thick drops of sweat roll down his temple and into his eyes, the hard muscles in his belly burning as he counts down the interminable sit-ups. he’s nearing the fourty-five minute mark of his workout now, his energy levels no longer spiking but declining. by his side, calvin seems slightly less affected by the exercise, his athletic schedule and non-smoking lungs offering him an advantage. sinclair finds it deeply annoying, having to bite down on his tongue so he won’t yell at his friend to leave the room. he has no ownership over their makeshift home gym, nor does he want to be perceived as envious. so instead, he suffers in silence, as calvin attempts to make conversation one would have over tea. or vodka.
“…but yeah, i’m not texting her back, i don’t care if she sends my dick to the pope,” his friend says, concluding a hook-up story gone wrong sinclair was only half-listening to. “what about you? you’ve probably had better luck than me.”
sinclair grunts noncommittaly in response, his breathing loud in his ears.
“c’mon, i saw you with mina at the party. she’s fuckin’ hot, like properly.”
“she’s fuckin’ clingy,” sinclair spits out, falling a little too hard against the mat before pulling himself back up. “she texted at 3 am to, ah, ask if i have feelings for anyone at the moment.”
calvin lets out a single, high-pitched laugh. he stops his reps without stuttering, turning his body towards sinclair with mirth in his large, brown eyes.
“and you, of course, told her you’d rather get your dick cut off than fall in love?” he doesn’t say again out loud, but sinclair hears it anyway. they both ignore it.
sinclair frowns. “not in that many words. uh. what else was i supposed to say?”
"lie,” calvin answers, leaning his weight backwards into his palms. “tell her you could see yourself falling. that somewhere down the road, maybe, you’ll be ready to open up your heart and that you’d really, really like for her to be the one to enter it. and then you’re set for three months of rawdogging.”
sinclair finishes his reps with choked laughter bubbling up his throat. the ease with which calvin describes manipulating women for his own pleasure is nothing new, nor is it below sinclair’s own morals. together, they both learned early on to use their handsome faces and abysmal lack of care for others to their own benefit. but whereas calvin is outspoken about the lack of a heart inside his chest, sinclair still attempts to hide it. perhaps because while the explanation for his friend’s condition can be boiled to him being his father’s son, sinclair’s reasoning is a bit more humiliating than that.
“how many abortions is the royal family paying for annually, again?” sinclair mocks, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his armband, his legs painfully stretching as he stands up. “thirty-thousand?”
calvin roll his eyes, following his suit. “whatever, bro. if you don’t want mina, just say it. i’ll take my go at her. it’s time someone showed her how a real man fucks.”
“wouldn’t be the first time you had my sloppy seconds.”
it’s a small moment, but it’s there nonetheless. the shift in the air, the hardening of calvin’s stare as it meets sinclair. the knowledge that somewhere, deep down, something is still broken between them. and no amount of glossing over can heal it. but it’s gone before either can name that specific pain, and calvin’s throwing his sweaty towel on sinclair’s face as the latter gags and chases his childhood best friend through their house, their laughter just a little too loud
by the next day, sinclair’s forgotten it all. it’s hard to stay hung up on it, when he’s being led (see: dragged) to detention only six weeks into the new semester. admittedly, he expected his recurring lateness to have consequences. but he thought maybe he’d have to write an essay, or donate some extra money to a bullshit charity st. agathe’s pretends to sponsor but is really just an account in the caymans. he certainly didn’t foresee spending his friday evening at the main library, sorting through dusty books and equally as dusty shelves. in the back of his mind, he wonders if theodore had anything to do with it.
st. agathe’s library is usually a thing to behold. with the full moon peaking across its shiny glass dome roof, and its rows upon rows of academic treasures that seem to reach as high as the white marble balustrades on the second floor, one might feel as if they’ve travelled in time. usually, the exceptionally large room offers sinclair some comfort. the scent of literature and the peaceful quiet that cannot even be found under his own roof offer him a home, away from home. except for tonight. tonight, he stares at three tables worth of titles, plus two carts of additional materials. he turns to the dean’s secretary, a short middle-age man with a persistent smirk-scowl combination, that likely shouldn’t have gone into the education system.
“i’m supposed to do all this by myself?” he says, slightly incredulous. “i’ll be here ‘til morning, you know that.”
the man bats at an insivible fly, as if it is sinclair’s many concerns.
“while i wouldn’t mind that, you won’t be alone. it seems you’re not the only one who has been treating the clock as a mere suggestion.” he pulls a pocket watch from his tweed suit’s breast pocket, because of course, before sighing. “but perhaps i should’ve known she would also be late to detention.”
henri stares down at the carefully crafted plate of green in front of her. it sounded good on good the menu, like most overpriced salads do. richly colored arugula and thinly sliced pears doused in a zesty vinaigrette and sprinkled with pine nuts and artisan cheese. recommended to pair well with the premium cut and compliment the house riesling. which henri ordered as well. not the steak, but the wine. it looks delicious, piled up on the handcrafted ceramic plate, but now that it’s here in front of her she’s lost her appetite.
“what?” sam asks, glancing up from his own plate, the prime cut, that he slices into expertly. “what’s wrong with it?”
“nothing,” henri says easily, picking at her salad with her fork. they’ve never been here before. it’s a nice restaurant, with its clean, modern industrial interior and warm lighting. probably better suited for a night meal, rather than an after school snack, but it’s a nice place. new, which is why sam was so adamant about here in particular. he prides himself on his restaurant knowledge and recommendations, knows the perfect place for any time or occasion. he’s almost obsessive about new places to eat, always one of the first to walk into any newly opened door. he’s been like this since he was a teenager, and henri has often been his dining partner. it’s their thing. comforting and familiar.
