“He’s a friend of a friend,” they had told me, “But, that’s all he can be. Just a friend, ‘cause he’s a player, see?” 

And, what did that have to do with me?  

I was only there to sink a few drinks, make jokes in front of people who had nothing but second-hand pieces of information about what kind of person I was.

Quite typical; that’s how the first few weeks of college are supposed to go: new year, new classes, new friends, new victims. I was quite apathetic to the novelty of it all--I couldn't bring myself to be excited about a place I never wanted to be.

We told everyone the party was at five, so we skipped our Friday afternoon classes to buy cheap liquor at Costco. “We” as in me and my only friend this new university, Asa, who somehow knew everybody here, even before we’d even gotten accepted, and was the only one out of the two of us who could buy alcohol legally. 

Asa had moved into their apartment a month before I had even thought about packing my room up into boxes, learning the lay of the land and making friends in the same effortless way that drew me to them just a few years ago.

Maybe I was riding their social coattails, but I've already told you--I was only there to debut my stand-up comedy to strangers that didn't know me, that thought I was still interesting enough to listen to.

We carted the loot back to Asa's car and snuck it through the backdoor of their apartment to dodge the eyes of the RA next door. He probably wouldn’t have cared, and we were probably just overthinking it.

But, that was just how we were. Thinking too much about nothing at all.

“Maybe we should cover that with a sweater,” Asa had suggested, looking around worriedly. They held out their hoodie for me and motioned for me to take it. 

“This is alcohol you bought, legally, with our money... Not a kilo,” I’d replied in annoyance, but I still swiped it from their hands and covered the cases to bring into the apartment.

We started setting up, unpacking more liquor and chips and red solo cups—we couldn’t have been more obvious to outside eyes—and that’s when Asa suddenly told me all about him.

“He’s a friend of a friend, and he'll be here tonight,” they had told me with wide eyes, “But, that’s all he can be. Just a friend, ‘cause he’s a player, see?” 

And, again, what did that have to do with me? 

“It’s just ‘cause you’re pretty,” Asa told me a little later, after they had nearly lost their life choking down a shot of tequila, “And, he’s probably going to try to get into your pants.” 

They looked at me pointedly, as if trying to telepath the crude image into my brain. I looked back at them with a fluoride stare, and they sighed.

“He’s a whore.” 

So, I was going to get to see a whore tonight at this party we were throwing, supposedly! Like I hadn’t seen one of those before. 

The sun started going down and people began showing up in smaller increments, then larger groups. The volume of the music on Asa's coveted record player began to climb. 

“Shut the windows, though, the RA lives—“ 

“It’s already shut, you paranoid motherfucker!” 

I was warming up on the couch with a few girls that Asa had introduced me to, sipping a screwdriver and jangling my right leg while I counted back and forth on my fingers.

Counted what? I couldn’t tell you. It's a habit I've maintained to this day.

Then, the chatter started again. It was overbearing—the same topic recycled over and over—but I listened anyway. I was only nineteen. 

“Girls get set back a hundred years every time they give into him.” 

What an interesting way to phrase that. 

“He’s got money, you know,” another had said. 

And does it help him with his “whoring”? 

“Plus, he drives this black Benz—“ 

“We’re not allowed to talk about it in front of him, though,” Asa piped up, swooping by us to snag a few empty cups off the coffee table.

We’re not allowed to? Maybe we just shouldn’t. 

And, it’s good that we didn’t, because then he was there.  

A loud knock at the door made everyone in the room still momentarily as the conversation broke before picking up again.

Asa pulled the door open timidly, and suddenly, I was already looking at him. 

Actually, he seemed to be looking at me, but I can't confirm that, and there's no way he would tell, either.

Not even if you threatened to crash that black Benz into a brick wall.  

Slouched in the doorframe of Asa's rundown apartment was the most unamused and unanimated individual I had ever seen.

