Fresh

by Margot Wood

“Nice pull,” I say to him. “Emerson?”

  “Thanks! And no, he goes to Tufts.”

  “Tufts?! You got a Tufts boy to come all the way downtown on a Tuesday? Impressive.” I give him a golf clap and he curtsies in his robe. The wind picks up and curls all around my exposed limbs, and I lean into Micah, expecting him to be a friend and share his robe with me, but he doesn’t budge.

  “Come on,” I whine. “Share the wealth!”

  “Nuh uh,” he says and shakes his head.

  “Please?????” I beg but that bitch is stubborn.

  “Go snuggle up to that guy, he’s wearing even less than you,” Micah says, nodding toward a guy in the crowd who’s wearing nothing but a towel and flip-flops. His back is turned toward us so I can’t see his face, but his towel is pulled tight around his waist and I can perfectly see the shape of his butt and hot damn, that is an ASS. But I don’t make a move. Standing ankle deep in snow at three in the morning waiting to see if your dorm is about to erupt into flames is not exactly the ideal time to be making moves. Micah, however, has other opinions on the matter. He bends down, picks up a fistful of snow, compacts it into a ball and throws it at the guy’s perfect butt. Mr. Good Butt yelps and turns around, looking to see who hit him but Micah hides behind me.

  “Seriously?” I whisper over my shoulder to Micah.

  “You’ll thank me later,” my annoying friend replies as he backs away from me to join his lover, who has been taking shelter under the awning to the train entrance. While that’s happening, Mr. Good Butt leaves his group of friends and approaches me and holy tenderest of chickens, his front is even hotter than his back.

  “Did you just throw a snowball at me?” Mr. Good Butt, Face, and Body asks. He’s close enough for me to count his abs. There’s six, no seven, of them. Is it even possible to have seven abs? I don’t know, sorry, I’m rambling. He’s so fucking pretty it’s making me nervous.

  “Sorry, that was my friend over there. He’s a real big asshole,” I say, shivering in Micah’s direction. This absurdly handsome specimen in front of me looks me up and down and I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I am wearing, quite possibly, the most boner-killing of all outfits. I try to look anywhere except his beautiful, hot face but my eyes land on his groin and THAT BULGE! Goddammit, there is no safe space to rest my eyes on him, so I turn my whole body sideways and stare at a streetlamp instead.

  “Cute shirt,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I blush. “I like yours too.” He looks down at his bare chest and laughs at my dumb joke. Huh. Maybe I was wrong, maybe standing half naked in the snow in the middle of the night is the perfect time to flirt. I rotate away from the lamppost, pull my arms out from within my shirt, and face him. “So do you sleep naked or did you dress specifically for the occasion?”

  He laughs again. “Yes, but I was actually in the shower when the alarm went off.” And that’s when I notice his wavy, black hair is dripping water.

  “What the hell are you doing showering in the middle of the night?”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he says.

  “I thought I was cold as shit, but you must be freezing your ass off.”

  “Yeah, I am.” He looks down at me and gives me a panty-dropping smile. “But I know how we can warm up.” Well, I know where this is going. I take a step closer to him and bite my bottom lip.

  “Oh yeah? And how’s that?”

  “This.” He steps toward me and I can’t believe I’m about to be kissed out here when instead he drops down, picks up a clump of snow and smushes it on top of my head.

  “Oh . . . you . . . mother . . . fucker!” I squat and arm myself with two handfuls of snow and launch them at him but he easily dodges and they hit some kid in the crowd. Everyone in the vicinity freezes—

  And then I find myself in the middle of a giant snowball fight in the middle of the street outside the Little Building at three in the morning.

  Everyone is running around picking up snow, throwing it, and trying not to get hit. It’s chaos. Snowballs are flying left and right but the half-naked man and I stay together and form a team. I take a hit for him, he takes one for me, and I can’t help but be impressed by the fact that he’s been able to run around like this while still holding his towel in place. I mean, it sucks for me because I’d really like a preview, but good for him. The RAs and the resident director, with a megaphone in hand, finally come out of the building but no one listens when he pleads for us to stop throwing snowballs at them. We don’t slow down until two fire trucks roll up and we make room for them to get inside our dorm, but the second they’re inside, the fight resumes.

