The Play: Briar U

by Kennedy, Elle

  I get it, I really do. My dad had a tough upbringing. He grew up dirt poor in Atlanta and worked his ass off to climb out of the gutter. Because he’s genius-level smart, he excelled in high school, graduated early and got a scholarship to Yale. That’s when he met and married my mother, who was originally from Miami. She wanted to move back after graduation, so Dad went with her, working at Miami General for nearly two decades before we moved to Massachusetts.

  Dad’s intense drive and unparalleled work ethic got him to where he is now, and he’s instilled in me the value of hard work since the day I was born. When I was a teenager, he insisted I do volunteer work and community outreach so I could see how many people go without the privilege I was born into. He wanted me to understand how blessed I am. And I do understand, absolutely.

  But the pressure of living up to my father’s high standards can be exhausting.

  And although Dad didn’t bring up the Nico subject again this weekend, that didn’t stop him from dropping several subtle comments over the weekend about how people are flawed, how human beings make mistakes. It was never specifically about Nico, but I knew exactly what Dad was trying to imply.

  Well, too bad. Dad will just have to get over it. His boner for my ex-boyfriend will eventually deflate and hopefully get hard again for whoever I date next—and if that isn’t the grossest analogy I’ve ever used, then I don’t know what is. I don’t want to think about my father getting hard over anyone. I don’t want my father to have a penis, period.

  As for the rebound idea I floated with Hunter via text, I’m finding myself more and more open to the idea. In fact, I’m kind of excited about it as I walk to class on Monday morning.

  I’m wearing a parka with a fur-lined hood, an oversized messenger bag over one shoulder, fur-lined boots, and holding a steaming coffee cup in my hand.

  You know that saying—dress for the job you want? Well, I dress for the season I want. It’s the end of November and it still hasn’t snowed, and I’m growing tired of this weird in-between period where there are no leaves on the trees but no snow on the ground. It’s eerie and I hate it.

  Pax, TJ and I chat about our Thanksgivings until Professor Andrews arrives. Hunter texted early this morning that he wouldn’t be in class today. Apparently he has a physical with the team doctor.

  I see him later that night, though, when he comes over for our—sob—final therapy session. My session logs are filled with notes. Hunter’s done with all his research. Now it’s just a matter of him writing the technical paper, and me writing the case study and detailed diagnosis, but those aren’t due for a few more weeks.

  “Since we’re officially done, am I allowed to tell you your diagnosis?” I ask him.

  “Hit me,” Hunter says with a grin. He’s sprawled on the loveseat, his hands propped behind his head, his arms bare. He runs hot, according to him, so every time he’s in my room he strips down to a wife-beater or T-shirt, showing off those sculpted arms.

  “Congratulations, you suffer from Narcissistic Personality Disorder, with a hint of antisocial PD.”

  “You’re good.”

  “Thank you. I figured it out after like the second session, but NPD is actually super hard to diagnose properly,” I say, which leads to a short discussion about the disorder and what Hunter learned during his research. He concurs that NPD cases are tough, especially because narcissists are so skilled at manipulating people, including psychologists.

  “My father had our therapist eating out of his palm,” Hunter admits.

  I try to mask my eagerness. I hadn’t wanted to bring it up myself, but I’ve been thinking a lot about our last session. Hunter’s breakdown. His revelation that we’d been discussing his own father this entire time. My breakup with Nico had dominated my thoughts after that session, but now it’s in the forefront of my mind as I cautiously study Hunter.

  “I’m really sorry you had to go through all that crap with him,” I say in a quiet voice.

  He shrugs. “Whatever. Other people have it worse.”

  “So? My boyfriend cheated—other women might have a husband of thirty years who cheated and six kids at home. Does that diminish my own experience, because someone has it worse? There’s always someone with a shittier life than yours. That doesn’t turn the shit in your life into roses.”

  He exhales sharply. “That is very true, and you’re too smart for your own good.”

  I chuckle. “I know. And I mean it, I’m sorry for everything your father has put you through.”

  “Thank you.” His tone ripples with…awe, maybe? I can’t tell. But it’s evident he’s genuinely appreciative of my words.

  Then I realize what he’d said before—our therapist—and surprise jolts through me. “Wait, your father actually went to therapy? Willingly?”

  “Willingly, hell no. It was one of those extremely rare times when Mom tried to stand up for herself. She told him if he didn’t change his behavior, she would leave him. I mean, nobody bought that, but I guess she sounded serious enough that he capitulated. So we went to family therapy. Mom thought Dad and I also needed to clear the air between us, so I was forced into it. Christ, the whole thing was a shitshow.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He completely manipulated the therapist during his individual sessions. I don’t know what he told her, but when we saw her as a family, she was squarely on Team Dad. She spoke as if Mom and I were the evil perpetrators and he was the victim. It was unreal.”

  “Wow. I’m so sorry, babe. I can’t even imagine having a parent like that. Parents aren’t supposed to be the selfish ones. I mean, we’re the kids. We’re the selfish ones.”

  Hunter offers a sad smile. “In my house, my father is the only person who matters. You’re lucky—your dad might want you to get back with your ex, but at least he doesn’t treat you like a piece of property.”

