The Winter Of What Are We

Peeking out my window was enough to tell me that it’s going to be cold. I didn’t need the weather app that gives the exact temperature, as well as a condescending message to bundle up, told by a yellow emoji wrapped by a black pixelated fur coat, with a message bubble that stated the exact degrees of -7 Celsius. That’s not the look I’m going for. Whoever made it doesn’t understand the intricacies of how to look good for the first party of the year when you’re a girl. 

It stated that the weather is going to reach -12, but everybody knows that weathermen have been wrong since the dawn of time. I’ve seen false claims that the weekend will have nothing but blue skies, only to be met with storms, and in ancient civilizations people used to dance around a fire hoping for rain. Lies that breed false hope. Story of my life. 

As my left hand slowly glides to the off button on my phone's left side and my right hand is soft in my use of my powder brush, a loud ring jumps from my iPhone. A rush filled my heart the moment it happened. Expecting it's from Chad. 

Chad Thunder. Not Brian S. Not Jason N. No Chad Fucking Thunder has been hitting me up.

People like to claim that everybody has a type. There’s some truth to that. I have friends who like indie guys who look like they weigh less than me, wear glasses with colored frames, and think that liking A24 movies makes them somehow unique. My sister's last two boyfriends have been calculus majors who both look exactly how a calculus major should look, but they are the select few who 90% of people want. Chad T is one of those people who is so gorgeous, he has to believe God exists and has blessed him. Even if he takes a bit too long to text back. Frat boys are like dollar store toys. They have a four-year peak and can be fixed easily.  

6’5, Blond, hot as fuck, D1 football player, and president of the creative writing club. What’s not to like? Guys like that are like Coca-Cola. All-American classic that’s obviously bad for you.

My dad has asked me why I can’t find a nice guy. I don’t think he’s met a nice guy. They’ll be your friend for six months, then after three beers confess their love, and when you don’t feel the same thing back, they turn bitter and cold. Those are some iced tea motherfuckers. 

Why are human beings constantly shamed for being attracted to what’s natural? We do it to men. They do it to us. It’s the truth because it starts at such a young age. I've caught my little brother's little creeper friends stare when I go back home, with the intensity of a person jacked up on a mixture of Red Bull, puberty, and porn brain. I did the same for the top guys in my grade, who probably thought I had a staring problem.  

As my eyes drifted over to the glow from my phone. The notifications that I’ve ignored have been piling up. Cluttering to the point where there were multiple grey bars within the screen. At the bottom it claimed promotions. 30% off, and how I’m missing connections on dating apps, but the top is a warning. Made explicit by WARNING: Credit Limit approaching. Not exactly what I’m searching for, but it always finds its way consistently at the end of the month. 

I don’t think of myself as a big spender, but as a practical one who spends big on important things. University textbooks don’t come cheap, and neither does paying eager freshmen to write my papers for me. Either way, a day will come when that ding says, “Blair… You have more money in your account than I know what to do with.”

It took a few more minutes to finish getting ready. I had my outfit laid out on my bed the previous night. A red crop top, paired with dark faded black jeans and a brown leather jacket, but who needs a brown leather jacket when you have the warmth of Chad T?

When I stepped out, I saw my roommate Stephanie sitting on our couch, waiting for the dreaded white spiral on our TV that indicated the video was buffering. 

She leaned back into the white couch, huddled under the thick protection of a fleece jacket in a position that was way too comfortable for a twenty-two-year-old to be wearing on a Friday night. 

The title of the documentary was loaded in bold white letters, stating, The Truth of the Ottoman. Leaving her watching something that was too boring for a sixty-year-old on a Sunday morning. 

“Steph… Come with me,” I offered. 

“Blair. Please tell me that you’re not going out to see Chad. He’s such a douche,” Steph answered as she kept her gaze fixated, as if she expected a change. 

“I’m going to a Sigma Delta Pi party. He’s not even in that frat. I don’t even know if he’s going to be there,” I answered. He wasn’t in Sigma Delta Pi. Sigma Delta Pi just happened to live across the street from Chads. “Come with me,”

Steph craned her neck twice, first to the left, then to the right. She squinted her blue eyes at the TV, and as it remained in its frozen state, “I want to see this,”

“With the way our wifi works?” I challenged. 

By the consideration on her face, I could tell that she considered my words. 

“I think it’s going to work,”

The TV flashed, and a loud boom followed. The opening logo for the film studio Gospel Productions showed balanced scales, a logo emerging from a powerful bright light, backed by a heavenly hymn, all of which were immediately halted right before pausing and entering a buffered state again. 

“Give me a couple minutes,” Steph answered.

“Make it thirty,” I replied as I opened my door and tossed her my leather jacket. 

I took two shots of rum as I waited. It was gross—harsh and bitter—and made me wish for something sweet. The label certainly wasn’t lying when it requested to drink responsibly, as I’m sure more than three shots would have me vomiting out of disgust. 

Another notification popped up on my phone. Hoping that it was from Chad, I quickly checked, discovering that it was from my ride-share, informing me that it was approximately two minutes away. With the snow, I doubted that it could make the distance in two minutes, making it so I didn’t call for Steph until three had passed. When I checked again, I was informed that my driver was already waiting. 

Once we arrived, I could see that the party was far bigger than any other that I’ve been to so far this year. Chad texted me that it was going to be the party of the year before he ghosted, and he wasn’t wrong. 

