Page 29 of Seeds of Friendship
“Plus, we already know each other's worst habits,” Alfie says. “Better the devil you know.”
“So... we're doing this?” I ask. “Another year?”
“Fuck it!” Ethan grins. “These are my boys. We are the four lover boys! The UMS lads!”
“Never say that again,” Alfie warns, but he's almost smiling.
“One condition,” Troy says. “The Einstein poster stays.”
“Obviously,” we all say in unison.
I look around at these idiots. Troy already planning our next party. Ethan trying to construct some unholy breakfast sandwich. Alfie pretending he's not part of this while actively participating.
Four guys who couldn't handle basic adult tasks, living in a house we got by accident, with a vandalized Einstein poster as our mascot.
“Hey,” I say, and they look up. “We're gonna be legends, aren't we?”
“We already are,” Troy says.
“The Anti-Frat,” Ethan adds reverently.
“The biggest idiots on campus,” Alfie corrects.
But we're all grinning now. Because somewhere between that first awkward day in the housing office and this trashed kitchen, we became something. Not just roommates. Not just friends.
Brothers, maybe. If brothers were this dysfunctional.
“Same time next year?” I ask.
“Same time every year,” Troy confirms.
“Until we graduate,” Ethan adds.
“Or get expelled,” Alfie finishes.
And just like that, our reputation is sealed. The house on Oak Street. The Anti-Frat. Four guys who turned housing rejection into social revolution.
I escape to my room,stepping over party debris. My bed still smells like Brianna's perfume and regret. Through my window, I can see the street—normal people living normal lives, probably with normal relationships where people stay for breakfast and mean it when they say “I'll text you.”
We won. We threw the party of the year. We're not losers anymore.
So why do I feel more alone than ever?
My phone buzzes. Dad calling.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the green button. If I answer, I'll hear that wheeze underneath his forced cheer. That wet cough he'll try to muffle. The lie in his voice when he says he's fine. If I don't answer, I'm the piece of shit son who's too busy partying to talk to his sick father.
The phone stops ringing. Then immediately starts again.
Fuck.
I let it go to voicemail again, then immediately feel like shit. Another cough-filled conversation I'm avoiding. Another reminder of everything I need to fix but can't.
A text pops up from Mom: Dad just wanted you to wish Megan luck at tryouts today. Call when you can.
Shit. Megan's tryouts. Top team at her school. I quickly text her:
Hey, superstar. Today's the day! You're gonna kill it. Those other girls don't stand a chance.
