AUTHOR'S NOTE:
While each chapter is a story in its own right, you will probably enjoy this episode much more if you have already read the series
Chris Donaldson
, as well as Chapters 1-6 of
Mr. One Fifty-Eight
. The characters' back stories are revealed there. This is the final chapter in this series, but not of the story overall. The story will continue with a third series, under a different title. All characters depicted in this story are over 18.
*****
Jeff Woodard leaned against the open window, amused. It was a late Sunday afternoon, and the fraternity house was quiet. Hangovers always made for a restful atmosphere. Woodard was enjoying the solitude, and chuckling at the activities of one of his roommates, whom he could see from the third floor.
Justin had just dropped his keys; he was scrambling to pick them up and fumbling with his tie while hurrying toward his car, parked at the far end of a shared campus lot. Jeff particularly noted the outfit - there was no SAE event tonight that would require neckwear. Jeff was quite sure he knew where Justin was headed, and it made him happy.
Woodard had, in fact, been ecstatic to note a sudden change in his roommate's mood a few days before. The ebullient jock had burst in one afternoon, all smiles, teasing his friends, even appearing at meals again. If the brothers had noticed his long absence, no one said anything; they were all glad to see Justin being Justin. He made you comfortable with his easy, magnetic grin, and his charismatic, mildly self-deprecating sense of humor. The house had become a few degrees happier after Justin's mood improved.
Jeff was pretty confident he knew what had thrown Justin off his game - separation from his former roommate, Chris Donaldson. And so, logically, only one thing could account for this swift transformation: Chris must have responded to Tag's (and Jeff's) plea to get back in touch with Justin. Which can't have been easy, Jeff thought - when he had persuaded Tag to intervene with Chris in order to save their third roommate from himself, he had no idea that the reason Chris had cut off contact was because Justin had punched him in the face.
Jeff still couldn't wrap his head around that one. The Justin he had known since they lived on the same hall freshman year was not a violent person. The Justin he knew . . . well, that guy really, really liked the slimmer, smart boy who had pledged the fraternity the year before. It had been, and was still, obvious. The implications of that friendship were lost on Tag, but not on Jeff.
The tall, green-eyed fraternity brother grinned again as he heard squealing tires tear out of the lot - Justin's Audi, of course. Jeff smiled because he was also aware of another thing Tag had forgotten: Jeff knew what day it was. It was the same date as the beginning of last year's spring hell week - and therefore also Chris' birthday.
That fucker better take Chris someplace really nice and get on his knees and apologize, Jeff thought, still smiling.
Now there was a fun image.
He returned to his desk and sat down. Break time was over: back to looking over SAE's books, which he had surreptitiously downloaded a few weeks before. You never knew where you'd find something interesting . . . or useful.
Justin peeled a corner onto the expressway onramp. He was speeding, even though he wasn't late. His mind was running even faster than the car, going over the details of the evening, making sure there wasn't anything he had missed. He felt his breast pocket for the tenth time, making sure he had Chris' gifts. Yes, they were both there - the generous-but-in-bounds one and the very risky second one, which . . .
Yeah, we might not get to that one, Justin thought ruefully. He reviewed the short text message exchange with Chris from five days ago; he had it memorized. It had started simply:
"Hey," Chris had written.
That word alone, when it came, had shone like the light of the Second Coming to Justin. He couldn't count the times he had pulled out his phone to text Chris since their last encounter . . . and had put it away again, unable to figure out the words, emoticons, or anything else to express how awful he felt that he had punched the boy.
In the face. I punched him in the fucking face.
Justin changed lanes erratically, overcome by an emotion he had been wallowing in for most of the last two months: shame. He had run out of Chris' room in a panic immediately after he had hit him. Just like he had run out of the party when Andy had been roughed up. Yeah, he had been angry in that moment when he assaulted Chris. Very angry. But that was no excuse. He had run as fast as he could in the knee-deep snow that night. When he got back to the house, he had lain in bed, seething, for a day. Finally, he had left to try and work some of the anger out at the gym. At first, he had felt betrayed. He couldn't conceive of his little, submissive roommate hooking up with another guy, much less . . . Justin still struggled with this . . . losing his VIRGINITY to another man. It had been a tremendous slap in the face, a gut punch - in short, all the things he had done to Chris, Chris had done to him by cheating on him. That was his first position.
But Justin could only linger in that self-righteous anger for so long. Because the longer he stayed there . . . well, it got complicated. On the third day, he had started to question if it was a good idea for him to consider himself so wronged - he was acting like a jealous boyfriend. And that, most assuredly, he was not. NOT. And so he had constructed a carefully-built house of cards over the weeks to try and rationalize to himself why he felt the way he felt.
His guilt was undeniable, and he had never bothered to try and defend his violence to himself. Even when his fury had burned hottest at Chris' actions, he knew, in his heart of hearts, that hitting his former roommate had been unjustifiable and wrong. And that's where he wound up mentally; his behavior had been unforgivably awful. He needed to apologize. The why and wherefore of his punching Chris were therefore irrelevant, when you thought about it - and that neatly saved him from further introspection for which he was still unprepared. And so . . . he needed to say he was sorry. But how?
It wasn't pride that had stopped him, ultimately; it was fear. Fear that Chris was so hurt, angry, resentful - or possibly, but God forbid, damaged - that the boy would never speak to him again, had eaten at Justin, consumed him, for almost two months. For the first time in his life, it was he who was afraid of being rejected. And so he had remained silent and miserable, stewing in a toxic brew of self-loathing, depression, and shame. He had cut classes, disappeared from the fraternity except to sleep, and drunk himself into a joyless numbness most nights. Until one word had awakened him, and offered the possibility of redemption.
"Hey," Chris had written.
Justin had taken a few minutes to decide what to write back; initially he had also typed "hey", but he felt that wasn't enough. He had an opening - it might not come again. He needed to plunge in and do it.
"I'm so sorry, Chris," he had replied. Not "boy", not "Chrissy" - not, nor ever again, "fag". Just Chris.
"Ok," had been the response.
"Are you ok?"
"Yes."
"What can I do?"
"Nothing, it's all taken care of."
"No, I mean now."
"I don't know."
"Will you let me see you?"
The pause between that text and Chris' response had lasted an excruciating 36 hours. Justin had practically never let go of his phone the whole time. When Tag had commented on Justin being unusually glued to it, the jock had nearly repeated his February 13th punch.
