3. Meet-Cute in a Santa Suit

3

MEET-CUTE IN A SANTA SUIT

PATRICK

A MEMORY

I never imagined, the weekend before Reading Period of the fall semester in my fourth year, I'd be doing a walk of shame across the Penderton University campus at six-thirty A.M. in a borrowed Santa suit, reeking of alcohol and bad decisions.

The crunch of my black leather dress shoes in the early morning frost sounds like cannonballs.

I trudge past the architecture building, where I spend most of my waking hours. And some of my sleeping ones, too. With my current workload, I'm stressed beyond belief.

So, maybe I should've imagined this exact scenario. Getting super drunk at the Supper Club Winter Wonderland Celebration. Being convinced to don the ratty old Santa suit that's been with the club for ages. Letting people take pictures while sitting on my lap. Going home with a long-haired freshman whose name I can't remember. Even though I left him less than twenty minutes ago. And his name was tacked onto the door I shut behind me.

Instead of heading back to my residence hall, I hook a left onto Prospect Avenue, or as we in the Supper Clubs like to call it, "the Street." I'm retracing my steps in search of my phone. It was nowhere to be found in what's-his-name's messy dorm room.

As I approach Olive & Ivy, the sixth house on the left, I notice another student standing outside. He's staring up at the austere, redbrick house with the gold, shiny 61 on the front door. He's a tall guy with a head of curly, chestnut hair. In profile, his chin juts out strong, and his right ear is large and pink at the top.

"Looking for something?" I ask when I'm close enough.

The guy startles. His prominent chin has a deep dimple in it. Immediately, I want to run the pad of my thumb across it. Memorize the adorable groove. "Sorry. Didn't mean to sneak up on you."

The guy's brown doe eyes double in size. "Oh, no. I must look like a creep. Sorry. I like to take early morning walks before the entire campus wakes up. I'm in the Teacher Prep program here, so it's good practice for when I'll have to set those four-thirty A.M. alarms to make it to my public-school job."

"A future educator, nice," I say. I stake my place on the sidewalk near him. I could've breezed right by and gone inside to scout for my phone. But his handsomeness and his musical voice are holding me here.

"I often walk down Prospect since I'm hoping to bicker next semester," he says. Bickering is the formal vetting process that consists of icebreakers and such that sophomores go through to become an official member of a Supper Club. "Also, all the clubhouses are so historical and pretty. I like this one the best. It looks like it's wearing a checkered belt."

I tilt my head and look up at this clubhouse with new eyes. He's right. Between the first and second stories, there is a stripe of diamond cutouts that resembles a checkerboard. "I've never heard it described quite like that. It was built in 1908," I say. Nerd-mode activated. "It's designed in the Norman Gothic style, which you can tell by the semicircular arches." His eyes follow my finger as it traces the outline of the windows.

"Are you a member?" he asks.

"I am."

A glimmer appears in his eyes. Maybe he sees me as an "in." Which is fine by me. I'd never say no to more cute, inquisitive guys in our club.

He asks, "They made you memorize all that?"

I laugh. "No, I'm studying to become an architect."

"An architect? I thought that was the kind of job men only had in movies."

A second, louder laugh spews out of me. "You sound like my parents." As soon as my own voice circles back to me, I stop laughing. I've revealed too much to a stranger.

"They don't approve?" he asks kindly. Inquisitive again. So inquisitive.

My gaze slips down to avoid eye contact. It's then that I remember I'm still wearing the Santa suit. This is already the worst first impression ever. I guess that's what allows the truth to tumble out. "They don't approve of anything that's not law, a topic I could not care less about." After a loaded silence, I add, "I'm Patrick, by the way."

"Quinn."

"Nice to meet you, Quinn." I shake his hand. That single touch somehow shocks me out of my hangover. My headache is less of a pounding sledgehammer and more like a rubber mallet. "Would you like a tour inside?"

His boyish features lift. "Really?"

"Really."

"Yes," he says before looking at his watch. The order of these actions should've been reversed, no?

"There is a catch, though."

His eyes shift. Probably wary of me. Who wouldn't be? I'm a strange upperclassman dressed as Santa and smelling of Smirnoff. I hold my hands up. "It's not a weird catch. I promise. I left my phone here last night and I, uh, don't exactly remember where I put it."

I should probably be offended when he snorts at me before saying, "Sure, yeah. I'll help you."

Inside, I lead cute, curly-haired Quinn through the original dining room and downstairs to the basement taproom. To fill the space, I tell Quinn about our affinity groups, which hold meetings weekly or biweekly in the clubhouse. Black and Ivy. Latin y Ivy. "Queer and Ivy," I say. I'm being deliberately leading. I glance back over my shoulder to catch his reaction.

"Cool." He smiles to himself. Eyes focused on the stairs beneath him. "I'd probably join that one." I turn back so if he does look up, he doesn't catch the unbridled glee that has cracked open my expression. My heart weirdly feels like a harp being plucked.

It's not until we're on the second floor, digging around in the TV room, that I get a bright idea. "Hey, do you have your phone on you?"

He pulls it out of the pocket of his well-worn, mauve-colored tweed coat. It's ratty at the elbows. "Yeah. Why?"

"Can I call myself on it?"

As the call connects, a ring emanates from the couch. I fish my hand between the cushions. That's when I remember that I came up here last night with the long-haired freshman to make out.

The memory embarrasses me. Heat floods my cheeks. I'm hit with two wishes. One, that I looked and felt better so Quinn wasn't seeing me like this. Two, that I hadn't found my phone just yet, so Quinn had a reason to stay.

But finals are coming up. I have nothing left to show him. I severely need a shower. And probably a strong swig of mouthwash to boot. Ultimately, I escort him back outside into the cold.

"Glad you found your phone."

"Glad you were outside to help me."

He nods. He smiles. It's charmingly crooked.

"Guess I'll see you during Street Week?" It's the official time when sophomores do meet-and-greets before bickering. I find it both hectic and fun. It would be even more so if Quinn was there.

"Definitely," he says. He wishes me good luck on my finals before turning to go in the opposite direction.

I'm overrun with this urge to call after him and suggest we renege on our obligations while the day is still young. We could spend the next twenty-four hours together getting to know each other like I want to.

But again, I have a mountain of work waiting for me back in my residence hall. There's also a new text in my inbox reading, Hey Santa. Where'd you disappear to? From the long-haired freshman I fled from this morning.

I don't take a chance or call after Quinn.

Instead, I make a U-turn, hopelessly pondering what could have been the whole walk back to my dorm.