There was already a long line outside. From what I could see, it was mostly guys getting caught, as girls were able to slip through without a problem. Steph and I did the same; the only wait was for what I thought must have been freshmen slowly making their way to the front of the line. 

“Who do you even know here, bro!” A frat boy yelled. One of the two who defended the front door as if there was some kind of golden chalice on the other end. I guess to a nineteen-year-old freshman, getting into a frat party is a golden chalice, considering their not-so-hidden secret policy. Two girls per guy.  

“I know Tyler!” The freshmen yelled.

“It’s not happening tonight, man.”

“Talk to him!” 

“Bro, get out!”

They share the same tone of somebody who wants to act too tough but actually isn’t. Everybody who’s in a fight knows that the kind of person who actually wants to fight is going to throw a punch. Watching the freshman and the frat boy edge towards homoerotic considering how close their lips were prior to the freshman slinking away, claiming that the party was going to get shut down anyway and that it was a waste of time. 

“What, we’re going to rat? Cops can’t shut shit down.” The frat boy claimed with the bravado of somebody who just listened to NWA for the first time. 

“Hey!” I said with a wave of my hand, as the winds outside continued to increase in intensity. This one knows me, as his eyes light up the moment he sees me. Maybe a big part of it is that I’m a girl showing up. 

He tilts his head for me to come in, and Steph and I immediately enter. Party of the year was an understatement. It’s so packed that everybody inside was touching shoulders no matter where they were. 

“I’ve never seen such a small amount of power go to somebody’s head,” Steph loudly commented, attempting to carry her voice over the sounds of blaring EDM. 

It took twenty seconds for us both to be approached by a duo who seemed to think game means standing in front of somebody while trying to get to the drinks table.

“You’re both absolute baddies,” The one on the left proclaims. 

“Thank you,” I answered. I meant it. Who doesn’t like to feel seen? I’m sure that they feel the same way. 

Steph doesn’t say anything, but she glared at me as if she was ready to kill me later. 

“What are your names?”

“Lunberg,” Steph answered, giving her last name and middle name paired together. 

He stretched out his hand, and Steph shook it while I took the wet, firm handshake of the other. I smiled at him but kept it subdued. I didn’t want him to get some kind of idea. I have eyes for one person tonight, and from what I’ve learned, frat bros are extremely possessive. Holding the belief that if they’re in the talking stage with a girl, that means they own them. The thing that Chad seemed to forget is that he has to actually text back to enter a talking stage. 

“Steph,” I answered, causing Steph and me to both chuckle. 

“Want a drink? You should have some now because it's going to be all out soon.” One of them asked as he tilted his head to the bar. I nodded my head, thankful to have the navigation to aid us in pushing through. Eventually we made it to the bar. Although stating that it was a bar was generous. Bars don’t usually have one choice of drink in a bowl labeled “Love Potion,” an orange liquid that was poured into both of our Solo Cups. 

Ditching the guys, we walked around for a little bit searching for Chad after I’d texted him that I was at the party. Doing so while dodging a parade of guys who keep approaching me with similar lines. How’s your night going? Are you having fun? You look bored… You need to smile. 

I always answered with a similar laziness , “We’re having a girls night. I have a boyfriend. I’m into girls. 

 All my responses have a degree of truth. Two or more girls automatically means girls night. There’s room for one straight dude, likely somebody’s boyfriend, and that night then they are an honorary girlie. I don’t have a boyfriend, but by the end of the night I will, and if they’re misinterpreting what I’m into, girls, that’s on them. 

Afterwards, the ones with an ounce of self-awareness know when to walk away, understanding that when two girls look at you with flat faces and one-word responses, it's not an invitation to touch my shoulder or lean closer.  

After fifteen minutes I started to feel good. Way too good for whatever I feel to be alcohol. The colors around me brightened, and each song that played sounded like it was the best thing I’d ever heard. Whatever I drank was something I definitely want more of. When we returned to the table and found that there was none left, I wasn’t even disappointed. It’s just the way things are. I accepted that I was extremely lucky to be even born. I accepted that I was here for a reason. 

“Blaire,” Steph said as she tried to hold my shoulder, “are you okay?”

“I fucking love you. Thanks for coming out,” I answered as I hugged her tightly. What’s not to love? She’s kind and smart and always is there for me. And when I turned and saw Chad, I realized that I think I love him too. I’m pretty sure that I love everyone here. 

“Hey!” I answered with a smile and an immediate wrapping of my hands over his broad shoulders. 

He laughed and placed her large hand around my waist; meanwhile, there was a sense of elation that I felt. It felt warm, like I was at home. 

“You’re fucked,” he answered. He looked past me and almost immediately jerked away as if something had scared him. 

“Can we talk? I really like you, and…”

“Yo. Chill,” he answered, “we don’t need any labels. Text me though,” Chad answered. As he spoke, his hands took off me as he greeted a duo of other girls, who looked at him with the same smile I did. 

Flashing blue and red lights dominate the exterior window, and the police slowly begin to make their appearance inside. The white snows had taken over. Crafting a blizzard, 

“Are you okay?” Steph asked. Her interest lay in the obvious sense of worry, but I wasn’t worried, as almost immediately I came to a realization. Who gives a shit about Chad T.? I’m listening to the best song ever.