He was tall, dressed in all black, with a slightly clenched jaw that I could see, despite most of his face being shaded under the brim of his hat.

Asa ushered him and his friends in, shutting the door behind them. The strong presence of alcohol in the air was cut by his cologne as he moved farther into the room.

I couldn’t tell you what scent it was, what brand, or even what kind of bottle it came in. I still can’t, because I don't think I ever asked him.

All I knew in that moment was that I was suddenly desperate, combing the air for pheromones like an animal searching for bait in a trap that would undoubtedly kill it. 

Then, he spoke, and almost all of my senses were attuned to him. Sight, sound, and smell. Taste and touch would follow later. 

“What’s up?” 

He hadn’t said it to me, or anybody in particular. His voice rode on air, no louder than a whisper. It was low and slow and my face began to heat as if he’d forced me under an interrogation lamp and—

The party resumed. Time seemed to bend back into substance and definition.

He’d brought a case of drinks and set them on the counter. More elixir to fill bottomless stomachs. 

It was a Friday night, after all. 

Of course, we all kept drinking. Smaller groups formed, conversations racketeering from topic to topic. The record player continued to spin and I was feeling much better, surrounded by people who knew little to nothing about where I’d been, where I was going, and where I had yet to be. 

As funny as I normally am, I truly was on fire that night. My audience sat on the edge of Asa's dilapidated couch as they waited to hear what I’d say next.

I cracked jokes about being a man-eater, a force to be reckoned with. I heralded stories about my crazy ex-fiancee, how even though I’d never been athletic, I still chucked that steak knife at his big, stupid head like it was my Olympic qualification. 

“Only ‘cause he’d taken my car to sleep with another girl, though,” I assured everyone around me, assuaging the tension, righting the narrative.

They stared back with slackened jaws and giggled in awe as they swirled their drinks around for another swig. 

“You were engaged?!” 

“You’re so young, though! Only nineteen, right?” 

I nodded, savoring last two sips of my drink (dramatic effect, of course), “But sometimes, life has a funny way of being exactly what you’d think it isn’t. I used to think the world of him. Now, he’s a bum, and I’m a man-beater.” 

And then, I’d stood up, grinning, knowing I was leaving with them with something to think about. Something to remember me by. That was always the goal.  

“Smoke break,” I explained, excusing myself, and went on my way.  

We’d boarded up the entire apartment to hide our activities from the RA’s prying eyes.

To this day, I still don’t think he would’ve cared what we were doing, but the blinds were shut tight and turned up so that nobody had the slightest chance of being able to glimpse inside. Even the backdoor curtains were drawn and duck taped to the wall to prevent any slits in the fabric. 

But, this meant the only place left to smoke without drawing too much attention to ourselves was the bathroom. Asa's apartment had two—smashed right next to one another in the same hallway. It was not genius architecture, if I do say so myself. 

I had always used the right bathroom. I have no explanation for why. It just made more sense.

But that night, I knew most of the people here had probably used it, too. I went left. 

When I reached for the light switch, I realized someone else, that friend of a friend, was already in there, leaning up against the bathroom wall in front of the mirror and doing exactly what I’d come in here to do. 

Suddenly, every ounce of my attention had no choice but to be his for the moment. He stared at me unashamed through the mirror before turning around.

“You smoke, too?” He raised an eyebrow at me and I steeled myself, shooting him a look back. 

“No, I just came in here to check on you.” 

That sentence is still in my worst nightmares. My voice warbled awkwardly and the sentence came out shaky; the sarcasm hadn’t made it through.

I remember making a sour face, puckering my lips and shutting my eyes to try and rearrange space and time to take the words back.

I sounded sincere. 

I should have stepped out until he was done. I didn’t know this man. 

“They tell you I’d be here or what?” 

“I’m going to smoke now,” I declared, cutting the end of his question in half.

There. End of conversation. There was nothing more he could say to me after that. 

