Ericka Henriquez
A sequel to “Flirting with the Enemy” and “Flirting with the Enemy – one year later”
“Where are we going?” you ask as you stumble, blindfolded, up a set of stairs. A pair of warm, strong hands guides you by the shoulders: your knight in crimson shining armor, and your boyfriend of a year.
“It’s a surprise,” his deep voice replies. His breath is hot on the back of your neck.
“I feel like you’re leading me in circles,” you complain, just as a blast of cool air hits your skin. You almost trip as the staircase ends and you inch your way across the now-flat floor. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the Boston symphony of car horns and sirens. “Are we outside?”
He keeps leading you forward. “Maybe.”
You let him lead you a few more steps. “Can I take off my blindfold yet?”
“Not yet.” He stops and spins you around a few times, and your brain feels like it’s levitating out of your body, disorientated in the darkness. He steadies you and leads you a few more steps before saying, “Okay. Now you can look.”
You reach up and tug the blindfold off of your face. The soft glow of candlelight greets you, the only source of light in the otherwise dim scene. You’re on a roof, which explains the stairs and the cold. The dancing flames cast shadows over the red and white checked picnic blanket that’s been spread in the corner of the roof. Scattered rose petals create a walkway to the blanket, where a bottle of wine sticks out of a wicker basket, two glasses next to it. A small cake just big enough for two sits in the center, with “Happy Anniversary” elegantly spread in red icing.
Tears well in your eyes at the sight. “Oh my gosh, babe. You did all this?”
“Of course,” he replies, wrapping his muscled arms around you from behind. “I’d do anything for you.”
You spin around to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you so much,” you say, standing on your tiptoes until your lips collide.
He kisses you back, then pulls away. “Wake up,” he whispers.
You cock your head. “What?
“Wake up,” he repeats, before vanishing.
Then, a new voice: “Uhh… hey, wake up. We’re here!”
You crack open your eyes. The instant you do, you wish you could close them and return to the romantic world of your dreams. Your roommate’s blond hair dangles in your face as she leans over your body, curled in a ball on the plush chartered bus seat. You pick your head off of the glass windowpane you’d somehow used as a pillow, and your neck screams in pain. “My gosh,” you groan. “How long was I out for?”
“Just about the whole ride,” she admits, reaching out a hand. You take it and hoist yourself out of the seat, each bone cracking as if you’re a dragon who’s been slumbering for hundreds of years.
You lean backwards, stretching as much as you can, before grabbing your bookbag and joining the line to file off of the bus. “Wow. I didn’t realize I was that tired.”
“You’re gonna need to rest for tonight, I’m sure.” Your roommate wiggles her eyebrows, and you can’t help but blush. “Isn’t this the first time you’re gonna see Mr. Hunkyface in like, six months?”
“Four,” you correct her. “But yeah. It’s been a while.”
The last year has passed by in a blur. For the rest of your sophomore year, you’d fallen into a routine, FaceTiming every night and taking turns visiting each other every month. Summer was harder. New Haven and Cambridge were already far, but once you were studying abroad in England? Communication was never harder.
Until he flew to the UK to surprise you at the end of the summer and take you on a whirlwind weekend getaway to Biarritz. If you close your eyes, you can almost gaslight yourself into believing you’re back there: under the sun, smiling and tan, sand and his hands in your hair as you both lay on the beach and —
The line shuffles forward, and you’re jolted out of the memory. Your roommate is looking at you expectantly. You shoot her a quizzical look. “I said, do you guys have any fun anniversary plans?”
An image of rooftop picnic from your dream pops into your mind, but you quickly bat it away. “I don’t know. I’m trying not to get my hopes up. Things have been a little… tricky this past month.”
“Tricky how?”
“I don’t know,” you sigh, before thanking the driver and stepping off the bus. “He’s just been a little distant.”
“Huh. Maybe he’s just trying to psych you out because he’s got something really romantic and awesome planned.”
The candlelight. The cake. “Maybe.” You pull out your phone and open your texts with him, frowning. “He’s supposed to be here somewhere… I told him where we were getting dropped off.”
Just when you’ve given up, your phone dings with a text from him. “ik it’s last minute but i can’t meet u at the bus stop, football stuff came up. C u tn?”
You roll your eyes before showing your roommate the text. “He’s not off to a good start.”
***
At eleven thirty that night you’re standing outside Quincy House, waiting for him to let you in. Goosebumps cover your outstretched hands, which shake as they hold the box of chocolates and handwritten card that you’re surprising him with. The real gift is tucked inside the card: two tickets to the next Superbowl. Your dad’s coworker had somehow gotten two and was selling them, and you jumped on the opportunity immediately. It was a splurge, but it was the perfect gift — upgrading from The Game to The Game, just like you were upgrading your relationship.
