Narcissus

Author: SweetThing

Chapter: 6 "In The Punch"

Disclaimer: Some enchanted evening…I will own everythiiiiiiing! Hah! Except not. Nothing's mine, folks, and it never will be. *sniff* Such a beautifully cheesy song! Oh, and the title and lyrics are from "Caught Up In You" by Convoy, off of their album, Black Licorice.

Author's Note: I'm really sorry it took me this long for this chapter, I got a job and it's been keeping me busy, along with school and life in general. Thanks for reviewing, and I hope you all keep on enjoying the story.

Dedications: Elise, because she's the best beta ever, and helped tremendously with this chapter, Jamie for being Jamie, Surya for her computer support (lol!) and Janine, for her encouragement and because were soul mates J .

I'm caught up in the game/ That someone is to blame/Could just be the same though I really can't complain/ I'm caught up in the punch/I always take too much…/I feel a little guilt, but I know it's just a crutch…

Well, it's that time again! A voice in my head sounds as I shift away from the girl next to me and sigh audibly. It's too late before I realize she is doing the exact same thing, and I clear my throat, saying nothing of course, because of, well, what we just did. About two seconds ago. It's always like this, right after we've actually had sex, because we are forced to take off the masks we put on during the act and realize what we've been doing. Willingly and everything. Although it's become sort of routine over the past months, it's still a little hard to wrap your mind around in this particular space of time, between defeat and agony. It's awkward and it kind of makes your skin crawl.

So this is why I stare at the ceiling, allowing us both to get our bearings back, as the fan above us spins in a continuous orbit, bringing unnecessary air to the room. I don't dare look at her, for obvious reasons. Yep. Here we are. I fight the urge to voice my thoughts as I turn my eyes to the clock, which reads exactly one a.m. Looking at the clock is big with me, for some reason. Especially in this situation, when it's dark and I don't have anywhere else to look. Obviously. Wow. My brain is still all messed up and heavy from sex, and my thoughts come slowly, plodding along and falling into some abyss when they pass. Ugh. I shake my head a little, groggy.

Besides this feeling of being half-awake, though, I actually feel pretty…well, I feel good. Now whenever my mind lands on Charisse, it stops and is clouded over with what just happened. I am numbed.

And it doesn't feel half-bad. But then, that sounds selfish. Still, whenever I feel guilty about this or have some sort of regret about something, I remind myself that my "partner", so to speak, experiences the same feelings I do that are derived from having an agreement like this, if I don't know anything else about her. (And it's very possible that I don't, really, either). It's just…her expression, I guess, sometimes. Her eyes. It's evident, she needs this. Or something like this. I don't know. I pause for a second.

Wait. Partner? What the fuck? Now we're gay? Here come those slow thoughts again. I sound like a preppy upper-crust teenage boy, which is pretty sad because that's what I am. Was. I almost burst out laughing at the irony of everything, but decide to see if Rory is awake instead.

"Hey---"

She sounds slightly irritated as she replies,

"What?" Something is different though; the entire tone of things is shifting. I know exactly why she doesn't want to talk.

So of course, I keep on chatting.

"Do you ever lie here after we're, you know—finished, and think, 'What the hell did I just do?'"

I hear her move around a little.

"You mean after the first time?"

"Uh, yeah," I say knowingly.

She pauses for a minute. Then,

"Every goddamn time." Never misses a beat, either.

I nod in acknowledgement, then reply,

"Just wondering."

"Yep."

I hear her let out a breath, and wonder if her brain stalls as much as mine does afterwards. Hmm. I'm thinking no, mostly because girls, women, rather, are different. They think more, they feel more, they magnify everything, it's just the human condition, I guess. I shrug internally. Like most men, I'll never fully get it. I yawn.

"So, in a bit, you want to g—"

"No," she breaks in, "You see, Tristan, uh, interesting--- as that was, I'm really not in the mood for more of your confident yet devastatingly overrated fumblings tonight, alright?" She bites back.

"Oh, oh. Fumblings? I'll have you know that back in the day when people actually appreciated my efforts, I---"

"Oh save it, Harry Burns! Just because a former girlfriend faked it and told you it was amazing or life-altering does not mean you're even half of what you think you are in this…department!"

I almost gasp. Did she really just say what I think she said?

"Excuse me? First of all, you have no idea whether my past girlfriends or whoever has faked it with me,"

"It's possible, you know! We do it all the time!" She fires back.

"And second of all---wait, wait wait. I've heard that myth, of course," I say moving closer to her in the dark, "But are we talking, all the time?"

She meets my eyes. At least, I think she does.

"All the time," she repeats slowly, defiantly.

I make a weird noise then, something caught between scoff and a gasp.

"Oh, come on!" I practically yell, recovering from my slightly bruised ego, "You think I buy that smartass feminist dribble? There may be times," I continue, turning towards her in the blackness, "Where you…well, you either don't, you don't and pretend you do, but when you do---" I grin evilly---"You do."

There is a break in the heated argument just then. I'm expecting her to shoot back her defense, but she does nothing. I look at her strangely, (the best I can, anyway) then realize she is shaking.

With soundless laughter. Great.

Then she seems to get her voice back as she chokes out,

"I---don't—believe you! You strut around in this macho—aura, and just think you know—exactly—what—I'm---I just—Oh my God!" Her hysteria overcomes her then, and she's cut off by her own voice. I finally reach over to turn a light on, and after rubbing my eyes, see that Rory has been laughing so hard she's practically tipping over onto her back. The bed is slapped once as she tries to go on.