“Do it, then.” 

I froze. One beats. Two beats. 

Then, I put the blunt between my lips. I wish I could tell you I was stronger than that, maybe just a little bit better than that. But, I admit that was not the last time I would listen to him at the drop of a command. 

A few more hours and drinks after that and I was drunk. I was light on my feet, I swear, but Asa still insisted I shouldn’t walk back home alone to my complex.  

“Accidents happen five miles from the home all the time—“ 

“I’ll take her. I'm going there too,” the friend of a friend had said casually.

In response to this, Asa jumped up immediately to thank him for being such a nice guy, for bringing the drinks, for showing up. The whole nine yards, but I was still stuck on the first one.

“Do you live in my complex?” 

He looked down at me, red eyes blinking languidly like a dragon waking in its cave to the first rays of a sunrise.

A burning went through me, and I cursed myself for the feeling. I cursed myself again for liking it—betrayal to oneself at the highest degree. 

But, we walked. The main road back home was quiet, well-lit. The streets were tame, absent from Friday night speed racers and other intoxicated individuals. It was just the two of us. There was nothing to do but cover the basics.

What’s your major? His was Economics. What’s your grade? We were both in our third years. How old are you and where are you from?  He was turning 21, from Los Angeles. He didn't specify an area.

Then, we were home. Our complex came into view. 

“Alright, I can take it from here,” I said, “You should get home. It’s cold.” 

“Nah, I’ll take you closer.” I didn’t object. How embarrassing. 

“What floor are you on?”

“Second.” 

“Second,” I echoed. It was too perfect. Too specific. Too coincidental. 

“S’what I said.” 

We climbed the stairs and stopped in front of my apartment. I nodded, said thank you, and went inside. I refrained from peeking through the blinds to see which direction he'd go in.

But, it wouldn't have mattered. He’d disappeared quietly, like he hadn’t been there with me at all.

The next afternoon, he was sitting next to me at a tattoo shop in Downtown Santa Barbara. I wanted to get a tattoo dedicated to my little sister on my thigh. 

I realize that’s a huge leap from two drunk strangers walking home at close to three in the morning, but I’m getting to it.

Have patience. 

Asa had woken up the next morning, hungry and miserable, begging for someone to help clean the wreckage from last night. I walked the half mile back to their apartment in the cold, letting it numb me to the barely there pounding in my head. 

By the time I was done de-stickifying the counters, mentally preparing myself for the throw-up duty that awaited in the right bathroom, and pretending to accurately recycle empty drink cans and bottles, Asa was craving pho. 

I’m sure you know why. You, too, were probably once a college student battling a raging hangover with the only lifeline being pho to fill your semi-solid stomach.

            Then it was time for roll call. Everyone that was at the party the night before was called and informed. If you were alive and functional, meet us at the pho spot down the block in an hour. Be there or be square. 

Asa called him last. I heard them speak from where I was scrubbing the last of the throw-up from the toilet bowl. I knew I was smart to not use the right bathroom!

“The hell I wanna get food with you for?” His voice was deeper than it was yesterday. Hungover. Tired. Hot. 

“Oh, you are so rude!” Asa was indignant, and I had to smile to myself a little. He was rude. 

Asa badgered him until he relented.

“OK. I’ll go.”  

We picked him up before sitting in silence for fifteen agonizing minutes at the table while we tried to control our stomachs. Asa sat slumped against the restaurant wall, trying not to throw up on the peeling paint before they brought us our soup.  

“What’re we doing after this?” 

The hangovers had finally curbed themselves and the rest of the day had yet to be decided. Asa giggled and pushed their leftover noodles around with chopsticks before looking up at me with a cat grin. 

“We could get another tattoo?” 

There, now you know how he ended up next to me at a tattoo parlor downtown. Asa was already on the table, adding shrieks and gasps to the ambience of the shop. No matter how many times we did this, they never got used to the kiss of the needle. 

