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"I'm telling you, it works!" Porsche says, nudging Pete.
Pete sighs, his shoulders hunched.
His best friend is being stubborn and stupid. Not a nice combination, if one were to ask Pete. They are sitting in the cafeteria, amid the clattering that fills up the whole expanse. And yet, Pete is unable to block Porsche's endless bullshit. At this point, he’s almost worried that the bad influence might get to him.
"You wouldn't know unless you try it," Porsche tries again, still as persuasive. Pete wonders where he gets this never-ending energy from.
"What if it hit a girl? then what?" Pete narrows his eyes at Porsche.
The enthusiasm on Porsche’s face does not falter one bit. "But what if it hit a boy? Think positive!"
"Just because it worked for you and Kinn, doesn't mean it'll work for me, too," Pete says, his voice annoyed and tired. Four hours of morning class had already sucked the life out of him and Porsche isn’t helping his case. "I'm not going to throw my shoe at somebody and wait for the love of my life to appear. That's absurd."
Porsche shrugs and stands up, "Got to go. Class starts at 2.” He swings his bag over his shoulder. “And you," Porsche leans down, pointing a finger towards Pete with a serious face, "remember to say the magic words," he sounds so serious that one might actually start believing him.
“Lover, lover where you at? I hope this hits you in the head,” Porsche reminds Pete, almost whispering as if it's a million-dollar secret. Porsche pats his shoulder lightly, casually waves his hand, and walks away.
Pete watches his best friend walk out and stop right outside the entrance of the cafeteria. Porsche is looking around, and then, is suddenly pulled into a hug by Kinn from behind. Pete finds himself smiling at the adorable sight. But thereafter follows the hollowness that fills his chest. Isn't it nice to have someone whom you can kiss, hug, and just...be there with?
Pete looks down at his empty plate, thinking. He knows desperation and his best friend’s great persuasion skills are getting to him when he actually starts considering Porsche's advice. The fact that he hasn't been in a single relationship ever since he joined college, which was, three years ago, isn't helping either.
He bends down to reach for his shoe but stops midway. What the hell am I doing?
He eyes his blue shoes again. It's heavy enough to faint someone out.
The heavier the shoes are, the harder they'll fall for you. Pete shakes his head, wanting to dismiss the thought. He almost hit the table in doing so.
Maybe he should try with something lighter. Maybe, he should try tomorrow. Or not try at all. Soon, his mind fills with thoughts running in circles, back and forth, conflicting, convincing, bothering him. He scoffs in disbelief. Apparently, his thoughts have been successfully bewitched by Porsche’s irrational reasonings and now he is doomed.
Pete takes a deep breath. Before he can give himself a chance to think again and back off, he pulls his right shoe off, feeling the weight of it in his hands. He gets off his seat, stands beside his table and closes his eyes. As he mumbles the words, that’s all he hears echoing in his head. With half-confidence and half-regret, he throws the shoe in a random direction. There is no turning back now. He has done it, and now he'd jus—
“What the fuck?” A voice roars. Pete opens his eyes wide.
The whole cafeteria falls silent and everything stills for a moment. Pete's eyes fall on the person's back for a microsecond. The person is rubbing the back of his head all while looking around for the culprit.
Pete should have approached the guy and apologised or he should’ve sat with his head down and pretended to not exist—not many would’ve noticed him anyway. But instead, he turns on his heel and starts walking, almost faltering, towards the exit door. Maybe, he should've listened to his brain for once. Maybe he—
“Hey!” he hears the same voice, this time even louder. Don't look back, Pete. Keep walking. He won’t notice—
“Hey, you! Plaid shirt!” The guy calls out again. And this time Pete is sure the guy is calling him. So obviously, he does the next best thing his head tells him to.
He runs.
He's running out of the cafeteria, skipping through the stairs and heading towards the ground, half hoping the person has stopped chasing him. He slows down to look back. Big mistake. Not only did he see a guy running with his blue shoe in his hand but also he notices a few other people following his cue.
