“Yes, sir,” she answers plainly, her voice low and ungainly. Her eyes are pretty, though, and her skin is smooth and … virginal … like it’s never even been touched by a dude. Maybe she bats for the other team and it really hasn’t.
“What was your name again?” I ask, extending a hand.
“Well, of course,” says Chloe so softly, I doubt she means for me to hear. “It’s hard for him to keep up with so many girls’ names.”
Okay, maybe she did mean for me to hear that jab.
“I’m Sam … antha,” the girl answers deadpan, shaking my hand. “Ugh. Dessie wants me to use my full name. Ugh and a half.”
Dmitri folds his arms on the table. “I like just Sam,” he puts in. “I mean, you seem the most comfortable with it, anyway.”
“Thanks. I like your glasses,” she says, her words uttered in perfect monotone and her sentences bleeding together without any indication of pause. “Dessie said I look better with contacts. My glasses are too thick and big. She also told me to just be myself. I don’t know. It’s all very confusing.”
“Dessie’s weird like that,” I admit, from what I know about her. “I think with the whole actress thing …”
“The whole actress thing,” Chloe mutters under her breath, smirking.
I ignore her. “With the whole actress thing, Dessie is pretty used to putting on new skins all the time and shedding old ones.”
“Kinda like trying on new girls, shedding old ones.” Again, she mutters quietly and to herself, but just loud enough for me to hear.
And again, her snide remarks go mostly ignored. “So I say, just take her advice with one tasty grain of salt, Sam. You just do whatever it is you want to do. She’s probably wanting you to emphasize those pretty eyes you got.”
Sam chortles, as if that compliment was the most ridiculous thing in the world to her, blushing instantly and looking away.
I smile, amused by the reaction. “What? Don’t like hearing that you got pretty eyes?”
“Oh, hey,” Dmitri jumps in. “Sam, how are things with Tomas?”
“Well, he still plays the bassoon,” she answers miserably, as if she might as well have just told us he’s still dying of some horrifying flesh-eating disease. “I’m bringing him to the Throng & Song this weekend to see Dessie.”
“You two have been together almost a year now, huh?”
“Not really. Are we a thing? I don’t know.” She seems to be making origami out of her napkin; I can’t tell. “When does something become a something?”
“Let’s ask Brant,” suggests Chloe coolly. “He’s an expert in this very subject.”
Honestly, I can take about twenty-six more snarky asides and jabs before I reach my limit; she’s still got a ways to go. “I’d say, it’s a thing when you really … feel it,” I answer Sam. “You’ll know.”
“So,” cuts in Chloe, “when exactly did you not feel this mystery thing for me? Just curious, Brant. By your very own theory, we ought to have become a thing the very first night we went out, considering you had my clothes off before we even got back to the dorms.”
I sigh. Yeah, I guess we’re going there. “Chloe. I seriously thought, since we both knew Dessie, what we had between us was more of a … friendly thing. Friends with benefits. Hadn’t you had one of those before? It’s not some perverse thing. You even said you were still hung up on your ex and just needed to feel comforted, remember?”
“Comforted,” she says tersely, staring down at her half-eaten salad. “Not used.”
“How were you used? You got something out of that night too, didn’t you?”
“It was more than one night, Brant. We had sex three times. Once in the dorms, and twice in Dmitri’s room.”
“My room?” Dmitri blurts, his eyes flashing.
I sigh. “My room had that smell last year, remember? Anyway, Chloe, I’m sorry,” I tell her tiredly. “I figured you were enjoying it while it lasted, too. I didn’t realize I was … obligating myself to some kind of …”
“Obligating?” She huffs. “Nice. What a big, smarty word for you.”
“It didn’t seem all that serious to me.”
“Maybe that’s because, no matter the girl you’re with, you don’t really see them, do you, Brant?” She stares at me, her nose rings and earrings catching a stray glint of the sunlight coming in through the window. “You act like you respect all the women you’re with, but we’re just … different sauces you can dip your corndog in,” she spits out.