You hear footsteps approach the door from the other side, and the beat of your heart syncs with their rhythm. The doorknob turns, and that’s all it takes to vaporize every coherent thought and turn your brain to mush. This moment is all you’ve thought about for the last four months, and now it’s here.
He’s here.
You pounce on him the second the door is open. “Happy anniversary!” you squeal, not caring if you smush the box of chocolates in the process.
“Happy anniversary,” he echoes, wrapping his arms around you. You sigh, drunk on the familiar warmth, before he pulls away.
For the first time in four months, you look at him. His hair has grown a little longer and fresh stubble shadows his jaw, but other than that, he’s the exact same guy you fell in love with a year ago. Except hotter, because every time you see him, he only seems to get more attractive. “I missed you,” you say, reaching up to kiss him. He pulls away quicker than you expect.
“I’ve missed you too.” There’s a smile on his face, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You try not to dwell on it as he leads you inside, up two flights of stairs to his common room.
“I got you something,” you tell him as you walk inside. You hold out the box of chocolates and the card.
“Oh I got you something too,” he says, as if just now remembering. “You can drop those in my room, let me go get your thing.”
He leaves and you oblige, your entire body buzzing with excitement. Images from your dream drift back to you, and suddenly you can’t help it — you pull out your phone to record the walkway of rose petals that must lead to his bed and the cake and the wine, sighing happily as you open the door and are greeted by…
His roommate, Jake.
You yelp and shove your phone back in your pocket, face redder than a fire truck. Jake looks up at you. “Uh, sorry — what are you doing here?” he asks.
“Sorry,” you apologize, setting the chocolate down on your boyfriend’s unmade bed. “I’m just dropping this off —”
“How did you even get in here?”
“Uhh, he let me in. Sorry. Did he not tell you I was coming?”
Jake stares at you for a moment, then shakes his head. “Sorry, I just — did I miss something? Did you guys get back together?”
“What do you mean, ‘back together?’” You lean on the doorframe, facing Jake.
“I just —”
A warm hand slides around your waist, and a flurry of petals and leaves cloud your vision. “Happy anniversary,” your boyfriend murmurs, kissing you on the neck.
You take the bouquet of roses from his hand, palms slipping on the slimy stems. “Oh, wow. These are wet.”
He winks at Jake before tugging you out of his room. “I just took them out of the sink. I’d been keeping them there so they stayed alive.”
“Riiight.” You shake off his arms and set the flowers down on the common room table. “Hey babe, Jake said something weird just now.”
“Jake is always saying something weird.” He cups your face in his hand and pulls you in for a kiss, before sliding his hand back around your waist. You give in for a few moments, savoring the familiar taste of him and his vanilla bean vaseline.
“Yeah,” you say between kisses. “But he–,” Lips. Tongue. “He asked me if—,” More tongue. Teeth. “–if we’d gotten back together?”
“Mmm.” One of his hands pushes a strand of hair out of your face as he leads you over to the couch, lips still locked. Slowly he pushes you down, until you’re both sitting. From its perch on the arm of the couch, his phone buzzes. You both ignore it.
You try to ignore Jake’s reaction, too. It would be easy; there’s no better distraction than the could-be Calvin Klein model whose lips are currently trailing their way along your jawline.
But every time you try to enjoy the sensation, Jake’s wide eyes flash across your mind. “Babe, why would Jake ask that? Did he think we broke up?”
“I don’t know, babe.” He doesn’t stop kissing. His phone dings again.
Gently, you push him away. “But why would he think we broke up? Did you tell him we did?”
“I don’t know, babe.” He leans back in before his phone starts vibrating, loud and long and rhythmic.
You watch as he glances at his phone, but doesn’t reach for it. “Is someone calling you?
“Probably just my mom. I’ll call her back later.”
“Okaaayy.” You study him for a moment. He’s wearing that same Harvard Athletics T-shirt that you always see him in around The Game. It’s rattier now, the crimson faded from lots of washing and lots of sweat. Despite the cracks in the screen printed lettering, it’s still hot. He can make anything look attractive — which is great most of the time, but unfortunate now that you have to be mad at him and can’t help but think about the washboard abs that you know lie just underneath. “I just… I don’t know. I haven’t seen you in four months. You don’t think it’s a problem that your roommate thinks that means we broke up?”
“Why does it matter what Jake thinks? He’s just—”
Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz.
You glare at him. “Can you tell your mom we’re busy?”