“if it’s not the salad, then what?” he asks again. “what could possibly be going wrong three months into the semester? and don’t say ‘nothing’. i know you.”
henri looks at him, the corners of her mouth curling up against her will. he does know her. and sometimes that’s a problem, but most of the time it’s a relief. she likes having someone she doesn’t have to pretend in front of, and sam is one of the only people she has that fits the criteria. most of the time.
she gives up on her salad with sigh, falling back against her chair. she’ll have it boxed up for later, will eat the soggy arugula when she’s too drunk to notice the texture and text sam her review before passing out.
“are you going to chapel tonight?” she counters.
“yeah,” sam says, like it’s obvious. and then because he likes to entertain her ploys, he makes a dramatic face and asks, “are you?”
sam looks at her, and then bursts into laughter.
“detention for what? on a friday evening?”
“stop it, i’m serious! i have tardy write-ups. i have to clean the study stacks or something, i don’t know.”
sam shakes his head and returns his attention back to his steak. henri looks around for their waiter and waves him down for another glass of wine. her stomach protests. she ignores it.
“what else is wrong?” sam asks eventually, when the silence is well settled.
henri doesn’t even know where to begin. she shrugs, head shaking. really, it’s been fine. other than her habitual tardiness and belated adjustment to her new schedule, the semester has been fine. but fine isn’t good enough. fine isn’t going to cut it in a few weeks when she’s rehashing her progress to her parents over dinner. to theo’s parents, to his brothers and their wives, all their eyes on her expectantly, waiting.
“i just have a lot to do,” she says. “and we’re already three months into the semester and i don’t have any idea where to start.”
“....you know i could kick theo’s ass, right? like, i’m well capable.”
henri looks at sam pointedly across the table and he pointedly stares back, unfazed.
“this is not a theo problem,” she says.
“isn’t, though?” sam returns. isn’t it always?
“no,” henri says, even though it is. their waiter returns to fill henri’s glass. she waits until he leaves to continue. “i don’t know. i’m starting a campus organization completely from scratch and i hardly even know what goes first. it would be so much easier if i had some social club to inherit like valentina and theo did, but i need something i can be the... founder of.”
“because it will look good on my résumé.”
“what do you need a résumé for?”
“sam-.. i don’t know. because it sounds good when i say it. because i can’t keep going home empty handed.”
“i’m just asking,” sam says, knowing that he has cornered her. “look. i get it, okay? but you can’t take on impossible tasks that you don’t even want to do to begin with. it’s not going to work. if you want my advice, don’t fucking do it. but because i know you will anyway, you need a partner. like a co-founder or something. someone you can bounce ideas off of. start small, make a solid plan. the rest will fall together.”
start small, make a solid plan. he always makes it sound so easy. henri gives him a wide-eyed, hopeful look. he tuts and places a slice of meat on top of her salad.
it’s ironic, actually. funny, even. how even on her way to being punished for being late, henri is late.
her first mistake was stopping at the dorm. not necessarily a problem from the start, because she had the time and she wanted to shower and put her boxed salad away for later, but she came home to a cloud of mingling perfumes and loud music and her friends all in the common area with bottles of don julio and dom perignon open between them as they sipped on their mexican 75′s and stared at henri like she’d lost her head when she walked through the door.
“you’re seriously not going to chapel, i thought you were joking,” mina said after valentina had looked her up and down and asked is that what you’re wearing? to which henri replied, no. because she wasn’t even going.
“but it’s the first chapel of the year,” emily supplied uselessly. henri knew that.
the first chapel is always the most exciting. for a handful of weekends every semester, the chapel—which isn’t actually in the chapel, but under it—is hosted by different groups of students with different themes and dress codes and, sometimes, invitation lists. the goal is to be the most notorious, the one that everyone talks about even years later, like some st. agathe’s underground hall of fame, and the only way to host is to have the baton passed along to you. last year, stephanie had inherited the baton from her then girlfriend, and the theme had been glow in the dark. she was the only one from their freshman class to get the chance, but now the keys are in their circle.
henri hopes she never gets them.
it was hard to watch her friends pre-game knowing she wouldn’t be able to join them. the first chapel of the year and henri can’t go.
the shower is the second mistake. she gets so caught up over the twisting knot of fucking fomo in her belly that she loses track of time. she stands under the spray for too long trying to drown out the laughter in the other room and nearly forgets why she’s the odd woman out in the first place. needless to say, she’s struck with deja vu as she scrambles into a pair of jeans and ties her hair back into a patterned silk scarf.
her goodbyes to the girls are quick and half hearted. there is a small, shameful part of her that hopes none of them have any fun tonight. shameful mostly because it’s not actually a small part at all. and then she’s off to the library in a rush, apologies already on her tongue when she arrives.
“sorry, sorry,” she half pleads as she slips through the front doors, the october chill rushing in behind her. the deans secretary fixes her with an unamused look.
“sorry, i know i’m late. my roommate had a crisis. she...” she lies, words dying out when she looks from the dean to the student beside him. sinclair park-morozov. of fucking course.
“yes, well,” the dean’s secretary starts warily, checking his watch. “the two of you should get started as soon as possible. when you finish, the keys are in the third draw of the second desk behind the main counter. i expect them returned to me in my office no later than 7:45 on monday morning. do remember to actually lock the doors behind you. any damages that may fall onto the library this weekend will be your responsibility. enjoy your evening. miss huang. mister morozov.”
he nods at them both and offers nothing else, turning on his heel to no doubt spend his friday night doing something much more entertaining than.... this. henri observes the piles of books, posture deflating as she realizes this is going to be worse than she thought.
“we really do have to stop meeting like this.”
