The Play: Briar U

by Kennedy, Elle

  He pops open the small compartment in the center console and sticks a hand inside. Things rustle and keys jingle as he rummages around.

  Finally, his hand emerges with a plastic yellow egg. “Here you go.”

  Highly curious, I pry open the two plastic pieces, and a small baggie falls into my lap. I break out in a grin. The bag contains a pair of cheap, plastic earrings—enormous red hoops with black polka dots.

  “Because I know how much you love the big hoops,” Nico teases.

  “Aww, you’re the worst.” But I can’t stop grinning because this gift means Nico was thinking of me when he was out with his friends, enough to stick a dollar bill into some kiddie machine so he could get me these silly earrings.

  “I love them,” I say, and then dramatically fling my arms around him and kiss his cheek.

  “Also, they’re plastic,” he says helpfully. “So if they do get caught on anything, they’ll probably break apart before your earlobe gets ripped off.”

  This boy knows me well.

  He pulls away from the curb and it takes literally a minute to drive three parking lots over to the one behind Carver Hall. I have a meal plan since I technically live on campus, but Nico doesn’t, so he has to pay for his breakfast. He gets French toast, and I fill my plate with bacon, eggs and toast from the buffet. Then we find a cozy table in the back of the chalet-style dining hall. The room has an impossibly high ceiling, oak paneled walls, and round mahogany tables scattered throughout.

  Ten minutes into breakfast, I finally raise the subject. “Hey, so I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Hmmm?” He takes a bite of French toast.

  “It’s just…and honestly, I am not accusing you of anything, so please don’t take it wrong way.”

  That gets Nico’s attention. His fork snaps down on his tray. “Accusing me? What’s going on?”

  “Um, well. Someone mentioned something to me and I wanted to discuss it with you.”

  “Discuss what?”

  Shit, what am I doing? Do I really want to discuss this in public? What if it goes horribly wrong?

  But I already boarded the train and now I’ve gotta ride it all the way to crazy town. “Somebody saw you at the Alpha Delta party last weekend. With a girl.”

  “Somebody saw me with a girl… Can we be a little more specific?”

  “They saw you coming out of an upstairs bedroom with her, and you may or may not have been zipping up your pants.”

  His dark eyes flash angrily. “Who said this exactly?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “Like fuck it isn’t. I want to know who’s spreading lies about me.”

  I study his expression. He seems genuinely upset, and his denial didn’t ring false to me. Yet for some reason I don’t want to throw Hunter under the bus, so I lie about my source. “It was a random girl at the party who told one of my sorority sisters, who told me. How I found out isn’t important. I just wanted to be sure…you’re saying you didn’t do anything?”

  “Of course not.”

  I hear nothing but sincerity in his voice. “Were you at the party, though?”

  “Yeah, I went with Steve and Rodrigo and a couple other guys from work. I told you I was chilling with them that night.”

  “Right, but you didn’t tell me you were going to a frat party down the street from me.”

  “I said the boys and I were hanging out, and we were. We went to a few different places,” Nico says irritably. “Eventually we wound up there, but it was late and I didn’t see the point in calling you. I had a few drinks, joked around with the guys, and the only chick I spent any time with was Roddy’s sister Carla—that’s probably who they saw me with. I took her up to use the bathroom. The line for the other bathroom was ridiculous, so we snuck upstairs.”

  This all sounds plausible. I’ve been in the Alpha Delta house before, and I’ve seen how popular that lone downstairs bathroom is.

  “Carla did her business, I did my business, and then we left the room. I don’t remember zipping my fly.” His jaw tightens. “But if I did, it’s probably because I forgot to zip it up after taking a piss.”

  He doesn’t sound defensive. He’s defending himself, yes, but I’m not getting any sense that he’s trying to convince me of something.

  “Whoever told you this crap obviously read something more into the situation.”

  “That’s what I figured. I only brought it up because…” I shrug. “Well, because it’s good to always be open and honest with each other.”