"It's just, why do you think that you're so---you? You have no idea whether I actually…and yet you just build up this whole schpiel and expect me to not laugh at your ridiculous little notions that I—oh, jeez. I have to—" she snorts—"I have to calm down." She wipes her eyes haphazardly. "I'm sorry about that, but really, you have no idea whether I 'do' or 'don't', Mr. Johnny-Come-Not-So-Lately," She snickers. " So don't even think that—"

My jaw has dropped at the rather prickly nickname she just dropped in there, but I manage to recover it as I snap,

"What?! That was uncalled for, not to mention completely false, Miss Map of the World!"

Her eyebrows raise. "Are you serious?"

"Does down really mean up?"

Then, something comes to a screeching halt, and I wince internally. That one was slightly below the belt. She responds in kind, after a gasp,

"Jesus, you son of a bitch! Don't even---you—ugh---I—wait, why are we even discussing this anyway? It's too freakishly---something, it's just too freakish, period," she rambles. I am smug now. I've managed to turn the odds in my favor.

"That's right. Just back on out, sister."

"Shut your mouth!"

I chuckle. "Whatever you say."

"Please don't coddle me because you got the last word in," Rory warns fiercely. "I don't want to hear it, ass wipe."

I do, though, and I pat her shoulder as gently as I can muster.

"Now, now, Rory, I know it's tough to feel the pain of losing this well, whatever it was, but in time, I think---"

She kicks me in the shins under the sheets, hard. "Fuck!"

"I warned," she reasons with an innocent smile. "But what I asked was a legitimate question, you know. Why were we 'talking', to use the word loosely, about this?"

I pause at that. Do I have any idea in hell what sparked a heated exchange about orgasms and kinky stuff like that? Of course not. But it was weird as hell. I opt for half of the truth, not lying but not admitting she was right, either.

"I don't know. Our conversations are always---"

"Bizarre?"

"I was going to say twisted, but you win the prize."

"Goody."

"Yeah."

And just like that, the switch is flipped. We're two people in bed together again. It seems we have run out of gas, probably because it's so late, err, early. Just then Rory chuckles to herself. I look up, surprised.

"You know what's so incredibly sad about all of this?"

"Uh, what?"

"Right now, here I am, arguing with you for the umpteenth time about whatever's under the sun. And right now, probably at this exact minute, Steve is out there, somewhere, fucking my roommate!" Her arm comes up and then drops in defeat. "Isn't life just peachy, Tristan?" She says, her voice heavy with fake irony. I've never heard the word "fuck" sound dirtier, more out of the proverbial gutter, than when she's just said it. Comprehension dawns on me then.

"Wait, this guy's with your roommate, now? How the hell did that happen?"

"Oh, I don't know, it was just one of those things! You know, a guy who you think loves you and would be in it for the long haul, who was in it for the long haul, even though I hate expressions like that, turns out to see your roommate in a whole new light when she jumps out of the shower to greet him, then all of a sudden he can't be bothered with you anymore so he makes up all this bullshit about moving in different directions and not loving you and—no wait, that part was true, come to think of it--- except he left out the minor detail that he may have had feelings for a person I thought I could trust! Who I thought was my friend! Who---who…" Then she suddenly deflates, not having enough energy to finish the chain of ranting and rambling that she's started. I decide to humor her.

"So basically, he never said anything about maybe liking your roommate, but it turned out she was the reason all along? That's why he broke up with you?" I sum up.

She's kneeling now, having risen to the position in the midst of her laughing fit. Her shoulders slump.

"I pass the prize to you, my good man," She says with a flourish and an accent to boot, trying to find something funny about what she's just revealed to me. I go on.

"And you just found this out…how and when, exactly? Just curious."

Rory sighs, but keeps her façade to the last instant. "Oh, yesterday. About twelve hours ago to be exact. From Bailey. The roommate," she adds to clarify.

"Ah. The best way, right?"

"Yep. It didn't really help that I found them making out. Or rather, it was most likely foreplay of some sort, because I'm pretty sure her shirt was unbuttoned. Or was it unzippered?" She mocks confusion. "The whole thing was kind of a blur, what with the fumbled explanations and all. But yeah, Bailey did most of the talking. Steve was too busy trying to regain his composure." She finishes bitterly, with a wry tint to her voice that I seldom hear. Wow. Ouch. That is not a fun way to find out that the reason you got dumped is now worse and more painful that you thought. I'm suddenly thankful I've never spoken to Brice, nor do I plan to. It is now that I know I have to be careful. The vulnerability's a bitch. If I've learned one thing tonight, that's it right there.

"Wow. I mean, that's just---"

"Oh, I know, I know. Believe me, everyone's given every kind of sympathy talk over the past two days. I just…I don't know…I…" She stops there, turning away from me, and I'm not sure what to do, as the entire tone to the conversation has dramatically transformed into some weird scene from a romantic comedy. Jesus. That's the last thing any of this is. So I slowly reach over and turn the light back out as I hear her shift and lie back down, stiffly. Even though this should've signaled the end of the communicating for the night, I somehow have a feeling that something isn't quite done.

All of a sudden, her voice breaks, and she's speaking again.

"He didn't want me! Why didn't he want me? Am I really so different that I just—" But she can't go on, it seems, because she then practically bursts into sobs, and clutches the first thing she can find.

Uh, yeah.

So before I know it, I'm consoling a crying Rory, half-naked, in my bed, the saline stinging a scratch on my chest.

"Come on, you know you're not… different. You're just like everyone else. Like me, and--"

"Are you trying to agitate me further? I'm nothing like you, thank God!"

"You know what I mean, alright? It's not your fault your ex---Steve--- doesn't feel the same way anymore, even if it was because of another girl. I mean, he was a jerk for not telling you. It's his fault. Alright?"

