2 4

accent

noun. a punctuated note, played with emphasis.

alt. verb. to play a note strongly.

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JUST BEFORE NOON ON SUNDAY, I drive over to Quentin's apartment building.

He lives in an old redbrick with three storeys and no elevator. Though we're best friends, the reason we don't flat together is because our lifestyles are incompatible. We're self-aware enough to know that combining accommodation would just aggravate each other. Quentin, as an Engineering and Physics double major, marching band section leader, and Halston boys' badminton team member, needs lots and lots of sleep and quiet time and peaceful study.

I am a restless drummer who loves to party. Enough said.

I knock on his door and hear, "It's open," from inside. He's expecting me: I'm bringing takeaway Chinese food as hangover food.

The main room is half occupied by a living area and half by a kitchen, a couch partitioning the space. I set the takeaway bags on the small square dining table, where Quentin is slumped in a chair. He's wearing a navy hoodie with the strings pulled tight around his face, looking miserable.

"Good morning," I greet, sunny. My eyes dart to the clock on the wall. 12:05. I amend, "Good afternoon."

Quentin makes a dour noise when I set his carton of fried noodles in front of him, sliding in to the opposite chair. He grabs up the wooden chopsticks in a paper sleeve and dangles them in front of me. "I want you to stab one into each of my eyes."

"Damn," I sigh. Ah. I had a feeling he wouldn't be feeling great today. "That bad?"

The food smells divine, sesame oil and the perfect amount of vegetables. I shovel a mouthful of noodles before I even respond to Quentin.

The week just past was midterm week. The whole campus went into a stress-cramming trance, no time for anything but study, and after this week Halston University gives us a week off classes for fall break. The parties and events this weekend were insane. Quentin and I went to the Science Faculty Ball together on Friday with a gaggle of Engineering friends.

I invited Bay—she's technically in the Science Faculty, as a Math major. Well, actually, because I was afraid of getting shot down, I mentioned that both those events were happening and determined her reaction. Nearly instantly she told me she'd picked up the maximum amount of Foxhole shifts during fall break to bolster her personal savings. She wasn't available any evenings, so there was really no point asking her explicitly anyway.

As if she would have been my ball date, anyway. She was the one who made this secrecy a necessary condition. I don't know what I was thinking. Perhaps because she's lonely, I was trying to be nice.

I didn't dwell on the topic, because on Saturday—yesterday—my housemates and I held a banging Halloween costume party and invited every person we know. Quentin and one of his flatmates, Noah, went as Luigi and Mario, respectively. I left costume shopping way too late, distracted by studying and sitting tests, and ended up fashioning an old bed sheet into a toga. I never chose an identity, but people assumed I was Apollo or Achilles. Anyways, throughout the night I lost nearly all my clothing to strip beer pong.

I swallow my mouthful and ask, "Are you that hungover?"

Quentin stabs at his noodles. "Not hungover, considering I fucking threw up all the alcohol in my system," his eyes flick downwards, "in front of Krista."

I know it's less the hangover and more the embarrassment. Krista Ming is in Quentin's Biophysics class this semester, and from what I can tell they've become close friends. She, an influencer, is the closest thing Halston University has to a celebrity, with over a million Instagram followers and a sweet job at the hottest, cheapest nightclub in town.

Krista was also at the Halloween party yesterday. If my blotchy memory serves me correctly, she and two of her friends were the Powerpuff Girls. She (Blossom) was the only one staying sober. When she found Quentin sick in the bathroom, she drove him back here. "She'll be nice about it," I comfort Quentin.

That only seems to make him more upset. "Of course she'll be nice about it," he says, despairing. "She'll tell me she handles people throwing up all the time, and it's not at all embarrassing to be a lightweight. Except to me." Quentin lowers his forehead to his left forearm and moans pathetically, his inky black hair falling in strands across the sleeve of his hoodie. "I want to die."

"You can't die until we submit the SOFTENG assignment," I remind him. Bastards giving our class both a midterm and an object-oriented programming assignment due during fall break.

Quen raises his head and shakes it, as if grounding himself back here. "How was the rest of your night? Meet anyone interesting?" Meeting someone is his codeword for finding a new fling. Before Bay, I did it often enough that Quen got used to leaving parties without me, even if we arrived together.

But Bay and I agreed that we can't tell other people, so I answer, "My night was fun. I did some clean-up and went to bed around four. A bunch of my housemates' friends stayed over, though."

As we work through the food, one of the bedroom doors opens.

