It’s been almost two years since I got into my first serious relationship. It’s been almost a year since I got out of my first serious relationship. I haven’t dated, or even tried to, since then.
Friday night was the post-Induction party for my fraternity. That night, at my second-ever college party, I learned that drunk college adults are the equivalent of sober twelve-year-olds at their Spring Fling–glow sticks included.
By that I mean that once one person heard who I’m interested in in my frat, so did the drunk girl next to her, and so on. I thought it would end terribly. It actually worked out.
Turns out, he likes me too! And yes, he was drunk at first. But no, I wasn’t just a convenience.
I DD’d for eleven people that night, him included. I brought him home last, and we went up to his room. We laid in his bed, fully clothed, and talked.
“I’m wide awake,” I told him. “So I’m going to keep talking.”
He didn’t mind. He talked to me about his family, and asked about mine. We talked about fraternity stuff. We talked about liking each other.
“How did you not know?” I asked. “I thought I was obvious.”
“When we were leaving the volleyball game Wednesday night, people started teasing me about you–‘So what’s up with y’all?’ And my heart hurt.”
“What does that mean?” I laughed. He mostly was talking into his pillow, words slurring together. He wasn’t saying it directly, but I knew what he meant: I didn’t realize how I felt until it was pointed out to me.
“There was a literal pain in my chest, and I was like ‘Oh no. I’ve never felt like this before. What do I do?'”
It’s been a long time since I felt like I was experiencing such genuineness in a person I know is interested in me. Everything felt comfortable but not boring and fun but not exhausting.
“I’m a potato,” I told him. It’s not a new phrase for me to use; most of my fraternity have heard me say it several times about myself.
Throughout the night he’d responded to my saying that with different adjectives, “A sexy potato. A beautiful potato.”
His drunken and tired stupor left him with only a handful of adjectives before he stopped having good responses.
“A delicious potato.”
And as I burst with laughter, he groaned. “I’m drunk, please ignore that.” But I didn’t.
Instead I told him about N.A.U.L. (I introduce N.A.U.L. as my Best Guy Friend to new people). “I called myself a potato the other day to my best friend and he told me I was never allowed to bring it up again, but that if I am a potato, I’m a sweet potato.”
He groaned. “I messed up. I missed my opportunity.”
I laughed and liked him a little bit more.
Then I started to worry aloud. “What if things don’t work out between us and we’re both still in the fraternity and–”
He tightened his arm around me. “Don’t think about that.”
So I didn’t.
I was the little spoon, and we’d been quiet for awhile. I was worried he was asleep when I asked, “Will you regret this in the morning?”
“Nope,” he said immediately, tiredly. “Never.”
And I squeezed his hand, and asleep we were.
He was right. I woke him up around 8:30 with a joke from the fraternity GroupMe. We barely left the bed all day, talking and joking and laying on each other. He gave me a donut. We talked with his roommate.
At 4 I left after napping on him.
And I don’t know what we are. But I’m excited to find out.