"Yeah, whatever," Her sentence keeps getting interrupted by sniffs and swallows, "Just spare me the fake sympathy crap, alright, DuGrey?"

"Hey, you're the one who---alright, alright, fine." I decide arguing is, for once, not the best option here. I make another decision---to let her let everything out. So I don't say anything as she continues to wallow in her misery, crying until she has no tears left. As much as we loathe each other, I get the feeling this is some girl thing. She has to do this to try to move on from it, or some psychological diatribe like that. Then, I suddenly notice something. Her skin is bare, (obviously) but before I know it my hand is moving, and I get a strange sense of déjà vu as I automatically rub her back a little, hoping she won't notice. It's instinct, and I'll admit it, she has nice skin. Then I come across something.

"Hey, did you know you have this little mole right---" I touch it—"Here?"

Her sobbing grows louder then, and I take that as a no. Whoops. Probably not the right time to be mentioning skin flaws right now.

"I'll shut up now."

"Thank—" another sniff---"You."

I nod to nobody in particular as her crying continues into the night, moving only to shift my position to something more comfortable. She, of course, pays no mind, but does eventually notice my bored air drawing on her shoulder blades.

"When I said fake sympathy, I meant all forms of it, Slick."

I roll my eyes.

Talk about your long night. Jesus.

*

In the morning, Rory has moved away from me, thank God, in her sleep, but as I wake up I notice the wet spot on her pillow. I sigh, letting all the stress of last night fade away heavily. It is only then, rubbing my eyes, that I notice that not only has she moved away from me, Rory's nowhere in my bedroom. I reluctantly get up to search for her, slightly creeped out, with a tinge of apprehension. Where the hell could she be, and more importantly, what is she doing? Nothing dangerous, hopefully. The whole saga from the previous night plays out in my mind, as told to me by her. I roll my eyes again. The poor girl could be doing God knows what, in my house nonetheless.

"Ror?" I pad through my rather large room, check the bathroom (alright, that was stupid of me) and finally stop at my doorway. I look down the upstairs hallway, through the elegantly decorated walls and pillowy carpeted floors. Nothing. Then suddenly, I hear noises coming from my closet. Wait. The closet? What the… I stride quickly over to the door, and find none other than Rory herself going through my clothes, making what looks like two piles.

"What the fuck---" I start, but to no avail.

"Hello there," she greets me calmly, almost sunnily.

"Wha—what are you doing, may I ask?"

"Well, I woke up around five, got bored, decided I had some energy to burn, then in turn came to the conclusion that your closet is not nearly organized enough. I mean, it's a freaking' mess in here! So I figured that you wouldn't care, what with the way you treat everything else, about your clothes being on a different spot on these haphazardly put up shelves over here. Did you know I actually found a pair of boxers with a hole in them?" She adds. All I can do for a moment is stand there, but I quickly recover and open my mouth.

"Gee, thanks, Mrs. Cleaver. You're organizing my closet? Why?"

Now she's irritated, snapping,

"I already told you, moron! It was a fucking hole and it smelled like god-knows-what! I sprayed some air freshener, too." Her tone drops from extremely irked, basically normalcy, to a chipper, overly cheery one in two seconds flat, and it's scaring me.

"Alright, alright, alright---God. So, uh…where are all my clothes now? I guess my basic idea of organization was a little off, huh?" I laugh a little nervously.

She nods brightly. "Your shirts are over here, and I put all the dirty ones in this basket over here. Throwing everything all over the place does not constitute a closet, Tristan." She giggles manically, and I raise an eyebrow as she guides me through the rest of the closet, never faltering as all of my articles of clothing are accounted for.

*

Almost two hours later, I've finally knocked some sense into her with some coffee, as we sit in silence at the kitchen table. I am extremely relieved, as it took her long enough to drop the closet act and to come downstairs. She sighs just then.

"Look, I'm sorry about…all that up there."

I shrug. "S' alright. Scared me a little, but…"

She chuckles. "I know. I was taking my anger out on your closet. I always do this whenever I'm upset. I feel like I can't control anything, so I do bizarre chores or organize something."

I nod. "We all have our moments, right?"

Rory quirks an eyebrow. "Which reminds me…I've never seen you do anything like this. Do you ever really just…unravel? I mean, it happens to the best of us."

I nod again. "Of course. I just…don't show it as much when I do, I guess. I walk around in a macho aura, remember? I'm too tough."

She rolls her eyes, shaking her head a little. "Yes, that's right, I forgot. By the way," she continues, "I also wanted to tell you, I'm sorry about…that whole thing last night. I shouldn't have…shouldn't have dumped all that on you."

"It's okay. Again, did it freak me out? A little, but I've seen girls cry. You were just being normal."

"Or extremely fucked up."

I smile a little. "Same thing, right?"

Rory seems surprised, but laughs and grins. "Right. I guess so."

We share a small, wan smile, and then the seriousness is past.

"So, it's…" I check the clock, "Almost eleven, here, and I have a suggestion that I think will benefit us both and---"

"You think I'm doing it with the lights on with you? No way in hell. Talk to me when the sun goes down, alright, Stifler? It's too icky otherwise." She makes a face. "Oh, and you're over eagerness astounds, as usual. It's really starting to get grating, here, so turn it down a notch, please."

"But that's the whole point, figured the more obnoxious I am, the more irritated you'll become, thus, you will give in out of sheer frustration." I am totally serious. It's a theory I've developed over time.

She just looks at me, kind of sadly.

"You'll really take it any way you can get, won't you?"

I look right at her. "I'm shameless. But you should know that by now."

"I did, I just…forget sometimes or something, I guess. It's really quite pitiful."