Noah steps out, a baggy sweatshirt hanging from his slim shoulders. He nods in acknowledgment at me—we're not close; Quen, who does badminton with Noah and Fraser (the other roommate), is our mutual connection. "How did you get home last night?"

"Krista drove me."

Noah, having grabbed a box of cereal, slams the cupboard door in the kitchen area shut. "Ah, how was that experience?"

Weird tone. Quen and I both notice. "Fine," he says slowly. "Why?"

"I mean, she and I have hung out a few times," Noah shrugs, "and I get the vibe she's high-maintenance."

Quen visibly stiffens at the table, mouth open before he even thinks. "What does high-maintenance even mean?"

"She just seemed a little stuck-up, you know? Like, the type of female who pretends to be so laid-back and understanding, but then sets impossibly high standards just so she can punish men when they don't meet them," Noah explains. He takes a large bite of cereal as if to buy him chewing time before having to respond to the Quen's next words.

Uh-oh.

"I don't get that vibe," Quen poses icily.

Noah swallows, eyes glinting amusedly. "Bitch is good at faking it."

"Whoa," Quen and I say in unison. But I'm intervening out of basic respect, and Quen is intervening for another reason entirely. He's out of his chair, almost like he was going to advance on Noah before reigning himself in.

Considering they live together, I thought Noah would know better. And by that, I mean he should know not to say bad things about Krista in front of Quen. If not because Krista's genuinely a great person—from meeting only a couple times, I saw her intelligence and kindness, plus a raging Star Wars obsession to match Quentin's—then just because she's important to Quen.

Basically: what the ever-loving fuck, Noah?

"Apologize," Quen says, voice nearly shaking.

From across the room, perched on a kitchen stool, Noah glances around as if looking at an audience. "To who? Krista? She didn't hear me, and you shouldn't go to war for that bitch. She's no Helen of Troy."

Quen startles into motion, before going very still. His breath leaks out, and I watch his jaw set. "You know what, you're right."

As his best friend of nearly ten years, I know this emotion: Quen initially gets hot-angry, like molten steel, and then because he's rational and controlled, he folds it inside and gets very, very cold-angry, like the hot blade plunged into water. It would be a mistake to assume he's no longer mad, because the anger is just hardening, strengthening. In this state, he can freeze everyone out—even his family—lose his interest and vigor, and not emerge from his room for days.

(Not my first time coaxing him back to life with takeaways.)

"—there's absolutely no point in fighting." Just as Noah relaxes, Quen continues, "Oh, I'm not renewing the lease for next semester."

Ooh. I resist putting a hand over my mouth. This tea is scalding.

"What?" Noah seethes.

I look to the few remaining noodles in front of me, averting my eyes but definitely not my ears as they have it out. "If you stay, I'll leave. You and Fray can find another roommate," Quen is saying. "Or find a new place. Whatever."

"Are you fucking serious?" Noah is baffled that Quen would be willing to upend his life—leaving his apartment, ending two friendships—in defense of Krista.

I'm not. I've always thought Quen holds onto things longer than he should. Once he is ready to let go, at least he fully commits.

"As of now, you have plenty of notice. I'm out," Quen says aloofly, walking to the shoe rack by the door. He drops his sneakers on the ground and steps into them. I guess we're leaving after this. I inhale the last of the noodles and start packing the Styrofoam cartons back into the paper bag.

When I accidentally make eye contact with Noah, he narrows his eyes disgustedly.

Wow. Dickhead.

"Is this about her?" he asks, eyes going back to Quen, steadying his tone with great effort. "Because I swear to God you guys won't even be friends once finals are over. She's using you to drag her own grades up this semester, and then she'll discard you—"

Quen pats his pockets, checking he has his wallet and keys. I join him by the door, knowing he would absolutely not notice my presence nor my absence in this state.

"—how can you not see that? You're making a big deal out of nothing."

Quen says flatly, halfway out of the flat, "She's smarter than both of us combined." Then he slams the door shut on our way out.

I purse my lips as we take the three flights of stairs down. Quen's long legs are flying down the steps, and I have to take care not to stumble keeping pace with him. I slide my stare sideways, noting his hard, unfocused stare. "Are you okay?"

"I'm furious," he answers.

"Understandable."

"I just need time to think," Quen grits out, "and cool off."

When we hit the ground floor, I deposit the takeaway trash in the nearest bin. "My car's right outside," I offer. "Should we go for a drive?"

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We go for a drive.

