Not a Settle-Down Kind of Guy
RECOMMENDED TRACK: The Neighborhood – Reflections
We spent the next week learning each other’s lives and slotting ourselves into them with little friction. He stayed over any night I didn’t have to wake up early the next morning for class. One night, Chloe and Vi insisted on coming over to “help us make dinner,” which was code for “see what’s going on.” Misha threaded the needle of charming them without flirting. Chloe was sold as soon as she realized Misha was in the kitchen helping chop ingredients—it was a very crowded kitchen. Vi was more skeptical, but by the end of dinner she was laughing at his joking impression of the college dean with the rest of us. The girls left us to our own devices with a wink and a nudge and sent me their formal blessings by text sometime after.
Blessings for what, exactly, none of us really knew yet.
When I had study sessions, Misha would go to the gym, or hang out with his brothers. I visited Sigma House once, only to meet up with him. I don’t think Misha was eager to have me hanging out there. I figured it was partially Adrian’s presence, and partially…well, everyone else’s. This was new to both of us and it didn’t need an audience.
But I’d enjoyed the chance to meet some of Misha’s other brothers: beleaguered president Jacob Choi, unrestrained Travis Montgomery—Monty, a theater major whose friendship with Misha I understood right away. He was fun and energetic. A mask-wearer like Misha, but more comfortable with it, I think. I technically met Dylan Kane, the only underclassman who lived in the house, but the only greeting he gave me was a suspicious glance and a grunt.
Misha told me about each of them, superficial information and deeper observations than I would have expected. Jacob overworked himself due to a childhood trauma he didn’t talk about. Dylan had come up through foster care, which explained his living situation as an underclassman. Monty, he said, was exactly as he presented himself, except when he wasn’t. And of course I knew Elliott and Adrian. The others remained names, not faces.
I wanted to get to know them better, the people Misha spent his time with, partially out of curiosity and partly because I wanted to wrap myself up in more of his life…even when my anxious voices warned against it.
Unfortunately, that was where our schedules got tricky. That week, Monty was hosting a hangout at Sig House late Thursday night, an unofficial wrap party after they were supposed to finish tearing down the last of the sets from their production of Beauty and the Beast. But I’d had a paper due Friday that I’d already been dawdling on because Misha was such a charming distraction.
“It’s really okay if I don’t go?” I had asked Misha Thursday morning as we cuddled on my couch, a baking show on in the background. “They know I don’t hate them, right?”
He laughed and brushed my worries away with a kiss to my cheek. “They know. It will be stupid anyway,” he said. “Monty’s theater friends get loud. Smash things. Worse than football players. You would not like it.” It didn’t sound like something I would like and I was relieved. It’s important for couples to have separate stuff to do sometimes. Right? Besides, Saturday night was the Sigma pre-finals party, and I planned to attend.
But Friday morning, as I stood waiting outside of my Shakespeare in Film classroom, a girl approached me. She was a pretty brunette—really pretty, like a model, with blue eyes and perfect hair. She was also tall and leggy and impeccably dressed in tweed. “Hi,” she said with a big, beaming smile. Even her teeth were perfect. “My name is Dina. You’re Emma, right?”
“That’s me,” I confirmed, tilting my head to one side. “What’s up?”
Her expression slid into something somber, but it felt deliberate. I wondered if she was a theater major as she looked down at the cell phone in her hands. She lifted it, paused, then unlocked it with a dramatic flourish, like she’d made a big decision. “I shouldn’t show you this,” she said in a hushed voice. “I know it’s none of my business. But if it were me, I’d want to know.” She held her phone out to me so I could see her screen.
It was a picture of Misha at the cast party the night before, a blonde girl hanging desperately onto his shoulder as his head fell back in uproarious laughter. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and he had a beer bottle in his hand.
The text on the post said: “Is the party god back?? i heard the girlfriend thing was just a bet 👀”
My brain went through a rapidfire loop as I processed the words, litigating them in real-time. Misha has his history but he isn’t a liar. (Why is he interested in you though, of all people?) Who would he even make a bet like that with? The Sigs are troublemakers, but they aren’t cruel. (You’re mousey and like books more than parties. Why would that suddenly appeal to him?) This sounds like the plot of a high school romance anyway. (Then why would someone post it?)