  “I’m Elliot,” I finally tell him as we hide behind a tree to catch our breath.

  “Nico,” he says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Elliot.”

  “So what do you think, burnt popcorn?” I ask him. He looks confused. “The fire alarm! Ten bucks says someone burnt popcorn in a microwave.”

  “No way, at three in the morning? I bet someone lit a candle and forgot about it.”

  “I hope you’re good for the money because there is zero chance that happened. We’re not allowed to put up fairy lights in our rooms, let alone burn candles.”

  “You really think everyone here abides by the rules at all times?” he asks as a snowball whizzes by his head.

  “No,” I say and then add, “but we’re kinda forced to on the third floor.”

  “You’re on three?”

  I nod. “Yeah, I’m in number three hundred eleven.”

  “Lucky! That means you only have two flights of stairs to go down every time the fire alarm goes off.”

  “Every time? You think this is going to happen again?”

  “I’m surprised this is the first time it’s happened this year! This must be a record or something because last year it went off six times.”

  “You’re a sophomore?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I live on the tenth floor in a suite with some other international kids.”

  “You’re an international student?” I look at his face again and study it more closely this time, trying to place his origin. He doesn’t look white but beyond that I have no clue. All I do know is he’s gorgeous, with a thick head of black, wavy hair and eyelashes so dark that maybe it’s Maybelline or maybe it’s just killer genetics. “Where are you from?” I ask, but we’re interrupted when the firefighters come out of the LB and the resident director gets on the megaphone again.

  “ALL RIGHT, FOLKS. FALSE ALARM. EVERYONE GET BACK INSIDE,” he says and the snowball fight ends in cheers. As Nico and I enter the mix and shuffle our way into the building, I run into Lucy looking warm and cozy in a huge, oversize men’s coat.

  “Where the hell did you get that coat?” I ask her.

  “From Brad!” Lucy says and for the first time I spot Brad catching up behind her. “He saw us leave without our coats on so he went back to his room to grab us ones to borrow.” Lucy burrows inside the hulking parka while Brad hands me his other coat, just as we finally get inside the LB.

  “Wow, that was really sweet of you, Brad,” I tell him. “But your timing sucks.”

  “We looked for you but then the snowball fight broke out,” Brad says. I look over at Nico and we both grin. The line moves slowly, but we eventually get upstairs to the elevator bank on the second floor, where I spot Rose herding students into one line.

  “So what was it?” I call out to her as we get closer to the elevators. “What set off the alarm?”

  “Someone lit a candle on the sixth floor.” Rose shakes her head in dismay.

  Nico smacks me in the arm. “I knew it! I totally knew it! You owe me ten dollars.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Will you take a check? I’m fresh out of cash and I don’t do Venmo.”

  “How about you buy me a coffee instead, after we have dinner this weekend.” He says it so casually I nearly miss the invite.

  “You two are going out?” Rose asks us.

  “Oh, um, no. I mean, we
just met outside—” I start to say to Rose but then Nico cuts in.

  “That’s a no then?” Nico asks, looking sad.

  “No—I mean yes, I mean—I dunno. Ask me again when I’m not wearing a soaking nightgown covered in melted snow.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Nico grins and for a moment I think about kissing him right here, right now, but I stop myself when Rose taps me on the shoulder.

  “Elliot, quit holding up the line,” Rose says. “Third and fourth floor residents can just take the stairs, let your friend here wait in line for the elevator.”

  Lucy, Brad, and other kids from my floor step out of the line and head for the stairs while I turn to Nico.

  “Well, that was . . . I don’t know if fun is the right word because I think I may have frostbite now, but that was fun-adjacent,” I tell him.

  “Sweet dreams, Elliot,” he calls to me as I walk to the stairwell entrance and I blush again.

  Four hours later, I wake up for class and find a note under my door from Nico, asking me out. And two days later, we go on our first date.

