He’s got a slight Texan drawl to his voice. I offer an apologetic smile, then shake my head. “I’m not lost. Thanks for your concern.” I look back down at my super interesting phone.
“Do you go to Klangburg?”
I nod without looking up. He’s pretty cute, I’m not going to lie. But if I were to take a guess from his easy demeanor and slick charm, he’s had about eight girlfriends this week alone, and he’s likely sizing me up to be his ninth. I know a player when I see one.
“What’s your major?” he asks, leaning against the wall and tossing his bowling ball gently from one palm to the other.
“Theatre.”
“Oh, sweet. My roommate—ah, um … Anyway, you here to bowl?” He shuffles uncomfortably, which draws my attention back to him, wondering why he changed the subject so abruptly.
“Just to watch,” I answer, then glance down at my phone for the time. Almost thirty minutes late. Where the hell is he? “What do you study?” I ask distractedly.
“Boobs. Just kidding. Titties. Just kidding. Uh …” He grins as he looks off, flashing a pair of perfect teeth, then hugs the bowling ball to his chest and answers, “I’m thinking architecture.”
I don’t know why, but I find myself amused by this totally cocky horn-dog. I swallow a laugh. “You’re thinking architecture? Still undecided?”
“I’ve … ah, I’ve changed my major about four times since my freshman year. Don’t judge.” He gives me a warning look, his blue eyes flashing. “I like to take a little taste of everything, if you know what I mean.”
I’m quite certain I know exactly what he means.
“Nice,” I say, feeling smart. “So, since freshman year, you’ve switched majors from boobs to titties to lady bags … and finally settled on architecture.”
He grins. I think he appreciates me throwing his humor right back at him. “I like a … hands-on major.”
“Your mother must be so proud.”
“You sure you aren’t lost?”
“Nope. Just waiting for someone. I know exactly where I am.”
After a second, his expression changes. Then, with a new, almost alarmed look in his eyes, he shifts his posture and says, “You wouldn’t happen to be Dessie … would you?”
I stare at him and blink. “Yes, I am.”
“Oh, fuck.” He lets out a laugh, his face flushing, and then he whistles and hoots loudly. “Right on!” he finally says after he’s recovered. “I should’ve known. I’m such a dipshit! So, you’re Dessie.” He extends his free hand. “You’re Clayton’s friend, and I’m rude.”
Now it’s my turn to blanch. “And you are?”
“Brant,” he answers, his hand still extended, as I haven’t yet trusted it with my handshake. “I’m the reason you’re here. The one who’s bowling tonight. Tournament. Clayton’s favorite roommate—just, ah … don’t ask him to confirm that.”
“Brant,” I echo hesitantly, shaking his hand.
He seems to cling to mine, fascinated. “Your skin is soft as fuck.”
“You’re cute,” I tell him, “but I’m not interested.”
“Sorry.” He lets go, then nearly drops his bowling ball as he recoils—like some magic barrier just formed around me after learning who I am. “You’re … you’re a lot prettier than I was expecting.”
I choke on a laugh, unsure how to react to that. “Were you expecting a swamp creature?”
“He said you’re from New York City,” Brant goes on, a hint of uncertainty in his voice, “so I kinda presumed you’d be, like … I dunno. Rough-looking? Edgy? Nose-ring and purple hair and kinda rude?”
“Is that what you think everyone from New York City’s like?”
“I’ve lived here my whole life, born and raised,” he explains, a twinge of southern accent playing in his words. “I don’t get out much. You can just tell me to shoo at any moment, seriously, and I’ll just go and bury my head in an ice bin or something.”
“Good thing I came down here to Texas,” I say, toying with him right back. “I totally thought you all ride horses to the supermarket, dodge tumbleweeds on the highway, and wear spurs to your best friend’s wedding.”
“Wedding? Oh, no. Clayton’s never marrying,” he says with a hearty guffaw. “That dude’s been …”
And then as quickly as the joke occurred to him, it dies on his tongue, his eyes glossing over. I wonder for a moment what he was about to say, then find myself staring down at his shoes awkwardly, struggling to give Clayton the benefit of the doubt and assume that his “best friend” Brant here wasn’t about to spill some magic beans I might want to be privy to, if I had any interest in pursuing Clayton seriously.