All of that ran through my head in less than a second, but I took a deep breath and imagined squashing the anxious chorus under a falling piano. I nudged the phone back to Dina. “Thanks,” I said with an overly cheerful grin, the kind I used at the store when a customer was being a pain. “I appreciate you sharing with me.”
I must have missed the mark on my polite tone, because Dina drew back with an affronted look on her face—like she might actually be a little hurt. “I was just trying to help, jeez,” she huffed. “We all know Misha’s not a settle-down kind of guy.”
We, she’d stressed, and I squinted at her, a sudden suspicion flickering in my head. “Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do,” I said as mildly as I could.
That did the trick. Her pretty eyes narrowed and her face twisted into a scowl that told me her interest in this was more…personal. “Maybe you’re just being naive,” she snapped. “Don’t say no one warned you.”
And off she strode, her heels clicking flawlessly behind her. I thought about texting Misha, but didn’t. He’d just feel bad, and I didn’t believe the “bet” thing, even if it triggered fears that simmered under my skin whenever I wasn’t with him.
Class went on without a hitch and I retreated home to spend a little time on my paper before my evening plans. My phone buzzed as I opened my door and I juggled my bag and keys to look at it.
Vi was giving a talk about her senior thesis that night and I was eager to attend and support her. And the topic sounded interesting, talking about anti-heroes. I texted her back to confirm.
But her response gave me pause.
Misha and I hadn’t called ourselves that yet, not really. But as Dina and her friend’s shitty post had demonstrated, it was apparently hot gossip in some circles that the “God of Party” might be taken. So the campus defined us on our behalf.
A cold ribbon of dread slithered through my stomach.
A video clip was attached, all loud music thumping and partiers laughing. There was Misha, that same blonde girl on his shoulder. I smiled as he gently nudged her away. But then I heard a man off-screen say something like “Misha, what the fuck, man? They’re saying you’re a simp now?”
I listened intently as Misha turned towards the voice. “What did you hear? No, no, nyet,” he laughed as the girl latched back on, as much to steady herself as anything. “Sky is still blue, Sig party is still best party, and Misha is still Misha.”
Then the video cut off.
…I’m not an idiot. I knew, on some level, that he’d been put on the spot at a party, challenged, was just playing it off. He had extracted himself from the girl.
On every other level, though, I felt crushed. Almost literally, like my insides had been flattened to lead weights in my gut.
I was supposed to text Misha once I was free. We were going to grab an early dinner before Vi’s event. I could talk to him about this. I should talk to him.
But I wasn’t ready to.
You knew he’d get bored. Everyone knew.
I threw myself on the couch, told Vi thanks and I would see her that night, and sent Misha a text that I wouldn’t be able to have dinner with him.
Damn if I didn’t still blush a little at good girl, like my body was already conditioned to it even as my mind was buzzing with anxiety. Another text came in.
I told him no, thanks, smiley face, promised to eat, and tossed my phone on the carpet. See? He’s not bored. He offered to bring you food. He wants to see you, my rational mind offered.
But my anxious side wanted to stew and be upset before talking like a normal person.
So that’s how I spent the next couple of hours before I had to dress in my only professional wear, a black pantsuit. I guess I was feeling a little fuck you, world, because I decided to wear a lacy red cami beneath my blazer. I chucked my phone into my nicest purse and walked to campus distractedly.
The dismissal kept playing in my mind like a bird squawking in a loop that I couldn’t shut up. “Misha is still Misha.”
You’re not enough for him. Or you’re too much for him.
No. He was playing off some douchebag. He nudged the girl away. I’ll talk to him, and it will be fine.
Was I being rational or was I in denial? Brains suck.
I reached the auditorium fifteen minutes before the event and looked around to see if any other classmates were there. Most of the other twenty or so attendees were professors or grad students, though, so I went and chose myself a seat in the second row where I thought Vi might be able to see me.
“Emma,” I heard someone say, and my head jerked up to see Adrian walking sideways into my row. “Nice to see you again.” He was immaculate again, a turtleneck under a suit jacket he unbuttoned as he took the seat next to me, perusing the program.