  “I agree.” His body language is still a tad stiff as he picks up his fork and resumes eating. “But I don’t like the idea of people talking trash about me.”

  “There was no trash talking involved,” I promise. “Just one friend watching out for another friend.”

  “One friend trying to stir up shit, more like it. Which chick said this to you?”

  “I told you, I don’t know the girl at the party.”

  “But which one of the Thetas said it?”

  “It doesn’t matter. She brought it to my attention because we look out for each other, but for what it’s worth she also didn’t think there was anything to the story,” I lie.

  Nico looks pleased. “Good. And I’m glad you don’t believe that bullshit, either.” He reaches across the table for my hand, interlacing our fingers. “You know I would never do that to you.”

  16

  Demi

  I’m tempted to cancel my session with Hunter the following Monday. We haven’t spoken since Boston last week, our only contact being when he texted to ask if we were still on for tonight. I feel like he was hoping I’d cancel. But this class is important to me, and I want to do well on our project. That means sucking it up and continuing to see him every week.

  Maybe Hunter truly was looking out for me when he threw Nico under the bus, but for the past week everyone I’ve spoken to has assured me whatever happened with Nico and that girl was completely innocent. When we were at one of the campus bars a few nights ago, Darius had pulled me aside and said, “Listen, I wasn’t even there that night and I can still tell you it’s bullshit.”

  I appreciated hearing it from Darius. Nico’s work friends all backed him up too, but I don’t know them as well as I know D. Also…I’d never say this out loud, but I find Steve and Roddy and those guys seriously douchey. I suspect they’d have Nico’s back regardless of his guilt or innocence, because they’re all about the bro code. Darius, however, is a good friend to both of us, so I know he wouldn’t lie to me.

  Meanwhile, Nico has been extra attentive since I confronted him. Coming dangerously close to what I’d consider sucking up. I’m trying hard not to hold a cynical view about it, and even harder to put this behind us. He told me nothing happened and I said I believed him. That means letting go of any negativity, and not mistrusting him or questioning his motives.

  I’m on edge as I wait for Hunter to arrive, stress-eating a bag of potato chips.

  HUNTER: Josie let me in. I’m coming up.

  He knocks on the door a moment later. I call out, “Come in,” between my loud crunching.

  Hunter appears, his thumbs loosely hooked in the pockets of his ripped jeans. They’re not skinny jeans, but they’re fitted to his long legs, while his black Under Armour shirt is tight to his sculpted chest. His dark hair is tousled, and his cheeks are red.

  “It’s windy out there,” he mutters, dragging one hand through his hair.

  “It’s supposed to thunderstorm tonight.”

  “Good. It’s mid-October—how is it still so hot out there?”

  “Global warming,” I supply.

  “Yeah, it’s a real problem.”

  Oh boy. This is not going to be fun. We’re discussing the climate. And he’s not looking at me, but at his Timberland boots. The ease and humor that normally flows between us is nowhere to be found.

  When Hunter takes his designated seat on the loveseat, he doesn’t lie down like he usually does. H
is big, muscular body remains seated—and tense. “Whatever, let’s do this.”

  I grit my teeth. “You could sound a little more enthused.”

  “So could you,” he shoots back.

  I shove the chip bag on my nightstand. Fine. I guess this is how it is. I flip open the binder I’m using for the project and turn to the latest blank log.

  After having done this a handful of times, I think I’m solidly in the Narcissistic Personality Disorder camp. “Dick Smith” fits all the diagnostic criteria from the DSM-5. But the problem with an NPD diagnosis is that narcissists customarily don’t know they’re narcissists, meaning that any analysis is only as useful as the info coming in. And the fact that narcissists have a tendency to rewrite events in their minds makes the whole process even more challenging.