“You nervous?” 

I shook my head and swung my feet back and forth. 

“It don’t hurt?” 

“Nah. I fell asleep my first time.” 

He sucked in through his teeth and it made a whistling noise. It was like he’d handed me a gold star. 

If he was impressed, I wanted him to know there was more where that came from. I could chuck a steak knife at his head too, if he wanted.

“Let me see what you’re gonna get.” 

I obliged and unlocked my phone to show him a picture of the sketch. It was a little girl on a boat that was shaped like a crescent moon, paddling her way towards a cluster of stars. They called my youngest sister Luna at school. 

“Where are you putting it again?” 

He was a good entertainer. As if he didn’t remember where I was going to put it! We’d stopped at Target right before this so I could buy a pair of cheap shorts specifically for the placement of the tattoo. 

I humored him anyway, turning my right leg towards him and exposing the bare skin. I poked at a spot higher up on the side of my thigh. He didn’t blink.

“Right there.” 

He whistled through his teeth again. 

Somewhere between that first party and the tattoo shop, it had been mentioned he was a Scorpio, and his birthday happened to fall on another cold night where I happened to be, once again, drunk.

Your liver is only young and functional once!

It was a few weeks after I’d gotten that tattoo, and I couldn’t deny that I needed to be on his mind the same way he’d been on mine. So, I messaged him. 

Happy birthday, slut. 

It was simple. Three words that revealed just a little bit more of what I needed from him. His reply was quick. 

Thanks, slut.

I was shameless. My fingers flew across my phone screen, finding words to fill the space--anything to keep his replies coming, because they were coming in quick.

I celebrated my victory, drunk and giggly in front of a beach house on Del Playa where the attendees inside were shaking the floors to Mr. Brightside. 

And that was the day he was no longer just a friend of a friend.   

I wish I could tell you the rest of the story, detail for detail, but please understand. Somewhere along the line I’d gotten lost in him, and the plot outran me. 

Tonight, I’m not drunk. 

I actually haven’t touched alcohol in over a year and a half, since he showed me why he could only ever be a friend of a friend.

The memory makes my sit turn sour and my stomach weaken. I’m obviously not talking about alcohol. 

Still, I roll over and blindly search for my phone under the pillows, as if hiding it would change the inevitable.

Once found, I unlock it, eyes squinting against the brightness of the screen, and open my messages. I have to scroll five times to hover over an unsaved number with a different area code than all the others.

Of course, I click on it. I’m still not sure if it’s pathetic—that I don’t have to be drunk to do something like this—but I type out a message. I’ve typed it before, only this time, it means more. 

Remember this one? Happy birthday, slut. 

I think I’ll have to wait forever, but it’s only moments. 

Yeah, I do. 

I am slightly older than I was when we first met, and much less excited about finding out what's around the corner. I am no longer willing to give myself to the universe's mercy.

But, he says he remembers.

At this moment, I am nineteen again. I feel as if I could love him forever.

I wonder if he remembers that he was only supposed to be a friend of a friend. Why?

Because he was a whore, and girls got set back hundreds of years every single time they gave into him.

And, I was an additional name on the list.

The thoughts are overwhelming, just like he had always been to me. All those memories from one text message. 

I do wish I could tell you the rest of the story detail for detail, but I’m sure you can put it together for yourself by now. 

They should come up with a new word for people like my friend of a friend. I’ve agonized over this on many nights, drunk or sober.

My friend, who treated me the way he did because someone else long before me had treated him worse, who loves cats and fast cars and stuffed animals that look odd, who loves me double in the night because he knows in the morning he won't at all. 

Those who knew about him and I know not to bring up the subject. But occasionally, I’ll run into someone from that lifetime, and they'll ask me about him.

Each time, I plaster on a smile, preparing to give the easiest answer I can think of. 

“Oh, I didn't really know him that well. He was just a friend of a friend.”