"Ah, but you forget, you're not much better yourself, there, June."

She frowns and glares at me. "Spare me the suaveness or whatever you call that, will you?" She starts back up the stairs, at a jogging pace. I quickly follow her to see if I can strike some sort of a bargain or something along those lines.

Oh my God, I'm pathetic.

And the worst part is, I couldn't care less.

*

About an hour later, we emerge from my bedroom, but only because women take the longest showers I've ever come to know. Not that I was with her, of course, but the wait alone was a pain in the ass. She looks refreshed, though, and I'm just glad she's not crying anymore. My nerves can only take so much. Her ex just doesn't sound worth it. Then again, I've never met the guy, but it seems like the hits just keep on coming with him.

I'm ahead of her on the stairs this time, and we make aimless chitchat as she starts to exit my house.

"…Cheesiest song ever written. Period."

"Oh come on, that song is a classic! It's what you sing along to when no one's in the car!"

"Please. All that chick does is yell, and sob and moan about some messed up relationship or lover that---hey…" An evil Cheshire grin crosses my face as I wonder whether I should let loose an insult of this caliber.

Her face changes, and I realize in an instant that she's got it.

"Yeah, you're hilarious. Don't even."

I chuckle a little. "Oh, Rory, when will you ever come to learn---"

"That you would've meant every word you would've just said? Sorry, already learned it. Try again, please."

Her tone is razor-sharp, like one of those kitchen knives you see in those wooden hutches. Small, but capable of piercing so painfully, you wouldn't wish it on anyone. People don't realize that the big ones are actually pretty dull—looking. But the average steak knife? You couldn't even run your finger across it. Something is hidden beneath the anger---her injured pride, I'd say.

So I only give her a knowing look, and let her lead the rest of the way down the stairs, a bit eager for her departure. I want to nap before the party my friend Fuller (or Clarence, but call him that and he'll pound your face in) is throwing. It's been a while since I've seen these particular friends, and I really feel like letting it all hang out tonight. Maybe get wasted. Who knows, right? Maybe I'll meet someone.

Meet someone.

The words ring out, and the feel of them reverberates though my mind, echoing and pushing off the walls. They sound so incredibly weird that I can't shake them off. Do I really want to meet someone new? The answer is painfully obvious every time Charisse enters my mind, every time Rory and me are in the middle of…well, you know. It shows.

Not in the least.

Not because of this thing with Rory, of course, but because the last thing I want is another relationship. Rory's like the one-night stands I could be having, potentially, if we hadn't met up at that party. Sometimes parts of me pretend that she is someone else, that I don't even know her last name. But then I feel kind of guilty, so I focus on the task at hand again. I just…do it, at the risk of sounding like a Nike commercial. Or Julia Roberts. But still, I know that I'm so transparent, vulnerable, to said one-night stand, that I'm nowhere near ready to start dating again. It just…doesn't feel right. Not unless I met someone that really caught my eye, or who I got to know and really liked. But even then, I'd probably just want to be friends. I sigh.

Suddenly, I realize Rory's been talking this whole time, and I snap out of my reverie.

"…You really need to know that, otherwise, I fear you'll have no taste in music for the rest of your life, metal head." She finishes matter-of-factly, then turns to me. I go blank.

"Wait, what? Why do you care, even?"

She looks amused and pissed off at the same time, not an easy feat.

"I don't care, but if I have to be subjected to your tragic, not to mention insulting, music collection ever again, or be in the car with you, you really need to have better taste. Plus, what else have I got to do? I'm a woman in mourning, remember?" Rory smiles wanly.

I have a funny feeling in my gut just then, and I know exactly what it is this time. The guilt again. Ugh, jeez. I absently scratch the batch of my neck for a moment before I answer,

"Alright, fine. But I doubt you'll reform me even half as much as you do in the---agh!" There she goes again with hitting. I try to fend her off the best I can as we approach my front door.

Rory turns to say goodbye. "Well, off I go. Should I expect you to be on my doormat with you tongue hanging out next week, or over the weekend?"

I roll my eyes. "I will come to your house around Wednesday or Thursday. And I don't appreciate the comment."

"Which is why I said it."

"Ooh, you're feisty this morning."

"Ooh, you're a bad preppy cliché this morning."

I wave her off. "Why don't you understand, it's who I am?!" I mock a soap operatic tone.

"Oh, darling, I'm ever so sorry but I can't! I just can't! We're through!" She matches my accent and starts out of the house. We both can't help laughing a little as she returns to her normal state.

"Goodbye, Tristan," she says, almost sadly.

"Goodbye, Rory," I reply, mocking her. She fakes a glare as she disappears from my sight, and I sigh again as I make my way back into the house. Now that that's over with. I go back up to bed, not really tired but needing to lie down. Well. That's a strange feeling. But after all, I have been dealing with the bane of my existence all night. And this morning.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

*

Later on, I go through the motions of getting dressed, etc. for going out. Pants. Shirt. Cologne, which fills the air and almost gets in my eyes, tinting the room with the fresh scent of something by some guy who's name I can't really pronounce, but I've gotten good results with this stuff before: Cool Water. Not that I really want results per say, but…it's part of my routine. Then I grab my keys, shut the door, and am prepared to leave in less than twenty minutes. That should be a lesson to all the women, and, I am ashamed to say men, that spend a week and a day getting ready. You gotta keep it simple.

I should write a book.

I get into my car and proceed on my way to Fuller's, which is about a half hour across town. Supposedly he's going all out tonight. The place will be packed. But the thing is, I live for social events like this, because if I wanted to, I could own the place. People, for some reason, like me, and I feed off of that, that energy, the music. Everything. If I fancied, I could end up having one of the best times of my life tonight. After all, life is what you make it, right?