  This means the therapist needs to ask the right questions. Weed out important tidbits and search for any emerging patterns, such as the patient describing an interaction that doesn’t match their reaction to it. And don’t get me started on treatment. I mean, if a narcissist can’t recognize he’s a narcissist, how on earth do you treat his narcissism?

  Ugh. I’m not super thrilled with this one. I would prefer something more straightforward, like an anxiety disorder. At least those suffering from anxiety tend to be aware they have a problem.

  “So why do you think you’re in therapy?” I ask my fake patient.

  “I told you, my wife wanted me to go.”

  “So you don’t think you need therapy.”

  “Nope.” Hunter crosses his ankles and gazes up at the ceiling. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “There doesn’t need to be something wrong with you, or anybody, for you to benefit from therapy.”

  “People who see shrinks are weak. Only reason I’m doing this is to keep my marriage together.”

  “And why do you want to do that?”

  He scoffs. “Because no one in my family gets divorced. Divorce is another sign of weakness. An indication of your inability to work hard enough to achieve a goal.”

  “The goal here being, saving your marriage.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because if you get divorced, you’ll look bad in front of your family and colleagues?”

  “No, because I love my wife. I want to keep everything together for her and my son.”

  “Your son?”

  Oh my God. Plot twist! I’ve been waiting weeks for a curveball like this.

  Instantly, my pen is poised over my paper, ready to take copious notes. “This is the first time you mentioned a son.”

  “I had no reason to. The problems in my marriage have nothing to do with him.”

  “Yes, but it would still be fruitful for me to get a better sense of your family unit,” I point out. “I need to know all the facts.”

  Hunter watches me through slitted eyes. “I see. So knowing all the facts is important?”

  I tense at the jab, which is obviously directed at me, Demi, and not the fake Dr. Davis. “When the facts are true or relevant to the discussion, then yes. When someone is stirring up trouble for no reason, then no.”

  “For no reason?” The muscles in his jaw harden. “Whatever. Fine. You want to hear about my son? I’ll tell you about my son. He’s a little prick.”

  I’m taken aback by the vehemence in his tone. “Why do you say that?”

  “The kid’s a snitch. If it weren’t for him, my wife would have no idea about that goddamn affair with my assistant. He’s the one who told her.”

  “I see.”

  “He showed up at my office one day over summer break. He came by to say hello and caught me banging my secretary on the desk.” Disgust twists Hunter’s features. “Did he try to get an explanation from me? Ask what his mother may have done to drive me to such extreme actions? Absolutely not. Instead he took off, ran home, and told his mother what he saw.”

  There is something scarily…realistic about this story.

  Hunter’s visible resentment tells me this is more than play-acting. “How old was he?”

  “Fourteen. A fourteen-year-old punk who thought he was a man, the big hero who was gonna rescue his mom. Joke’s on him, though. Kathryn didn’t care. Of course she wasn’t going to leave me. Look at me—rich, attractive. She can’t do any better than me. My son thought he was doing the right thing, but as it turns out, nobody gave a shit about his opinion.”

  Hunter angrily shakes his head. “And it scarred the kid, because it turns out his mom already knew about that affair, and the previous affairs before it, and she begged him to just look the other way because his father was such a good man and a good dad and a good provider. When he tried to argue, she called him a troublemaker and made him feel like he’d done something wrong by telling her the truth. And so years later, when he saw something else he knew might hurt another woman, he wanted to keep his mouth shut.” He’s glaring at me now. “And it took a fucking lot for him to say anything. He asked his friends if he should, if they would want to know, and in the back of his mind a little voice was saying don’t get involved, it’s only gonna blow up in your face again, and look what happened—it fucking did.”

  Silence crashes over the bedroom. Hunter is visibly furious. I don’t know if it’s with me, or with himself, or with the world. He scrapes his fingers through his hair again, stone-faced.