  That is a very good point. Empathy continues to swell in my belly. I want to go over and give him a big hug, but I suspect he’d feel embarrassed.

  “What’s going on with all that, anyway?” Hunter asks, changing the subject. “Have you spoken to Nico?”

  “Nope, and I don’t plan on it, not for a long time.”

  “And the rebound situation?”

  My heart skips a beat. “Well. You won’t give me one, so I guess I’m on the hunt.”

  He looks startled for a second and then he laughs. “Come on, you said you were basically joking about that.”

  “Right.”

  But was I?

  I suddenly find myself staring at him. With his classically handsome features, Hunter Davenport is objectively one of the best-looking men I’ve ever met.

  If we’re talking subjectively, then…ugh, then yes. I think he’s incredibly hot. He has a sexy mouth and a killer smile. And dimples. What is it with me and guys with dimples? It’s like my sexual kryptonite.

  My gaze travels the length of his body. He’s wearing jeans, and I wonder what he’s packing underneath them. Considering women are constantly throwing themselves at him, he must have some good dick game. And check me out, talking about dick games as if I know what good dick actually entails. My list of lovers is a resounding ONE.

  “So. Just because we haven’t checked in for a while—you’re still a monk?” Somehow I muster up a casual tone.

  “Yup yup.”

  “Don’t say yup yup.”

  “I can’t believe I’ve lasted this long.” His expression becomes tortured. “We’re at seven months, almost eight.”

  “When does this celibacy vow expire? I mean, you don’t plan on keeping it forever, right?”

  “Nah, till the end of the season.”

  “And then what? You’ll go wild in the summer? You still have your senior year at Briar,” I remind him.

  “I know.” He groans. “Honestly, I’ll probably go nuts in the summer and fuck anything that moves.” Another groan. “My balls hurt all the time, Semi.”

  I grin. “Aw, do you want me to make
it better?”

  “Stop teasing.”

  “I’m not teasing.”

  Am I? Lord, I don’t even know anymore. What I do know is that I desperately need that rebound.

  “I need that rebound,” I say out loud.

  Hunter purses his lips. “I don’t know if I like the idea anymore. You hooking up with some random dude is…worrisome.” He holds up a hand. “And stop saying you want me to do it because we both know you don’t mean it. Besides, this dick’s broken.” He points to his groin as if I don’t know where a penis is located.

  “Well, then it has to be a random guy. I can’t hook up with one of my friends—that’s just a recipe for disaster.”

  “Exactly!” Hunter says triumphantly. “Ergo, stop trying to rebound me.”

  “Is that a verb?”

  “It is now.”

  “Anyway, so you’re out because of the broken dick. Pax is gay—”

  “Yeah, Jax isn’t a good candidate.”

  I roll my eyes. “TJ is too—”

  “—in love with you,” Hunter finishes.

  “He’s not in love with me. But he’s too good of a friend and he’s super sensitive. I could see him getting emotionally attached.”

  “Got it. So you want a guy who won’t get emotionally attached.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Are you on Tinder?”

  “I’ve been dating the same guy since I was thirteen. Of course I’m not on Tinder.”

  “Then you should be. It’s the easiest way to find a no-strings hook-up or friend with benefits. Come to think of it, that’s probably a better fit for you. You need a FWB.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Hunter offers a shrug. “I think you’d feel sleazy after a one-night stand. Like you said, you were with the same guy since the age of thirteen. You’re used to a certain level of intimacy.”

  He has a point. “So you think I need someone who I’ll see more than once.”

  “Yup yup—”

  “Don’t say yup yup.”

  “—this will be fun. Come on, let’s download the app.” With a wolfish grin, he climbs onto my bed and flops down beside me. A moment later, we’re downloading—ugh—Tinder.

  “I only have an hour or so for this,” I warn. “I’m meeting TJ for dinner tonight.”

  “In town or on campus?”

  “Carver Hall.”

  “Then we have plenty of time. Carver’s like down the street from you.” Hunter watches as I load the app. “Oh, this is so exciting. I get to live vicariously through you.”

  “When your dick was functional, were you ever on any of these apps?”

  “Nah. Do you realize how easy it is for me to get sex, Semi?”

  “You’re such an egomaniac.”

  “No, I’m a hockey player. I could literally walk out my front door and there’d be a woman standing there ready to screw me.”

  He’s probably right. I’m still not much of a hockey fan, but I have been making an effort to pay attention when it’s on. My favorite part of hockey is when the half-naked men get interviewed in the locker room after the game. So I can definitely see the appeal.

  “Also, we’re in college. Dating apps aren’t really necessary since everyone’s always partying and being social. It’s easy to meet people on campus.”

  “Then why am I setting this up?” I grumble.

  “Because we’re fishing for a specific kind of meeting. When you want a particular thing, you filter out everything else. Yeah, you could sit in a bar, wait for different guys to approach you, and try to figure out what they’re looking for. But this way you go into it knowing exactly what they want.”

  “Fair enough.” Excitement tickles my belly as I set up the account. I use my phone number to log in, because I don’t want my social media linked to this craziness. When it’s time to load my profile picture, Hunter slides closer and watches me scroll through my camera roll.

