tonight? Tonight, I’m going to be the king of bad decisions.

I snatch up a red cup, filling it to the brim like I’m topping off a gas tank. The first gulp goes down like liquid sandpaper, but I embrace the burn.

“Keep ‘em coming,” I growl, already feeling the world start to tilt on its axis. Maybe if I pour enough poison into my system, I can purge the memory of Dad’s defeated eyes, of Mom’s stifled sobs.

The fucked-up thing? I’m so freaking relieved to be here and not there.

As the alcohol works its magic, I feel my vision go blurry. The music swells, the lights dance, and I surrender myself to the chaos like a leaf caught in a hurricane.

I wake up to someone’s perfume choking me. Lizzie. Shit . The memories from last night flood back—too many shots, her familiar laugh at the bar, the way she’d looked in that crop top. I’d told myself I was done with our little arrangement, but three tequilas in and suddenly sleeping with your ex-hookup seems like a brilliant idea.

I groan, checking my phone. 8am. Could be worse. At least I’m not completely hungover.

“Morning, trouble,” I say, watching her gather her clothes. She’s already half-dressed, efficient as ever. That’s the thing about girls like Lizzie—they know the drill. No awkward morning-after conversation, no asking what this means. Just two consenting adults scratching an itch.

“Don’t do the gentleman act, Freddie,” she says, but there’s no bite to it. “We both know what this was.”

I sit up, running a hand through my hair. Truth is, I like playing the charming bastard. It’s what I’m good at—making girls smile, making them feel special, even if we both know it’s temporary. “Let me at least get you some water or?—”

“My ride’s already on the way.” She pulls on her boots with practiced ease. “This was fun, but let’s not pretend it’s something it’s not.”

Relief floods through me. This is why I keep falling back into bed with Lizzie—she gets it. No drama, no expectations. Still... “I probably shouldn’t have?—”

“Called me at 2am?” She smirks. “Probably not. But hey, old habits.”

Her phone buzzes. “That’s my ride.”

I roll out of bed, not bothering with a shirt, and catch her hand before she reaches the door. “Hey.” I pull her in for one last kiss, slow and deep. When I pull back, her cheeks are flushed. “Thanks for being my bad decision.”

She rolls her eyes but can’t hide her smile. “You’re impossible, Donovan.”

“That’s why you keep coming back,” I wink.

The door clicks shut behind her, and I flop back onto my pillows. Another conquest for the books. The guys call me a player, but they don’t get it. I love women—love their laughs, their smiles, the way they look at me when I’m being particularly charming. Why settle for one when there are so many to make happy?

Still... lately it’s been feeling a little hollow. Maybe I’m getting old. Or maybe I’m just hungry. Maybe this time I’ll actually mean it when I say “never again.”

But probably not.

My head fucking kills. Why do I do this , I wonder for the fiftieth time this morning. Turns out “no hangover” actually just meant delayed total shit-show of a hangover.

I’m sprawled on our ratty couch, watching NFL highlights, nursing a Gatorade and my wounded pride, when Troy bursts in like a human tornado.

“Rise and shine, princess!” he bellows, yanking open the curtains with sadistic glee. “You’re still coming to the gym with me before class, right?”

I groan, shielding my eyes from the assault of daylight. “I hate you. So much.” The gym. Right now, I’d rather French kiss a cactus than subject myself to fluorescent lights and the grunting of sweaty student athletes. But I did promise Troy, and quality time has been scarce since we got back.

“Lies!” Troy grins, flopping down next to me. “If you come with me, I’ll make us all fajitas later,” he singsongs, dangling the promise of home-cooked food in front of me.

“Bro, you’re going to make us fajitas anyway. Give me a minute to psych myself up.”

Alfie shuffles in next, looking like he’s just emerged from a decade-long sleep. “Can you two shut up? Some of us are trying to die in peace.”

Alfie is the quietest one out of all of us. And while the rest of us enjoy the company of the fairer sex—probably a little too much—Alfie’s more likely to chat up a geology textbook. We’ve prodded him about it before. Ethan, with his usual subtlety and grace, straight-up asked if he was asexual. Alfie just shrugged and said we’d know when he was interested in somebody. The man’s a mystery wrapped in an enigma, served with a side of “mind your own business.”

“Lightweights, all of you,” Ethan chirps, bounding in with far too much energy for someone who drank his weight in tequila last night. “I, for one, woke up face down in my pillow, still in my jeans and one shoe on. The other shoe is still MIA. Maybe it’s wandered off on its own little adventure.” He muses. “So, fellas, how’re we feeling about our first party of the year? Any conquests to report?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not a war, Ethan.”

“Speak for yourself.” He winks, looking far too pleased with himself. “I’m pretty sure I made out with at least three different girls. Or maybe it was the same girl three times. Details are fuzzy.” He ruffles Alfie’s nearly jet-black hair, earning a death stare.

“You’re a true romantic,” Alfie mutters.

Ethan turns to me, a sly grin on his face. “Speaking of romance, I saw you chatting up some new girl outside. Spill.”

Alexandria. Her name swirls around my brain, making me dizzy.

Sure, she was cute. The girls I usually go for come with a mutual understanding: one fun night, no strings, no heartbreak. Just two ships passing in the night, if ships were horny college students. But Alexandria? She’s got “will write you love notes for your lunchbox” written all over her, and I’m not looking for a girlfriend.

“It better not have been my sister,” Troy warns, snapping me back to reality.

“You have a sister?” I blink. “Since when?”

“Since always, dumbass. I told you about Tara. She was here last night. I’m pretty sure I introduced you guys right before she left.”

I don’t remember that meeting. Christ on a cracker, how much did I drink? But I do remember Alexandria talking about a Tara—her friend.

Well, isn’t that a fun little coincidence?

“Relax,” I huff, “I didn’t even know you had a sister, let alone try to seduce her with my irresistible charm.”

Troy narrows his eyes. “Good. Because if you did…”

“Yeah, yeah, you’d kick my ass, bury me in a shallow grave, et cetera,” I finish for him. “Your brotherly protection is noted and terrifying.”

Ethan cackles. “Dude, have you seen Troy try to throw a punch? It’s like watching a baby try to walk for the first time.”

“Hey!” Troy protests. “I’ll have you know I’m very intimidating.”

“Sure,” Alfie chimes in, smirking. “To small children and particularly nervous squirrels, maybe.”

As they descend into playful bickering, I haul my sorry ass off the couch. “Alright, alright. Let’s go to the gym before I change my mind and decide to become one with this couch permanently.”

Troy whoops and jumps up, while Alfie just grunts and shuffles back to his room, probably to hibernate until next semester.

As we head out the door, Ethan calls after us, “Don’t forget leg day, boys! Your calves are looking pretty skinny, Donovan!”

I flip him off without looking back.