Page 6 of Seeds of Love
“Sounds like he and I might get along,” I manage. “You know, if I can string two sentences together without malfunctioning.”
“Oh, you’d be fine. Troy’s like a golden retriever on caffeine—enthusiastic about literally everything. He once made friends with a lamppost because it ‘looked lonely.’“ She makes air quotes.
I choke on my green tea. “You’re kidding.”
“Hand to God,” Tara says solemnly, then breaks into giggles. “Okay, so he was a little drunk at the time, but still. The point is, he’s good with people.”
Hearing about Troy and Tara makes my heart ache. They have the kind of sibling bond I’ve always wanted—the kind Emma and I tried to create. I push the thought down before it can show on my face.
Over incredible sushi, Tara tells me more about why she chose UMS. She could’ve gone anywhere—Oxford, yes, theOxford—even courted her, which she mentions with an eye roll. But watching her brother thrive here during his first year made her realize something: sometimes happiness matters more than prestige. So, she turned down her offer and her parents’ Ivy League dreams and secretly accepted UMS instead.
By the time we’re fighting over the last cucumber maki, I’m laughing more than I have in years.
“I was terrified about today,” I admit. “Figured I’d end up eating alone while reading.”
Tara’s face softens. “Well, tough luck. You can read at home.”
I grin.
“So,” Tara leans in conspiratorially, “my brother’s hosting a party tonight—nothing huge, I promise, just at their place a little off-campus. Want to come?”
My stomach flips. A party. I don’t want Tara thinking I’m a loser, but the thought of it terrifies me. Then I remember my “new me” mantra—I came to college to do exactly this kind of thing. To live a little.
“Sure,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray my nerves. “Sounds fun.”
FREDDIE
THEN – SOPHOMORE YEAR – SEPTEMBER
I’m suddenly cornered by a body, and unfortunately, it’s not one of the gorgeous women I’ve been charming all night. Instead, I’m face-to-face with what appears to be a freshman’s first encounter with tequila.
“Dude,” he slurs, his breath a noxious cocktail of liquor and regret. “Someone yakked in your plant pot.”
Great. Nothing says a successful party like botanical vomit. It’s one of the sacrifices of being roommates with three guys who absolutelyloveto party, though—well, two, really. Alfie doesn’t count as someone who likes to party. He’s more the type who begrudgingly accepts sharing his space with other humans, as long as he can get stoned and listen to music.
I gently push the kid back, but he sways like a Jenga tower in an earthquake. My hands fly to his shoulders, steadying him. “You good, bro?”
He reaches for his drink—a sad, plastic cup of what I’m sure is more bad decisions waiting to happen. I snatch it away. He stares at the empty air with a look of betrayal.
“Yo, Freds!” Ethan’s voice booms from the kitchen, cutting through the chatter and music. “Your turn, man!”
Ah, Ethan. One of my best friendsandthe bane of my existence, all rolled into one hyperactive package. He’s the kind of guy you want at a party—if your idea of a good time involves potential property damage and at least one noise complaint. But beneath the chaos and terrible life choices, Ethan’s got a heart of gold.
Last year, we found a baby bird in the garden, and I swear to God, Ethan turned into a helicopter parent overnight. YouTube videos on bird care, 3:00 AM feedings—the works. He named her Birdie (he insisted it was a “her”—he’d checked, apparently) and bawled like a baby when she finally flew away. It was simultaneously the strangest and most endearing thing I’d ever witnessed.
I glance at my new drunk friend. He’s short—then again, everyone’s short to me—probably 5’9”, tops. I tower over him like a giraffe at a petting zoo.
“Take it for me, Ethan!” I yell back.
“What?” comes the predictable response. Sometimes I wonder if Ethan’s actually deaf or just selectively hearing-impaired when it comes to me.
I grab a water bottle from our stash by the door. It’s an old trick an upperclassman taught me in my first year—always keep water bottles by the front door. It leads to fewer drunken mishaps and slightly less miserable mornings for everyone. “Time to call it a night,”
He nods, his head bobbing like a dashboard ornament. I order him an Uber, ignoring his slurred insistence that he can “totally walk, bro.” Yeah, right into a ditch, maybe.
As I wait with him, he dozes off on my shoulder. Great. I’m now a human pillow for wasted freshmen. Exactly how I wanted my first party back at UMS to be.
I help him into the car and pay the driver, plus a tip, because I’m not 100% sure he won’t vomit in the poor guy’s car.