  He smells fantastic. It’s a woodsy, masculine scent and I’m tempted to bury my face in his neck and inhale. However, I think that could be construed as sexual harassment.

  “How about this one?” I click on a photo that I think I look super cute in.

  Hunter balks. “Seriously? Who are we trying to attract here? Young Republicans? No. The first profile photo needs to show some skin.”

  “What do you mean, skin? Like a nude?”

  “Of course not, dumbass. I don’t think that’s even allowed. But you sure as shit can’t use this picture. You’re wearing a turtleneck—and that long flowy skirt? You look lumpy, Semi. Do you want the first picture potential suitors see of you to make them say, hey, who’s this lumpy chick?”

  “You are such an ass.”

  “No, I’m realistic. I’m not trying to be skeevy, but come on. These dudes don’t care about your personality. They care about your looks. They’re literally swiping through photographs deciding if they want to meet you based on those photos.”

  “Okay, fine. How about this one?” In this next photo, I’m clad in a tight tank top and denim shorts. My boobs look great and my hair is loose and flowing over one shoulder.

  “Better.” Hunter nods his approval. “Stick that one in for now and then we’ll rearrange the order.” He steals the phone from my hand and takes over scrolling duties. “Ah, fuck yes, you definitely want to include this one.”

  “No way. I’m in a bikini.”

  “Exactly. And you look goddamn edible. You’re searching for a guy to fuck you, Demi. This would make me fuck you.”

  Heat rises in my cheeks. Oh lord. He is sitting way too close to be dropping F-bombs like that. And why does he smell so good? Has he always smelled like this? I don’t think we’ve ever sat this close before. Our thighs are touching, and one muscular arm is pressed up against the sleeve of my thin sweater. I can feel his body heat through the material.

  “You would really fuck me if you saw this picture?” I study the bathing suit I’m wearing. It’s a red string bikini that reveals a lot of skin. The picture was taken in South Beach, courtesy of my friend Amber.

  “Oh yeah,” Hunter confirms, and I notice his eyes have actually glazed over.

  “Are you trying to picture what I look like underneath the bikini?” I accuse.

  “Yes.”

  I lightly punch his shoulder. “Hey, I already offered you the rebound. You declined. Therefore you’re not allowed to fantasize about me now.”

  “Fine,” he grumbles.

  We select a few more pictures. Hunter insists I need a full-body shot, a face shot where I’m staring directly at the camera, and a shot in which I’m smiling with teeth, because apparently not showing teeth means I’ve got the mouth of an old British man. He also lays down the law about Snapchat filters, and any selfies taken from above. According to Hunter, that’s the “deception angle.”

  “For the last photo, how about this one with me and my friends?” I suggest. “That way the guys can see I’m a social person.”

  “You can’t use that picture. You’re with a bunch of guys. It’s intimidating.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you joking? They look like huge basketball players.”

  “Well, yeah. Because they are.”

  Hunter rolls his eyes. “By posting this, you’re pretty much saying these are the kind of guys you can pull. Any guy who doesn’t look like that will be way too scared to swipe on you.”

  “You are scarily good at this,” I inform him.

  “It’s common sense, Semi. Now let’s write your profile. We want to keep it short. My recommendation? Three letters. D. T. F.”

  “No way.”

  “Uh-huh. So I’m wrong about your intentions?”

  “No, but I’m sure if we put our heads together we could find a more diplomatic way of saying it,” I say dryly. “How about this?”

  I write:

  Recently single. New to this and not looking for anything serious right now.

  “Not bad,” Hunter re
lents. “And maybe we should add a few interests. Here, let me.” He snatches the phone again, chortling as he types.

  When he passes it back, I can’t stop a laugh.

  Fascinated by child psychopaths, unhealthy relationship with food, will break your PlayStation if you f*%k with me.

  “That makes me sound like a lunatic,” I say.

  “Look me in the eye and tell me that none of those things are accurate.”

  “I fucking hate you.”

  Then I delete what he wrote and change it to: crime show enthusiast, food lover, all-around awesome person.

  One again, Hunter concedes. “I like it. All right, hit next to finalize the account.”

  I obey his command, then offer a nervous grin. “Now what?”

  “Now we swipe.”

  20

  Demi

  I had no idea there were so many men in the world. Obviously, I was aware the global population is in the billions, but how are there this many guys on this app, all within a sixty-mile radius of me? It’s way too much data. I’m on sensory overload as my finger flicks past profile after profile.

  Like Dan, who enjoys kickboxing.

  Or Kyle, who’s here for a good time, not a long time.

  Or Chris, who wants me to “just ask.”

  Or another Kyle, who describes himself with three eggplant emojis.

  And another Kyle! This one likes to eat out. Hint hint, nudge nudge.

  “Ewww! Why are all the Kyles so repulsive?” I demand.

  Hunter thinks it over. “Coincidence,” he finally answers.

  “Coincidence? That’s your best guess?” I can’t stop laughing. This is the most fun I’ve had in ages. I swipe to the next profile and gasp. “Oooh, I like him. Let’s swipe right on Roy.”