I just wish I had it in me to try. God, there it is! Again! Why does everything automatically relate back to my fractured love life? Why is Charisse everywhere I go? Why can't I let go, even though everything in me is telling me I have to? There's just this one part of me that won't. It's easier to just mourn, it says. Moving on is too much work. Don't strain yourself. Let yourself grieve. Memories are so much nicer than the actual truth.

And fuck, I end up listening to it. I need to overpower this, I need to start getting my emotional "baggage" or whatever you'd call it together and leave this eternal terminal, this "airport" from hell. It's time to leave. So why can't I? What's it going to take? I sigh tensely, loudly, and bang the dashboard as I hit a stoplight, frustrated and pissed off so immensely that my jaw clenches, and starts to cramp up. I hate this. I hate all of it. So I steel myself and develop a new will to get out of it, and pull myself out of my frame of mind. I am stronger than this. I am better than this. Tristan DuGrey doesn't let things like this get to him. He just keeps going, he forgets. Yes, I am over this.

But I know in the back of mind that hours later, all of this will crumble. I will be drawn in by the temptation of the easy grieving solution, and the cycle will continue.

I swallow.

Not if I get smashed.

*

When I arrive at Fuller's house, the party is already blasting from the house, the loud atmosphere sucking in anyone who gets within one hundred feet of it. The lazy air of summer surrounds me, making me slightly tired, or in need of a drink, possibly both. I opt for the latter as I make my way into the house, looking for the man himself.

Then,

"DuGrey! How the hell are ya, bitch?"

I laugh. "What's up, Fuller? I've been better."

He instantly realizes the reason for my response. I flinch internally.

"Ohhh….yeah, man, that sucks about Charisse," his eyes are wide, dilated, and I see immediately that he's wasted no time. His tone is overly serious as he continues,

"But, hey, I mean, ladies are…ladies. They're like a bad beer. Once you get them out of your system…you'll be fine." He waves his hand elaborately. "Just fine," he slurs.

I smile wanly. "Yeah, but that involves hurling, you know man? It just…" I trial off as I realize that Fuller hasn't been following me since I started talking, and is already leering somewhat at a girl who has just walked in. Long hair, chunky highlights. I sigh, and wonder why I bothered. I move on to find some more people that I know from my floor, where one of them immediately offers me something really, really stiff.

I down it anyway.

A few hours later, my mind is significantly numbed, and I'm having trouble focusing, but I don't really care because at that moment my RA, Dan, is telling one of the funniest stories I've ever heard in my life.

"And then he goes, 'So why don't you just do it? I hear it's been outlawed in all thirty-eight states!'"

Oh my God. He's a genius! I crack up, along with the rest of my companions, who are about as drunk as I am right now. Yes, I can admit that I'm drunk. I don't really go into denial for about three or four more drinks. Everything swirls around me as Bill offers me another shot of something or other. I want to say Yagermeister. I throw it back despite the change in the atmosphere.

"Excellent story, man. Just exxxcellent," I feign a shaky Mr. Burns as the rest of the guys continue gasping and sputtering in their drunken stupor, much like myself. Jerry, another friend of mine, finally regains his normal breathing patterns.

"That wasn't bad, DuGrey. Not bad at all." He gives me a high-five unsteadily. I return it with equal drunken finesse. Some of the guys are still in the throes of laughter, the sound surrounding us like the ocean or something.

"Aww, man," says Ken as he wipes his eyes, "You know what really really sucks? Like I mean really really?"

"Getting stuck in your zipper when someone opens the door on you?" asks Kevin, the Donkey Lips of our little bunch, if you will. He's not too bright, but he has a lot of street smarts, if you know what I mean. It's getting harder and harder to focus as our corner of the room erupts in laughter yet again, and Jerry replies,

"Why, man, are you telling me that that happened to you? When? Come on, we want details!" Everyone adds their murmur of agreement.

He cowers though, and won't say anything specific except,

"Let's just say it wasn't a pleasant experience," he says uncomfortably, and forcefully reaches for another beer. We all snicker quietly.

"But no, no, no, guys, I mean women. They whine—"

"They demand," adds Ken, rolling his eyes, "The other day, Theresa sees this ring in the jewelry store window, right? And so I say, 'Well, you never know, maybe one day you'll end up getting it,' just as a little hint for her birthday—"

"Wasn't her birthday like last month, man?" I ask, unsuccessfully holding back a snort.

"It's the principle of the thing! I meant for next year, jackass! Anyway, so that night, she gets all pissed at me when I don't have the freakin' ring for her at dinner! I booked a nice place," he explains, "Thought that maybe she could use a change, and—"

"Well, did you give her anything, Boorsma?" asks John casually.

"A flower!" he says defensively, "Well, you know, some roses," he clarifies, shaking his head. "I mean, how ungrateful can you be? Does she think I'm fucking made of money?"

"I don't know, your parents are pretty loaded," says Jerry matter-of-factly. Ken, in turn, hits him hard on the arm.

"Oh, ho ho," Jerry jeers obnoxiously, "Now I'm scared. You wanna settle this out back, buddy?"

"Just tell me where," seethes Kenny, unaware that Jerry has just stated the location. I start laughing at the irony of it all, well whatever irony I can process at this point, and about a minute later everyone joins me and calls Ken's bluff.

"Alright, alright, sit down, Boorsma, you guys are totally wasted, let's not do anything—" I belch loudly— "We shall regret," I say with decorum. When the laughter dies down, (you laugh a terrible amount when you're drunk, it seems tonight) Jerry is about to start up his own girl troubles story. He is currently unattached.