“You too,” I said automatically, then raised an eyebrow at him. “Somehow it doesn’t feel like a coincidence, though. Here to make another apology?”
He chuckled. “Do I owe you one?”
I shrugged, shifting in my seat. “I guess not. But are you trying to tell me you’re actually interested in…” I double-checked the title of Vi’s talk on the program. “‘From Paradise Lost to The Punisher: The Journey of the Anti-Hero’?”
“What if I was,” he asked, tapping the pamphlet. “I enjoy reading, when I have time for it. I’m curious to see how one connects Milton to Marvel. But…” he bounced his head to one side in thought before he admitted, “I did hope you might be here, too.”
My cheeks warmed and I decided not to pursue that line of questioning. Or look at how nicely he filled out the turtleneck. “The speaker, Vi Jensen, she’s one of my best friends,” I said, glancing back down at the program. I couldn’t help feeling excited to see her name printed and embossed. She’d been working on this presentation for months and on the thesis for a year.
“I have high hopes, then,” Adrian replied. We both paused for an awkward few seconds. “…How are things with Sokolov,” he ventured finally.
I didn’t expect him to broach the subject. Am I being that obvious? Or is he looking that closely? “Fine,” I said with what I hoped was a winning smile. Did he see the post? He didn’t seem like a social media guy, but then, he didn’t seem like a cheesy ballad guy, either. “Great, in fact.”
He scanned me again, not in the calculating way he’d done in the past. His eyebrow was angled in something approaching sympathy. Yeah, he saw it. But he didn’t press further. “I enjoyed The Secret Garden,” he said with a tentative note that belied his habitually stiff, superior expression.
“Oh!” I couldn’t help thawing. I wasn’t interested in Adrian like that, but it’s always nice to be validated. And, yes, okay, it didn’t hurt that Adrian was smart and good-looking. I’m not immune to an ego-boost. “Good,” I said. “You liked ‘Lily’s Eyes’?”
“I did,” he agreed. “But I think I liked ‘Where In The World’ best.”
“Ahh…” I sighed wistfully, sitting back in my seat. “Beautiful song. Haunting.” In it, the character sings about feeling like he sees his beloved wife—who died more than a decade before—everywhere he goes. “Archie’s so desperate to find a place to be that doesn’t hurt.” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. “Interesting choice.”
He chuckled. “Don’t read too much into it,” he said softly, angling towards me and draping his arm over the back of his chair, his elbow resting on the back of mine. “I found it compelling, not relatable.”
“If you say so,” I said, trying not to show my satisfaction.
“I listened to the ‘Spring Version’ recording as well,” he continued, looking away from me and up to the stage. “You were right. With less of the romance storyline, the show is significantly weaker. At least for adult listeners.”
“Right?” I said, perking up. “It loses that fascinating generational trauma element and makes it more of a fairy tale. And I love fairy tales, but it’s still a net loss, in my opinion.”
“Almost like they should have stuck closer to the original,” he said with a pointed look.
I barked a laugh. “Ha! Nice try,” I said. “The love triangle wasn’t in the original book, it was an invention for the musical.”
“Damn.” Adrian clicked his tongue. “I knew I should have read the book first.”
“Mmhmm. So you’re actually making my point about adaptation.” Don’t be smug, I scolded myself. Then I thought no, absolutely be smug. It’s been a shitty couple days. “The value isn’t in its faithfulness to the original, it’s in how much it means to the new audience.”
He crossed his arms and mulled that over, like he was looking for an angle to argue from. He didn’t find one before the lights flicked three times, signaling the program was about to start. “You make an infuriatingly good point,” he said finally, leaning in close, close enough that I could feel him whisper the next words. “I’m trying to be better about conceding.”
Suddenly, this felt a little dangerous.
“Well, it is my area of study,” I said, trying to inject a little more lightness—and distance—to my tone. “But thanks,” I couldn’t help adding quietly. I felt his eyes on me but I settled in, focusing fixedly on the stage as Vi stepped up to the podium.
Her talk went well. The choice of subject was smart, attracting some pop culture fans and even a few people I recognized from the comic shop across the way from Classic Vinyl. It was followed by some Q&A that Vi handled with ease until a teenage boy came up to the mic and asked her a “question” that was mostly an excuse to glorify Frank Castle, the Punisher.