  * * *

  1 See what I mean? Murder fists.

  CHAPTER 15

  When word spread I was going on a date—a real, grown-up, intimate as hell date—everyone was suddenly very keen to be involved, either because they were genuinely supportive of my first attempt at romance or because they wanted a front row seat to the inevitable Elliot Fails at Love show.

  Lucy coordinated with the entire female student body of the third floor to help me try on everything I own—and everything they own, because apparently my own wardrobe was deemed either too slutty or too baggy for a date of this magnitude. My Big Date Night Squad eventually settled on a white button-up shirt, a crisp black blazer, a green miniskirt and thigh-high boots. Classy and sophisticated, with just a hint of do me.

  And now it’s Friday night, the night of Le Big Date and my makeover is almost complete. While Lucy transforms my hair from a mess of tangled headphone cords into a neat bird’s nest at the nape of my neck, Sasha finishes applying a second coat of rose-colored lip stain to my lips. It is such a treat to be made up like this because my usual makeup routine involves dyeing my eyebrows with a box of Just For Men mustache and beard dye once a month and occasionally dragging a clumpy mascara wand from a year-old tube of CoverGirl LashBlast over my sparse lashes.

  “Now rub your lips together for me?” Sasha says, her face only inches away from mine. The girls step back and inspect their hard work. I do as I’m told but Sasha must see something because she grabs one of her many hot pink–bristle makeup brushes and starts sweeping it over my forehead again. “Do you think she needs falsies?” she asks Lucy, who has been supervising this entire metamorphosis. “I can glue some on.”

  Lucy checks her watch. “There’s no time for eyelashes, she’s supposed to meet Nico downstairs in the lobby in ten minutes. I think we’re done here.” I get up from my desk chair and take a look at myself in our full-length mirror.

  What can I say? I look like a hot-ass bitch.

  But there’s just one problem . . .

  I can’t stop sweating.

  It’s like my armpits are crying.

  “I’m nervous, oh god, why am I so nervous?” I don’t know why, but the sudden realization that I’m about to go on a grown-up date is making my heart race. I pace back and forth in our room, unable to get my sweat glands to stop betraying me.

  Lucy puts her hand on my shoulder and in a very stern voice says, “Elliot, you need to calm down right now. And stop fanning your pits.” I lift up my arms and show her the situation. The sweat has started bleeding all the way through the blazer. “Good god, woman!” Her eyes widen and she reaches for a box of tissues. “Keep fanning! Keep fanning!” she shouts.

  I try to take deep breaths but that only seems to make things worse. “Just give me one minute,” Lucy says. She jumps off her bed and swings open her wardrobe. She swiftly scans through her clothes and yanks one of her own white shirts off a hanger. Lucy approaches me with an intense look I’ve never seen before and it’s kinda hot, kinda scary. She puts her hands on my chest and at first I think this is the moment she’s going to finally give in to her unrequited feelings for me, but then she apologizes. “I’m sorry, but we’re running out of time. You have no choice.” She proceeds to rip open, yes, rip my shirt open like a stripper. We stand there, staring at each other after the dramatic moment. I think she expected buttons to go flying.

  “You didn’t realize the buttons were snaps, did you.”

  “No, I did not,” she says politely. “But you still need to throw this shirt away because it’s ruined now.”

  “Fine,” I say as I peel the pit-soaked blouse from my torso. Lucy hands me a fresh one but within one minute, it’s soaked again. “Ffffffuuuuccckkkkk! What should I do? Should I cancel? Should I put on a hoodie?”

  “No!” Sasha and Lucy yell in unison.

  Sasha perks up and gasps. “I know! Go see if Rose can help! She fixed one of my favorite shirts so I wouldn’t show any more boob sweat when filming in my room because it gets so hot in there and—”

  “Sash,” Lucy interrupts. “I absolutely want to hear the end of your story so please hold on to it, but right now we are out of time. Elliot, give me your phone. I’ll text Nico that you need a few more minutes. Go right now down to Rose’s room and—”

  I throw my phone at Lucy and dart out the room before she even has the chance to finish her sentence. I sprint down the hall and knock on Rose’s door.