“She’ll get the hint.” He forces his gaze away from the phone and onto you. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
The phone’s vibration travels through your brain, scrambling all of the points you’d meticulously planned to make. “I just… I’ve missed you. But I’m starting to wonder if you actually missed me at all.”
“That’s not fair. I’ve been busy —”
“So have I!” you protest. “But none of my friends have had to ask me if we’ve broken up!”
“I didn’t tell Jake we broke up,” he groans. “I don’t know why—”
BZZZZZ. BZZZZZ. BZZZZZ.
“Okay. That’s it.” You grab his phone, and his eyes widen. The next thing you know he’s on top of you, trying to wrestle it out of your hand. “Uhh, what are you doing — get off of me!”
“Don’t touch my phone,” he hisses as you press it tight against your chest.
You kick him away. “What is wrong with you? I was just gonna silence it.” You glance at the screen, and immediately wish you hadn’t.
The rest of the common room fades away as you stare at the caller ID. The words “Tiger Baby” flash across the screen, followed by a tiger emoji and a red heart. Slowly, you turn the screen around to face him. “Babe? Who is this?”
His face turns eggshell white as he reads the name. “I can explain,” he says immediately. Your heart cracks a little.
“You better. Because ‘Tiger Baby’ is a pretty fucking weird name to call you mother, unless…”
He shakes his head. “It’s not her. You have to just hear me out —”
Tears sting your eyes. “I’m hearing.”
He takes a deep breath. “Okay, so. About a month ago, we played this game against Princeton. And you know Jake’s sister goes there, and she stayed over the weekend in our dorm…”
You don’t hear anything else. You don’t need to. Your heart is not cracking; it is being sent through a meat grinder. It is splintering like glass and stabbing your chest, your stomach, every part of you he’s ever touched. No; it’s worse.
There is no metaphor strong enough to describe this pain.
***
“He cheated on you with some girl from Princeton?!”
“About a month ago,” you confirm, shuffling through the cramped aisle of the airplane. You’re boarding your flight home from Boston the morning after The Game, and thank goodness — you need a break, after all of this.
“I can’t believe it,” your roommate says from the other end of the phone.
“I know,” you reply, searching the seat numbers for the one on your ticket. Your luggage bumps against the seats on either side as you wheel it forward, row by row. “I can’t believe I wasted a whole year on him.”
“It’s not your fault,” she says, just as you spot your row. There are only two seats, and one is already taken by an unfamiliar boy in a navy and white “Y” sweater. Your roommate keeps talking, but you tune her out as you shove your luggage into the overhead compartment and sit down.
“Hey, I’m gonna have to call you back,” you interrupt her, as the boy shoots you a dazzling smile. “The plane is about to take off.”
You hang up, locking eyes with the stranger. He looks about your age, with striking blue eyes and blond hair that frames his face in a delicate middle part. Somehow, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him before. “Excuse me,” he says, “but I think one of us is gonna have to change.” He nods at your shirt, and you look down. You hadn’t realized, but you’re wearing the exact same sweater.
A smirk slides across your face, matching his own. “Sorry. Not my fault you copied me.”
“Well, you know what they say. Copying is the sincerest form of flattery.” He winks. The whole exchange is painfully cheesy and reminds you of bantering with your ex a little more than you’d like to admit.
But also: you’re intrigued. “Were you here for The Game?” you ask.
“You’re talking to a proud Saybrook Stripper, in fact. If you saw a guy with a blue ‘S’ painted on his chest, that was me.”
“If I had seen that, I probably would’ve run the other way.”
He chuckles. “Make fun of me all you want, but rumor has it I’m the reason Harvard lost. They were intimidated by me and my magnificent chest paint.”
“So humble.”
He holds his hands up in surrender. “Not bragging. Just saying Harvard’s the worst.”
You groan. “Tell me about it.”
He cocks his head, a little more serious. “Everything all right? Or do you just hate Harvard that much?”
You look out the window and fixate on the airport workers skittering like ants on the tarmac to avoid looking directly at him. “Not Harvard, just Harvard men.”
“Uh oh. Bad weekend?”
You can’t help but laugh. “Try a year.”
His blue eyes sparkle with sympathy when he says, “I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”
You hesitate. Why should you trust this guy? Are you really about to trauma dump on this — admittedly attractive — stranger? You shrug. “It’s a long story.”
“Good thing it’s a long plane ride.” He gives you a small smile. It’s so earnest that you find yourself smiling back. You’re not sure who this guy is or what’s going to happen over the course of this plane ride, but maybe it’s a sign:
Why not give Yale men a chance?