“…so really, the Punisher should be given more credit as a hero,” he said.
Vi smiled—the same smile I give problematic customers, that every woman gives a guy she’s not in position to tell off. “There’s an argument to be had about whether his murders have a net positive effect given the majority of his victims,” she conceded graciously. “But the man did kill a couple for littering once. And—”
“Okay, but Superman probably has a way higher body count from collateral damage,” the boy said, the mic flooding when his mouth got too close to it.
I was startled out of glaring at the kid by movement next to me as Adrian stood, buttoning the top button of his suit jacket as if by reflex. “You’re misattributing those deaths to the defender, Superman, instead of the aggressor,” he said. He was barely speaking louder than he’d talked to me earlier, but the crowd went quiet to hear it. “And he would do everything in his power to prevent them. Those deaths aren’t comparable to Frank Castle’s sometimes flexible definition of a ‘criminal.’” His voice had gotten icier with every word. “Now quit interrupting the expert presenter and let the next person ask their question,” he concluded, taking his seat again.
And the boy did exactly as he said.
So that’s what it looked like to be a man born to power.
After the discussion section ended, Vi shook hands with the professor who’d sponsored the evening and trotted down the stage steps, her tidy curls threatening to break loose from whatever magic she—or maybe Chloe—had used to keep them in place. “Emma!”
I threw my arms out to give her a big hug. “Vi! That was awesome! You had a great crowd!”
“Except that one guy,” she agreed, pulling back and spotting Adrian standing a few steps off, not quite part of the conversation but too close to be separate, either. “Thanks for jumping in,” she said.
I had wondered how she would feel about the “rescue,” but she looked relieved, and for a moment Adrian looked…awkward. His shoulders were tight again and he straightened his lapel unnecessarily. “I hate hecklers,” he said with a shrug, then glanced at his watch in a gesture that fooled no one. “I should go,” he said, turning first to Vi. “I enjoyed the presentation. I hadn’t thought about the theme of resisting subjugation being a common one across anti-hero characters.”
“Thank you!” Vi beamed. “It was one of those two a.m. epiphanies, sort of. I blame it on falling asleep after trying to read while my roommate had a Marvel flick on in the background.”
Adrian graced her with a hint of a smile and turned to me. “Emma. Nice to see you again,” he said. “I might stop by the vinyl shop for another recommendation.”
“Oh,” I fumbled. “Sure. And hey—I’m glad you came,” I added, and his expression warmed slightly.
“Me too,” he said, turning to leave. “Goodnight.”
“’Night,” I replied as he walked off. Vi grabbed my hands and squeezed them.
“I thought you said he wasn’t into you,” she hissed into my ear. “He’s nicer than I thought.”
“When he wants to be, at least,” I mused.
Chloe, who had been at work, met us at the bar for a celebratory drink and after I gushed about Vi’s presentation, she filled Chloe in on Adrian.
Which was when I realized that I hadn’t been worrying about the situation with Misha at all for the last few hours.
The anxiety was back full-force by the time I made it home, a little tipsy and feeling guilty for finding comfort with Adrian. Especially while I was feeling so off-center with Misha. However much Adrian had surprised me that night, I didn’t want my time with Misha to have run its course so quickly. But that wasn’t only up to me.
Bonus Content:
Crownbridge Speaker Series
Author’s Note
B-Side Track: Doechii – Anxiety
Intrusive thoughts are common, even in people who don’t otherwise have anxiety issues…but we anxious people may have them more and harder.
FUN FACT:
If you’re paying very close attention, you might notice that Vi’s presentation was given at Whitely Auditorium, and you might remember Misha mentioning that this year’s House Steward is one Alex Whitely. Alex is our Sir Not-Appearing-In-This-Picture, alas. I haven’t really sketched out much about him other than that he’s a big music guy and a legacy at CBU, though probably a much newer one than Adrian’s family.
If any of you want to invent canon for Alex, you are welcome to do so. <3
Just last chapter, I said Emma might be settling in too quickly, but here she’s starting to see the cracks in the foundation. She’s sharp.