Out on the Serve (Out in College 7)

I squeezed her in a tight hug to make her laugh and didn’t release her until she told me to break an ankle. Not a leg…but hey, close enough.

I didn’t get the part.

I stared at the email on my phone and read through the cast list the director sent out. Phoenix was one of the Dromios, Sophie was Adriana, and I was…no one.

Fuck.

My heart sank. Now what? Before I got too deep into my pity party, my cell buzzed in my hand. It was my mother, and there was no way I was in the right headspace for an “I told you so” lecture. I scrolled for Sophie’s number and pushed Call.

“Hey, Bray. How are you?” she answered carefully.

“I’m fine. Congrats to you, Adriana.”

“Thank you. You’re on the list, you know.”

“I am? I don’t have my earbuds. I can’t read the email now. Who am I?” I asked as I navigated the path near the complex pool on my way to pick up the mail.

“Jacques’s assistant.” When I didn’t say anything, Sophie let out an agonized moan. “Oh, please don’t be upset, Braden. I’ll fix it for you. What can I do?”

I chuckled lightly and paused by the row of mailboxes. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m a big boy. I’ll be fine.”

“But you really wanted this! You moved to Long Beach to be in the play and—”

“Hey, not true,” I lied. “I needed a change of pace and a break before grad school. I’ll just have more time to hang out at the beach or…something.”

Silence.

“You need a date. I’m going to find you someone. That will be my consolation present to you.”

I huffed in amusement. “That’s insane. Sweet…but insane.”

“Thank you,” she replied in a bright tone. “So…Elliot’s cute, isn’t he?”

“Not gonna happen, Soph.”

“Why? He’s totally your type.”

“How would you know who my type is? The last guy I dated was Phoenix, and he’s nothing like Elliot,” I huffed with a laugh.

Sophie chuckled. “True, but I’ve seen you check out other guys. You like ’em tall and hunky…like you.”

“Whoa. Please tell me this isn’t some elaborate setup scheme, Soph.”

“What? I would never,” she protested in a voice that said the exact opposite.

“Sophie…”

“Scout’s honor. I—hang on.” She paused to speak to someone. “Sorry, Bray. I have to go. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll work my magic for you. See ya at rehearsal.”

I unlocked our mailbox, sighing heavily as I rescued a small, carefully wrapped box addressed to me in my mother’s handwriting. I’d bet anything this was homemade “congratulations” fudge. I talked about the stupid play often enough that she knew it meant something to me. Fuck. I pulled out the rest of the mail too, sifting through the ads and tossing the junk mail into a recycle bin nearby. I set the only official-looking envelope on top of my package and headed home.

I stopped to say hello to the cute brunette from the downstairs apartment. Sherri…or Kerri, maybe. We introduced ourselves once but mutually decided “neighbor” worked too. She usually asked how my day was and if I had any plans that night. I wasn’t in the mood to chat. I had to keep this short and hope like hell Elliot wasn’t home. If exchanging pleasantries with a neighbor felt like accidentally stepping in a puddle, Elliot was the tsunami version of that.

“Hey there, how’s it going? Any plans tonight?”

“Not tonight. I’m going to make dinner and relax,” I said politely.

“I think your boyfriend already started dinner for you. I just saw him carrying a few grocery bags upstairs. He told me he’s making pasta. Enjoy!” She smiled widely and waved before disappearing into her own place.

I frowned, unsure what bugged me more…boyfriend or pasta. Definitely pasta.

I hurried upstairs, pulling out my keys, which of course got caught in the seam of my pocket. I wiggled my fingers to free them and noticed that the envelope on top of the package my mom sent was addressed to Elliot. And it looked like a bill. The “Past Due” notification highlighted in red made me stop in my tracks. What the fuck? My eyes were still glued to the envelope when I opened the door, stepped out of my flip-flops…and into a pile of sand.

That was when I officially began to lose it.

Elliot’s sand-covered backpack and flip-flops littered the entry, a beach towel was draped over one barstool, and his sweaty T-shirt was on the other. I took a deep breath and gave myself a pep talk. This is not a big deal. Then I counted to ten, pasted a smile on my face, and called out a greeting.

“Yo, in the kitchen! I’m making spaghetti, dude. Want some?”

Oh. No. Not that. Anything but spaghetti.

I moved into the adjoining room, dropped the mail on the island, and barely swallowed a gasp of dismay. Three drawers and not one, not two, but every damn cabinet door was open. A package of ground turkey, garlic, and two bottles of marinara sauce were lined up on the counter, and two pots were on the stove. The kitchen was a disaster in the making. The second Elliot popped open those jars and let the marinara fly, it would be over. I was torn between anger and flat-out amazement. I’d been gone for ten minutes, tops. How the fuck did he make this big of a mess in so little time?