Page 28 of Best Man on Campus

Am I strong enough to care if I’m rejected?

Lost in my head as Professor Smerling goes on, I don’t know how much time passes. My head’s a terrible place to be, dark and warped as it is, and I almost miss the assignment.

Prof Smerling says, “This one is worth 10% of your grade so make it count.” He flashes the assignment on the screen and I skim the words. He wants us to do a one-minute music video clip of an original song, put it up on TikTok or Instagram or YouTube or Twitter.

He says, “Or all of the above if you’re an ambitious narcissist. And you all should be. Use the hashtag #SPUSongComp and send the me the link, forward it by text. Let’s see who can get the most shares.” He claps his hands, dismissing class.

“This’ll be so cool,” Dooley says, standing. “Maybe I’ll see you at the game tomorrow night. There’s still a chance to get a ticket. If you ask Ben, I bet he’ll get you one—he’s super nice.”

“Nice? That’s like calling Mother Teresa an okay lady. Ben is a fucking unicorn,” I announce in a voice loud enough to be heard. I get some smiles and nods as people file out of the room around us.

Dooley pats my back.

“You know it, sistah. Go get him. I’ll see you there. I got a ticket from Stone Peterson, so we’ll be sitting in the same section.”

I nod, give him my best shot at a smile—and have no idea what he’s talking about.

Shit.

“Gotta run,” he says, flipping his bright-colored backpack over his shoulder and practically running from the room. I take my time. I have an hour between classes and it’s a nice enough day to find a quiet spot to sit outside. Alone.

I have no idea what I’m going to do about the hockey game. It’s no big deal if I don’t show. It’s not like I answer to Dooley. If I want to go, I’ll call Ben and demand a ticket. Making my way out of the classroom and out of the building, I head for the quad between the Student Union and library, a square of grass and trees with benches and a constant parade of students. Finding a lonely spot on the stone wall surrounding the library, out of the mainstream, I sit and drag out a pen and pad of paper.

As I’m about to start composing, my phone beeps and I look at it. A fucking text from Dooley. How the hell did he even get my number? Fuck. Then I remember that project we were forced to do together last semester where the prof gave our numbers to our teammates. I deleted them all except Dooley’s.

Dooley’s been the only one in the class ballsy enough to talk to me since my first class with him a year and a half ago when I went off on some poor kid for nothing. Now everyone else gives me a wide berth because they think I’m crazy. Because I am. Now it’s what I do first day of every semester to reinforce the message. I have a rep now. But I’m careful to keep my cool with the professors because I need the grades to maintain my scholarship and I need my scholarship to stay in school.

And why do I need to stay in school? For Majik. For my own pride. To be better than Killian. To succeed where he didn’t. Mostly, to buy some time before I face the world at large, to try and heal in the safety of a remote college campus. All those things.

And one more. To watch Ben Weaver and find out if he’s a mirage or a unicorn for real, to watch his life unfold and where it takes him. Because now he’s one of the people in my life and there are so few. Even if I never see him again, never talk to him again, he’s a part of me now, of my life, of my healing. And I’ll keep him with me.

I’ll write a song about him.

About our night. It’ll be an anonymous love song, for us. The kind no one else will understand. Only Ben will know it’s about him. Then I’ll make a video. That shit could be explosive. My mind winds around an idea, a vision. Could get me an A.

Could get me in a world of trouble.

Chapter 7

Ben

This has been one hell of a long shitty day. I go around the back of BMOC House because I’m late for dinner, but I know Majik will still be in the kitchen. I hope to hell she saved me some food. As I pull open the door, the smell almost brings me to my knees I’m so fucking starved. Majik turns to me and I instantly look for signs of whether Jazzy’s talked to her and if so, what Majik’s reaction is. Nothing but her usual implacable self, sitting at the table. She thumps the space on the table next to her. That’s as much an invitation as I’ve ever had to sit with her. My heart speeds up.

Dropping my backpack in the corner, I go to the stove first and fill up a plate of the mouth-watering beef stroganoff simmering there. The aroma and anticipation of food almost erases my anxiety about admitting to Majik that I spent the night with Jazzy. I don’t want her to have the wrong impression. Not that I’m sure what the right impression is, but I want to see Jazzy, want to unwind whatever is she’s wound up in. Putting my plate on the table next to her, I take a deep breath.

Then I pull out a chair and sit.

“We need to talk,” I say. She looks up at me, taking her attention away from her meal, and nods.

“I heard you had a good weekend,” she says, answering my question before I ask. I nod, my gut twisting, unsure about my ground. My conscience is split on whether I’m innocent or guilty. I didn’t disrespect Jazzy, didn’t do anything she didn’t want. Except I didn’t leave when she asked me to. Twice. The fact that she changed her mind twice almost doesn’t count since it only tells me she’s as unsure as I am. And I pressed. Fuck. Guilty.

“Let’s talk after I eat dinner. I’ll take dishwashing,” I say.

She nods. “You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I can’t start explaining until I eat or I won’t last. I need to be prepared for this to be a long conversation because I have a lot of explaining to do, some apologizing too.

“No reason.” She stares at me with a hundred reasons reflected deep in her eyes.