"So I was with this chick the other night, and we had—" he motions for us to lean in closer--- "The most mind-blowing, I guess you could say, sex, and then in the morning, she up and leaves before I even wake up!"

There is a long silence as everyone processes what he just said.

"Uh, McCarthy, isn't that what you usually end up doing after you're with a girl?" asks John. It's what we're all thinking, I can tell.

Jerry is a little taken aback by this, and he takes another swig of his drink before answering.

"Well, yeah, yeah, but…but…but that's my point! I'm the one that's supposed to be leaving, not her! It's all that women empowerment shit," he continues, going off on a tangent, "It makes them think they can just push us around and…and—"

He then sees our expressions.

"Alright, alright! God! It's just…why'd she leave? That was damn good sex, I'm telling you!" He sighs, defeated.

"You know what you need, man? An actual relationship," says Kenny confidently, "I mean, then you get steady good sex, if you're lucky." He then snickers a little at his own comment. I snort. He's almost as hammered as I am.

"Yeah, I mean it did wonders for DuGrey over here," John puts a friendly arm across my shoulders, sort of halfway.

I smile bitterly. "Yeah, wonders. All she did was leave me for some bastard. I'm a whole new man." I am dead serious, but of course, everyone finds this hysterical. It is now my turn to forcefully take another sip of my drink.

Dan chimes in then, "Yeah, but there's so much goddamn hassle, you know? I mean, I think the perfect relationship is the no-strings kind, you know? Then you got none of that commitment shit and everything." He slurs the last part, and I suddenly have an epiphany. I have that relationship! I quickly cut in.

"Hey, guess who's in something like that right now, huh?" I grin.

They all gasp and look at me, disbelieving.

"No fucking way!"

"When?"

"With who?"

"Alright, alright," I hold up my hands as if I'm the host of a freak-show, holding back the line to get in or something like that, "All your questions will be answered," I slur.

"So…come on man, fill us in!" John presses.

"Yeah, this is the first tail you've gotten since Ch—"

Everyone shushes him, in an act of loyalty, but it's a little too obvious since I can hear them and everything. Jerry, the "betrayer" of the group, quickly stops what he's saying.

"Right, right. So, come on, some details, if you would?"

I laugh. "Well, you know, started about a couple months ago, we met up at this party, and after that she couldn't keep her hands off me. Had to have the whole package, if you get what I'm saying."

"You mean you didn't do her at the party?" Jerry asks, pausing.

I give him a look the best I can.

"No," I say, humoring him, but making sure I get my air of importance in. "I mean, it was one of those parties, you know?"

They all nod. "Ahh. Okay."

"So anyway, after this party, where we made out only," I continue, looking at Jerry, "She comes to my house and says all this stuff, like how she can't stop thinking about what happened and everything, and to be honest, neither could I—"

"You in love with this chick?" Kenny almost accuses.

"Psht. Are you kidding me, man? She's a total head case! I mean, you wouldn't even believe some of the stuff that she says, it's crazy!" I could talk about this all night!

"Wow. Okay, man, I believe you," Kenny chuckles, shaking his head. "So what happened after that?"

I lower my eyebrows. "What do you think?"

"Ha-hah!" Everyone offers their renditions of this as I shakily move to throw my beer out. When I get back form the short trek, everyone is eager for me to continue.

I sit back down. "So anyway, ever since then, we go to somebody's house and---" I make a punching motion with my hand and fist for effect—"You know what I'm saying, right?" I nudge the closest guy next to me teasingly, and hold out the word 'right' a little longer than I should. They all smile knowingly.

"Wow, DuGrey, this is relatively big news since you've been in a dry spell for---how long now?" Kenny asks.

"Practically forever!" Chimes in Jerry, always the over-sexed one.

I cock my head a little and shrug. "It's nothing. No big deal."

"So is the sex any good?" Jerry wants to know now.

"Wait, wait, wait just a second here," says Dan, "The most important question has to be answered first—" he pauses—"Who is it?"

I hold back a little, for some reason I can't remember floating at the back of my mind. I shrug it off easily and fire out the name,

"You guys remember Rory Gilmore?"

There is a mutual gasp among my friends.

"What—"

"You mean---"

"That uptight chick from high school?!" Kevin practically squeals, almost spitting out his drink. A few of the guys and me go all the way back to my Chilton days.

"Wait, wait, who is this now?" Dan ponders, not knowing who I'm talking about.

"She's Richard and Emily Gilmore's granddaughter," I explain, "We went to high school with her, and she wasn't exactly the school skank."

"More like the exact opposite!" Jerry jumps in eagerly, "She was like, a total prude, wouldn't give any of us the time of day, always had her nose in a book somewhere when she wasn't in class. I think she dated guys who didn't go there, actually."

I wave it off. "Maybe, I'm not sure."

The guys who know who Rory is look at me in awe. I have conquered the impossible. Wow! I can't believe I didn't think about this before!

"So, Rory Gilmore, huh?" John asks in amazement. He then looks at me so knowingly that I know exactly what he's going to say next.

"How the hell is she in bed?"

I look at them nonchalantly. "Ah…standard, you know. But sometimes, I don't know, man, she can be a little vixen, you know what I'm saying? Yeah?"

They all start whooping and hollering. "No way!" "You have got to be kidding me, DuGrey!"

"Well, just a little," I say, the pitch of my voice rising. "You know how it is."

Everyone chuckles as more questions are raised regarding style and technique, and the conversation continues into the night, until another far more interesting topic is brought up: how big is too big? I don't have time to think about anything else after that, obviously.