  “It’s open!” she says and I go in. This is the first time I’ve ever even seen Rose’s room. I’m not sure what I was expecting but “tantric spa” seems to be the general decor theme. It’s filled with warm, vibrant colors and patterns. Damask gold curtains frame the window, and a deep red comforter and about a thousand throw pillows have turned her bed into a soft, plush shrine. A tufted Persian rug covers the ugly navy carpet, and piles upon piles of fabrics and clothes are scattered throughout her single. And in the middle of all that is Rose, sitting on her bed next to Monica. They both look up when I walk in. Both their brows are furrowed and there’s a weird, caustic vibe in the room. Monica looks pissed—I mean, Monica always looks kinda pissy, but right now she looks legit pissed.

  “Oh, hey, Monica,” I say to her, feeling suddenly sheepish for walking in on what was most definitely a fight.

  “What can I do for you, Elliot?” Rose asks flatly.

  I shuffle my feet in her doorway. “I’m sorry to bother you. I, uh, I have a date tonight and I kinda have an emergency pit-stain situation going on here and I could really use your help, if you aren’t busy.”

  “I’m not busy,” she says, and anger flashes across Monica’s face. Monica gets off the bed and stomps past me out the door.

  “Come on, Monica,” Rose calls after her girlfriend. “Don’t be like that.”

  “Like what, Rose?” Monica growls.

  Rose’s eye catches me staring and she quickly softens her tone. “Can we please talk about this later?”

  Monica throws her hands up in the air and says, “Fine. Whatever.” She slams the door on her way out.

  I feel sssssuuuuuuuuper awkward being here right now, so I start to back out of her room while saying, “I’m sorry, you are very clearly busy right now.”

  “It’s fine, Elliot. What’s wrong with your pits?” She sounds snippy and I consider leaving. I don’t want to bother Rose, especially when she’s in a bad mood but . . .

  “Yeah, I’m having a bit of a problem.” I lift my arms and show her the damage. “Can you resuscitate or should I just pronounce myself dead?” She squints from across the room, reaches into her pocket, and pulls out thick-framed glasses I didn’t know she wore. Then she hops off her bed and walks right up to inspect the damage.

  She looks at me over the top of her frames. “Damn, Elliot.”

  “I know, I know. I just have this thing where I sweat when I’m nervous, and I don’t really know why
I’m nervous, I mean, I haven’t been on an actual date date in a long time and I’m a bit rusty but it’s just one date! Why should I be so nervous over one date? Ugh, I dunno, the point is my sweat glands are rebellious little fuckers who express themselves at the most inopportune times and as you clearly see, I sweat when I’m nervous. And also I apparently talk when I’m nervous and now my outfit is ruined but was this even a good outfit to start with? I mean, you’re wearing head to toe denim and somehow that looks awesome and now I’m thinking I should go change into all the denim I own and I’m sorry, I’ll just shut the fuck up right now.” I start frantically fanning my pits because they started pissing all through my shirt again during my breathless monologue.

  “Who are you going on a date with?”

  “Nico, the half-naked gentleman from the night of the fire alarm.”

  “Really? You’re going out with that guy?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, taken aback by the sudden change in her tone. “Why, do you know him?”

  “This is a small school, everyone kind of knows everyone here.” I stop moving long enough to look at Rose. I want to give her the benefit of the doubt. She was just fighting with Monica when I barged in but I’m starting to feel like I’m under attack because right now because she has this sour, hostile look about her.

  “What? What is it?” I ask.

  “Nothing, it’s nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything,” she says, trying to backpedal, but I don’t let her.

  “But you didn’t say anything. Instead, you gave me the most condescending look.”

  She arches a brow, silently asking me if I really want to challenge her, and you know what? I do. When I don’t back off, she shrugs and says, “I just think you’re being a little bit ridiculous.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This isn’t you!” Rose cries out. “Since when do you give a shit about what you wear or how you look? You are getting all worked up, and for what, a date with some guy?”

  “It’s not just a date. I want to be in a relationship with him.”

  “A relationship?” She lets out a small laugh and my insides start sharpening into blades. “I thought you weren’t about that? I thought you preferred to keep things casual?”