He's indifferent. Effortless. Aloof.
He has so much female attention he could give or take a knockout in fuck me heels.
That doesn't give a nobody in combat boots much of a chance.
I force myself to look away.
Watch Alan—this is his place—pound his red solo cup. He finishes. Crushes the cup. Watches it fall onto the pristine white carpet.
Drops of brown liquor catch on the fibers.
He shrugs like he doesn't care, but the worry in his eyes betrays him. The jocks around him laugh. Pound their drinks. Whisper some secret.
There are a dozen people here. Half in that circle. The rest on the couch or in the airy, stainless steel kitchen.
Everyone here is casual. Comfortable. Used to parties. To money. To cheap booze in plastic cups.
I…
This is way out of my comfort zone.
My gaze shifts back to Dean.
His eyes lock with mine. He raises his glass. Smiles.
My combat boots tap together. My hands go to my tank top. I play with its edge. Try to figure out what the hell that means.
Dean and I have shared two classes a day, every day, for the last three years.
He spends most of his free time teasing me.
Calling me sunshine.
Mocking how seriously I take art, math, and science.
Mocking my all black clothes, my thermos of tea, my tendency to gush about cartoons.
He turns to Alan. Whispers something.
Alan laughs.
Dean nods hell yeah. "Everybody come here." His playful voice bounces around the room.
Everyone turns his way.
Looks at him.
Hangs on his words.
Dean commands attention, friendship, respect. All he does is smile and a dozen girls fall over themselves trying to claim him.
A dozen guys want to be his friend.
The world is his oyster.
"Why should I listen to anything you say, Maddox?" Alan teases back.
Dean's shrug is effortless. Why should I bother exerting a single ounce of energy on anything? "If you don't want me to blow your mind, go ahead. Leave."