Who Do You Love(64)
Author: Jennifer Weiner

“Lookin’ good, Duckie,” Beer Guy sneered.

“You too, my man,” said Andy, turning away. That would have been the end of it; should have been the end of it, except Beer Guy said, “What, no dress shoes in the church donation box?”

If he’d accused Andy of stealing his tuxedo, Andy would have ignored him. If he’d gone racist, Andy would have simply walked away, or gone out, in his sneakers, and run until the urge to hit the asshole went away. But those three words, church donation box, made Andy remember just that. At his church it hadn’t been a box, it was a table, a folding table with a scarred plastic top where the donations would be arrayed by size and by gender. The boys’ stuff was always in the middle. He remembered his mom angling for a seat on the aisle so that as soon as the priest started to say Peace be with you she could be the first one there, picking over the donations, grabbing fistfuls of stuff that wouldn’t even fit him, giving a triumphant shriek when she spied something good, something quality, with a name brand she recognized, like Ryan Peterman’s old winter coat.

Andy looked over the guy’s shoulder, his eyes widening like he’d seen something important. “Check it out!” he said. Ponderous as a hippo in a mud wallow, the guy had started to turn, exposing a lovely, immense span of jowl. Andy drew back his fist and hit the guy hard, and the guy went down, taking both beers with him. He was getting ready to kick the guy in his ribs with his Nikes, which, in retrospect, would have hurt Andy more than the guy, who was well padded, when two of Beer Guy’s buddies grabbed his arms, and a third one started pounding on him. Andy saw the fist approaching just as Rachel came running over in her gown, her lipsticked mouth open in a perfect O of dismay.

•••

Beer Guy’s name was Kyle Davenport, because of course it was, and he was president of the Alphas, because of course he was, and the Alphas were the brother fraternity to Rachel’s Gammas. Because obviously, that, too. Rachel told him all of this, sitting on the edge of her bed, holding a wet washcloth full of ice against the side of Andy’s face, where one of Davenport’s fraternity brothers had pasted him.

“This is not ideal,” Rachel said. She’d changed into her pajamas, and most of her makeup had been wiped or cried away, but her hair was still in its updo, which made her look like a little girl playing dress-up, wearing a strange kind of hat.

“I’m sorry,” Andy said for what felt like the hundredth time since Rachel had come running to him, skidding through the beer puddle, saying, Oh my God, Andy!

He took the washcloth out of her hand. “So what happened?” he asked.

She sighed, looking deflated. “The cops came.”

He nodded. He’d caught some of that while Rachel had been hustling him out the door. “The good news is, we were checking IDs, so we’re not going to get in trouble for serving anyone underage.” Another sigh. “Kyle didn’t know your name, and he didn’t say much about how it all started, so nobody’s going to be charged. The bad news is, having cops show up at your rush party isn’t going to impress potentials.” Another sigh. “Or the alums. This just doesn’t reflect very well on us.” Me, Andy thought. I don’t reflect very well on you.

“I should go,” he said, without realizing he was going to say it out loud.

Rachel lifted her hands to her eyes and rubbed them like a tired toddler. “Maybe that’s a good idea,” she said. Andy sat back, startled. This wasn’t part of the script. He’d apologize, and she’d forgive him. He’d say that he should leave and she’d insist that he stay, telling him that she understood why he’d hit that asshole, and how, given the situation, she would have done the same thing, and that whatever trouble she was in, however mad her fellow officers were, none of that mattered, because she loved him.

Except that didn’t seem to be happening. Her face was unreadable, her back and shoulders stiff. He reached for her hands. She pulled them away and got off the bed to face him. “You don’t think we’re good people,” she began.

“That isn’t true,” he said. His lip was already puffing up. He wondered if he’d get a black eye, too, and whether Coach would notice, and what he’d say to explain it.

She held up her hand. “No, just listen, okay?” She huffed out air, balled her hands into fists, said, “God, I’m so sick of this.”

“Sick of what?”

“Sick of being talked over! Even in my women’s studies class, it’s always guys doing the talking, so how about you just be quiet and listen for five minutes?”