I give Quen my phone and let him peruse my music. I very quickly notice that he's queuing songs from my darkest punk albums for tracks that fit his mood: screaming, thundering, frenzied.

I clear my throat, turning onto one of the main roads hemming Halston University. There's a car freshener pendant hanging from the rearview mirror, shaped and printed like a woman's naked torso. Quen gave it to me last Christmas.

"What are you thinking?" I ask softly.

Quen doesn't reply for a long time. "Do Krista and I have one of those friendships of convenience you make in class and then let fade after the semester is over? Be objective."

"Noah is a grade-A scumbag," I retort. "Don't listen to him."

"But am I as blind, in a different way?"

I'm pretty sure he's in love, even if he won't admit it.

Not because Krista makes him into someone I've never seen before, but because she makes him more himself. More passionate, more upbeat, more thoughtful.

"As a fellow social butterfly," I begin, "friendships don't fade if you don't let them fade. It's hard but it's not complicated. You have to say hi every time you see them on campus, even if there's a part of you that questions wait, are we even that close, are we even on public acknowledgment level? You need to send them memes to break the DM ice, you need to celebrate birthdays, you need to see them in person." The one thing I know about people is that they want to be an individual instead of the background. Master the art of making people feel special, and a whole new world unlocks. "It's hard but it's not complicated. Consistency is key."

"Okay. What if consistency is not reciprocated?" Quen starts listing examples that sound oddly targeted: "What if you send messages and they constantly leave you on seen or delivered unless it's school-related? What if you initiate and they don't have time to study or hangout—but they will study and hangout with other people, their actual friends? What if they're nice to you, but only the same way they're nice to everybody? Would you keep pouring effort into that person when their actions are telling?"

Um...

"Never mind. It is complicated," I correct myself. "And in that case, then you gotta call it. Friends, but not good ones."

Quen turns his head toward the passenger window, sighing heavily. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

"You look like a fucking music video." He snorts at that, but I know it doesn't work to cheer him up.

So we drive onwards, looping out of Halston and onto the highway that threads back to Carsonville. I won't drive all the way back to our hometown, but I think some familiar sights, greenery like childhood friends, would do him some good.

Half an hour later, already turned around and on the way back to Halston, Quentin's phone chimes. He reads the text as says, "What," with bafflement.

"What?" I wonder.

Quen clears this throat. "I just got asked out."

I snort. "Was it Krista?"

"No. Joelle."

My eyes widen. I laugh, "I love how your life is so uneventful and then you have days where a year of drama happens all at once. Who the hell is Joelle?"

"She's a girl in my Biophysics discussion hour."

"Is she nice?"

"Yeah, she's nice, but," Quen ends the sentence there, unable to find any reasons why he shouldn't go on the date. But she's not Krista.

"I think you should go," I shrug.

"I don't like her like that," Quen protests.

As if it wasn't obvious. But Krista apparently isn't returning Quen's affection, which is her right, and I don't want him to get hurt. Even by clever, intelligent Star Wars fans. He should make some good memories along with weathering the bad ones.

"So? You think you shouldn't go on first dates unless you're ready to commit to the person asking?" I reason. "First dates are supposed to be fun. If you're just living to study, eat and sleep, first dates make you dress up, go outside, and have rigorous, intelligent conversation with another human being."

"I don't want to lead Jo on."

"This early on, there's no lead. It's just company," I try to convince him. "Get smoothies, or something."

"Smoothies," Quentin repeats slowly. "What if she hates me?"

I let out a groan of frustration. "People are so fucking afraid of other people these days."

Afraid of getting their feelings hurt, earning a bad reputation, making bad emotional investments, not having their feelings returned. Quen is cautious, Bay has exempted herself. I cannot relate. I'm not anxious. I look on the sunny side. Go where you are fed and watered, leave where you are not. Easy.

"Are you not?" Quen asks, no small tinge of wonder in his voice. The midday sun lies behind a smattering of gray clouds, and tiny, sporadic drops of rain hit the windshield.

I have no answer other than: "I don't let myself dwell on stuff like that."

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a / n :

i'm back! and with a double update :D

does anyone remember the halloween party callum was recollecting?

the most attentive readers of nightlife and double time (and maybe even blackout) will be able to piece it together with the overarching halston university timeline. the party was mentioned by all three narrators (krista, vivian, and callum) but with varying importance across the three books.

tl;dr: this chapter is not critical to the plot but it's a fun easter egg and linkage to the other halston books

aimee <3