*

The next morning when I wake up, at approximately one-ten p.m., my head is pounding, my stomach is churning, and I have no idea how I got home. Ugh. Oh God. I roll over in my bed, trying to retrieve the lost blankets that have fallen on the floor and put them in the proper place around my body. Huhhhhh. I make a noise of contentment. There we go. I'm not getting up for at least another two hours; I don't have to work today anyway. But first, I need some serious aspirin.

Oh, man! But that requires getting up! Shit.

I weigh the options sleepily, and decide that if I'm going to be the most comfortable I can be, I need to get rid of this fucking headache I've developed. Now. So I get up and pad down the stairs to the kitchen, and half-heartedly search for the IB Profen amongst the barrage of other medications my family has saved and bought over the years, brought together in one huge cabinet.

I finally locate it, pop two, swallow them with a hastily poured glass of water, and run up the stairs like I used to do when I was about twelve or so, or younger. Right now, even being as old as I am, I feel like shit, and my only goal is getting back into bed as quickly as possible to sleep this off. I'm like a little boy again. It sucks, hard. Anyway, once I get back into bed I hit the light, pull the sheets over me, which contain possibly ever blanket I've ever owned, and proceed to sleep.

*

The next time I really get up, it's almost five o'clock, as I read on the digital, and although my headache is pretty much gone, I still have this awful, groggy feeling in my whole body. Jesus. That's it, I am most definitely staying in tonight. I don't feel like doing anything except laying somewhere and just being.

Still, though, I leave my bed only to put some decent clothes on and to brush my teeth, and decide to see what's on T.V. I hop back into bed and flip it on, starting to stroll along channel-surfing beach.

News.

News.

Family Ties rerun.

Lifetime eating disorder movie.

Bad Nickelodeon cartoon.

The thousandth showing of Office Space. God! Where's the needle in the haystack here?

A couple channels later, I finally stumble on a Simpsons rerun. Finally! Now, this is good T.V. right here. I laugh as Homer inevitably does something stupid (in this episode he's trying to build a barbeque pit), and then it gets turned into something totally off-the-wall. This is something that never gets old with me. It just—

Just then I hear a door being unlocked.

My dad. Shit.

I had forgotten that he comes home early on Sundays. Oh Jesus. This should be a fun family gathering! I hear the door open then, and his footsteps as he puts down his briefcase and goes into his room. I listen intently, praying he doesn't go into my room to see if I'm awake.

It seems God took a little holiday vacation.

The door to my room opens, and Will walks in and attempts to speak to me.

"Hello there, son. Just getting up, I presume?"

I snort rudely. "Hey, I'll have you know that I've been up for hours, patiently waiting for my dearest daddy's return."

He sighs. "Tristan, being awake for half an hour and laying around for the duration of it does not constitute being up 'for hours'."

"Well, dad, I guess I just decided to exaggerate a little. I suppose I got it from mom." I give him a knowing look. He thinks he's going to get me to play nice? Hah! The man knows exactly what I think of him. Nothing, not even his swift reform, is going to change that, because I and my mother would know that it would be complete bullshit. It's a vicious cycle of lies, drama, and hysterics that I'd rather not be a part of, but I am forced to be because I was unlucky enough to be born into this family.

Then again, I could be over-reacting. He may just want to make small talk, in which case, I'd oblige him. The DuGreys are excellent at pointless, all-encompassing chit chat. It makes us feel richer or something, talking to everyone and pitying the "little people" who are unfortunate enough to be middle-class citizens.

We're quite the bunch, aren't we?

But it is that moment that my father speaks again.

"So, went to a big party last night did you? It's written all over that hung-over ridden

face of yours."

I smirk nastily. "Thanks for that, Will, I almost forgot about the blatant shame and guilt I should be feeling over disappointing you. Oh, please, forgive me, father! I promise I'll be good!"

He looks a mixture of sad and extremely annoyed. "For your information, son, I was just making conversation, not trying to reprimand you for something I probably should be anyway! You never even let me get a word in edge wise anyhow! Why do I even bother with you?"

"Oh, you don't know how long I've been waiting to hear you say those words!" I exclaim melodramatically, then burst into a rendition of a song I heard on Will and Grace. "Papa, can you hear me? Papa, can you see me? Papa, can you---" But at that point, he's already slammed the door, and I smile to myself, proud of the expert tactics I used to get him to leave.

I lay back in my bed and stretch, making a loud noise from deep in my throat as I do so. Ugh. What a day. Well, the time I've been up, anyway. I decide to veg and watch some more T.V., a good decision, I feel, as it is one that doesn't require any movement whatsoever. Ahh. This is the life. As the Simpsons continue, I relax and let myself fall back into a deep sleep. I still need some recouping time, it seems.

*

The next morning, I wake up to a slightly darker room. I rub my eyes and look out my window, pulling up the shade. It's the crack of dawn outside. Fuck, I must have slept through the rest of the night. The sky is a virtual canvas, with streaks of blue gold sweeping across it. It's actually kind of pretty, but I'm still annoyed as I throw off my sheets and rise, rubbing my eyes. Oh man, is my internal clock going to be messed up later on.

As I make my way down the stairs, I notice that my father has left for work already, (thank God) so it can't be that early. I go into the kitchen to pour myself some cereal. Milk. Cocoa Puffs. Spoon. I sit down in front of the living room T.V. and begin to eat. Life is good.

But as I watch some morning movie, I am suddenly rudely interrupted by an insistent knocking on the door.

I reluctantly get up, making sure I am decent, and go to the door to reveal---

Rory. Looking extremely pissed off at me. What the fuck? Uh-oh.

"Can I talk to you, DuGrey?" She spits, her hair looking a little wild, eyes burning.