  “Hunter,” I start carefully. “You…told your mother that you caught your father cheating? And…so wait…all these things you’ve been describing during our sessions, they actually happened to you? Your dad is the one who…”

  I trail off in confusion, as my brain cycles through our sessions in an attempt to parse out which stories were real and which ones he fabricated to suit the assignment. Obviously his father was the inspiration for the narcissist he’d been pretending to be, but how much of it was an act?

  “Whatever,” Hunter mutters, rising to his feet. “I was trying to be a good friend, but you know what, screw this. We’re done for the day. See you next week.”

  I’m helpless to do anything as he storms out of my room. I want to go after him, but my mind still feels muddled. Too many facts are scrambling my brain. I flip through my notes, reading over the Thanksgiving story, all the affairs, the wife’s lack of a backbone and my patient’s cruel dismissals of anyone he views as inferior. Is this Hunter’s family? How much of it was embellished?

  The one thing I’m certain was real, was the agony in his voice when he recounted telling his mother what he saw, and being told he was a troublemaker for trying to protect her.

  And I said the same thing to him, accusing him of stirring up trouble.

  Fuck. Sighing, I scrub my palms over my face, as guilt twists my stomach into knots. Maybe Hunter’s motives were one hundred percent pure, after all.

  But…he’s still wrong, dammit.

  * * *

  On Friday we go to Corinne’s housewarming. She’s low key so she didn’t want a party, but Pippa and I talked her into it and she agreed on the condition that we kept it small.

  Nico grabs me, Darius and Pippa from campus. As his girlfriend, I’m granted permanent shotgun, which means Darius and his six-foot six-inches frame is banished to the backseat.

  “C’mon, D,” he gripes. “My body deserves shotgun and you know it.”

  “If you’re nice, I’ll let you have it on the way back.” I pull out my phone to text Corinne, only to discover it’s completely dead. Shit. I forgot to charge it before I left.

  I twist around to address Pippa. “Can you let Corinne know we’re on the way?”

  “On it.”

  I slide my iPhone back into my purse. Nico drives one-handed, his free hand planted firmly on my thigh. At a couple points during the drive his thumb seductively rubs my bare knee, and at one red light he even slides his fingertips under the hem of my skirt. I give him a look that says, You’re incorrigible, and he winks in response.

  There are already several people at Corinne’s place when we arrive. It’s
an interesting mix tonight: a couple of basketball players, a girl from Corinne’s yoga studio in town, and some guys from her math class. She’s an Economics major and a math geek, and so are her three classmates. One of them is actually wearing a suit and tie, which makes me grin.

  “You know you’re at a party, right?” I tease after we’re introduced. His name is Kyler and he’s a senior.

  “The tie’s too much?” he says wryly.

  “Just a bit.”

  As Kyler and I chat, Nico appears at my side and takes my hand. He does that sometimes, staking a physical claim when I’m with another guy, as if to say she’s mine. I used to think it was cute. Sometimes I still do. Other times, like tonight, when I’m trying to walk around the room and talk to people, his being glued to my hip is an encumbrance.

  And, frankly, annoying.

  Corinne set up a refreshment table in the small dining/living area. The party is BYOB, but she bought a variety of chasers and a couple bottles of tequila. I’m planning on drinking tonight, so I don’t waste any time organizing the first round of shots.

  “Come on, guys,” I urge, waving everyone over.

  Nico’s all for it. He’s more of a rum man, but he happily pours a waterfall of tequila over the row of shot glasses I lay out. I start handing them out, and then the eleven of us raise our glasses. “To Corinne, and her awesome new place!” I toast.

  “To adulting!” Pippa adds.

  “To adulting!”

  The tequila burns a fiery path down my throat and instantly I’m warm all over. Someone turns up the music, and Nico and I drift over to the couch.

  Pippa is sitting in Darius’s lap, his long fingers toying with her hair. They’re not a couple, but they flirt shamelessly when they’re together. I tried setting them up a long time ago, but it didn’t work out for whatever reason. I think neither of them wants a serious relationship, so their flirty arrangement suits them both.