"Well sure, but I--"

But she won't have any of it as she stalks into the room and pulls me, practically by my collar, over to the couch and sits me down on it.

"Did you really think you could fucking get away with this? That I wouldn't find out?

What the hell did you think you were doing, you idiotic piece of crap! You can't just go around---"

"Hey, hey, hey! Can we stop the barrage of insults for a second here? What's going on? What are you talking about?" I say, stunned and a little afraid. But just a little, of course.

"What am I talking about? What am I talking about? What--I--" She stops then, amazed that I have no idea what she's going on about.

Her tone changes to a slightly calmer one.

"An hour ago, Paris called me--"

"Paris Gellar? How the hell is she? I haven't seen her since---" She cuts me off with an icy stare.

I motion for her to continue, almost rolling my eyes but deciding against it.

"She called me and wanted to know how the in hell I could go around sleeping with you, you insensitive jerk! She said her friend Kevin was at the party you were at last night, and you told all your little buddies everything! And they told their friends, at least, the ones who were sober did, and they told people and now--" She cuts herself short for some reason and looks at me. I am still reeling from the shock of what I just heard, and as hard as I try, I can't remember telling anyone anything about our agreement. I know one thing: we are screwed, unless I come up with some way to quell the spreading of this. The whole intricate college "society" is going to know by the week's out.

She looks at me then.

"How could you do this? How could you humiliate me, not to mention yourself, like this? Are you stupid? Do you know what people are going to say? What jokes are going to be flying around? How. Could you?" She is almost shaking with anger, but all I can do is plead the fifth, so to speak.

"I was drunk, Rory! Jesus Christ! I didn't even know what I was saying, I just must've blurted it out, alright! I'll figure out a way to fix this, and everyone will stop talking about us, and all of this will be for nothing, okay? God!"

"You think you can just make all this go away? How? Enlighten me, genius!"

"I'll just tell everyone I lied, that I made it up, because I had too much beer in me. That's all," I say, growing increasingly annoyed by her freaking out like this.

"You think it's that easy!? People always say tell the truth when you;'re drunk, Tristan, not the other way around. Your inhibitions go way down, and that's exactly what people will think! They won't believe you."

"Oh, come on, Rory, you think too much. If Kevin doesn't believe me I'll just tell him to tell everyone it isn't true, and swear that I lied. He'll believe me, at least, and then all of this will be done."

"Don't you see, though? This changes everything, Tristan! It goes deeper than what people think. We can't ever---you know--again if people know! It would destroy us, not that I care so much about my reputation but---you nearly destroyed this, and…you…this..I'm going to regret this but you hurt me too, okay? You…you talked about me like I was some common whore, according to Paris! You gave out details, said I was standard but sometimes a 'vixen' in bed!? I don't care if you were drunk, if that's how you really feel about all this then maybe--maybe we shouldn't do this anymore." She pauses and looks really upset. I have no idea what to do.

"You really want to stop doing this just because of some little mistake or something? Come on! You know that you wouldn't be able to! You find me too attractive," I say haughtily, opting for my normal approach.

"Ugh! God, can't you ever be serious for a second! I mean it! You know what, that's it, this is over. It's done." She gets up and walks out of the room. "Goodbye, Tristan. Have a nice life. Huh. There's something I didn't mean."

It is my first instinct to just let her go, thinking that this will all blow over once I talk to Kevin, and that she'll come back eventually, but I suddenly have a strong feeling of remorse, as everything she said sinks in a bit. I did humiliate her. If I had been sober, I know I wouldn't have done it, but I did, and now…now…oh God…

I owe her an apology.

I quickly catch up to her, stopping her before she gets past the front door.

"Rory! Come on, don't just leave."

"Why shouldn't I? It's not like you care anyway, you're you." She says this so matter-of-factly that I almost cringe. Am I really that big of a jerk?

"Cut the crap, will you? I'm---I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to humiliate you or…or--hurt you, and I wouldn't have done this if I hadn't been extremely wasted. Alright? Can we stop all of this now?"

I pause there, and look to see if I'm making any sort of an impact. She looks doubtful, still pissed even, but finally relents. She sighs. Her voice is still hard as she says,

"Fine," she says, "I'm sorry…no, I take that back, I'm really not sorry I went pretty much psycho on you, because I think you deserved it, but I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. The fact…the fact of the matter is, I don't really want to stop this…thing, but I mean…you can't treat me the way you do and expect me to just take it like that! It's not fair."

I lower my eyes. She's right again. Shit.

I clear my throat. "I know. I just…get carried away sometimes, I guess. I don't know." I feel strangely unsure of myself. Something I am not used to. Oh, God. I don't like this. I don't like it one bit.

She blows out some air tiredly. "Okay. Then I guess….I will see you on Wednesday?"

"Better make it Thursday. I have to work late Wednesday." I reply.

"Alright. So…Thursday."

"Yep…"

"Okay…"

"Alright then. So…I'm gonna go now."

"Fine." I reply, a bit weirded out.

"Bye."

"Bye." I space out for a second as she goes to her car, and end up watching her get into it, and she gives me one final glance. Her expression is unreadable, but it weirds me out even more as I go back into the house and resume my position on the couch, finding my cereal soggy and the movie I was watching to be over. Aww, man! Now I have to do everything all over again. I sigh in slight frustration.

When I get a new bowl of cereal and find something else to watch, I lean back on the couch and close my eyes. I'm trying not to think about what just happened, but it still finds its way into my thoughts. I sigh again.

Well. That was interesting.

I can't stop the waves from crashin'/I can't stop things that already happened/I can't stop, My hits from smashin'