At this point, Pete should’ve given up. Surrender to his faith. But instead, he runs again. He spots a locker room in the corner of his eyes and makes a run for it.
Pete doesn’t even realise what happens in the next few seconds. He opens the door in one swift push, pushing it back to lock the door, his hand slipping, and the door opening with such force that Pete stumbles back, almost falling.
The guy enters, closing the door behind him and blocking it. The guy bends down, hands on his knees, panting. Pete notices the cause of his doom—the shoe—in his hand. They stand facing each other but nobody speaks for a long moment. The sound of loud breaths takes up all the space.
Pete should be frightened, should scream for help or maybe take out his phone and call Porsche but he simply stands there, unmoving. He finds himself captivated by the way the guy slowly looks up at him and meets his eyes.
“Damn, you're fast!” the guy breathes out and finally stands up straight.
“Uh, thanks?” Pete says, awkwardly, as if he didn't just throw his shoe on his head.
“Thanks? Thanks?” the guy says, his voice raised in disbelief.
Pete feels something tug across his chest at the flow of a velvety soft voice. He finds himself appreciating the boy's lean body, broad shoulders, and the way brown hair falls on his forehead adding to his boyish charms. Is he supposed to find his potential killer attractive?
“Hey?” the guy snaps his finger in the air.
“You're handsome,” Pete blurts out.
“What?”
“I think you're handsome,” Pete repeats. He must be crazy. He has to be, because what the hell?
The guy takes a step back, thrown off by the sudden compliment at the most unsuitable moment. “Do you throw your shoes at anyone you find handsome?”
“I...no, it's this, nevermind…I'm sorry.”
“Why on earth would you even do something like that? Were you dared or something?”
Pete rubs the back of his neck, uncertain of what he should say. “Uh, No, it's not like that. I...it was a mistake.”
The guy chuckles humourlessly. “You're saying that...your shoe slips off your feet and dropped on me by mistake?”
Pete looks at him and blinks dumbly. He tries to think of any excuse that could help him out, but couldn't find one. He decides to tell the truth, not wanting to stretch his embarrassment any longer.
“There's this thing…” he pauses for a moment to think of the best way to make it sound less stupid (turns out there were none). He blurts out in one breath, “my best friend's stupid. He thinks if I'll close my eyes, say some magic words and throw my shoe, then it'll hit the love of my life. It's lame, I know. I don't even know why I–”
“Hold on a second.” The guy says, an amused smile playing on his lips. He takes a step closer. “This is funny. You're kidding, right?”
"No..." Pete replies, his voice is small. This would be the perfect moment for the ground to swallow him.
“For real?” the smile grows bigger.
Pete nods. Heat creeps through his neck in embarrassment. "I'm sorry," he apologizes again.
“What's your name?” The guy asks. Pete's eyes widen. Is he going to track me down and forever haunt me?
"I won’t kill you, relax," the boy says in a slightly teasing manner.
Pete feels a whirling sensation in his chest at his smile. He couldn't believe the boy hasn't beaten the life out of him yet. For a moment he thinks of giving Porsche’s name instead.
“I'm Pete,” he replies, unwillingly.
"Vegas! Vegas? Vegas, are you in there?" A voice comes from outside followed by multiple knocks on the door.
“Yes! I'm coming, Tankhun!” the boy, apparently whose name is Vegas, shouts back.
The boy–Vegas–smiles at him. “I'll get going now, and...don't go around hitting people with this,” Vegas says, throwing the shoe towards Pete.
Pete, on reflex, awkwardly bends forward to catch. “Uh, y-yeah. Thanks.”
Vegas lets out a small laugh. “See you around, Pete.”
Pete feels stupid at the way his heart jumps.
Pete watches Vegas open the door and leave. He hears some muffled voices from the other side that he assumes would be Vegas and his friend.
He looks down at his shoe-less foot and chuckles, amused by his own actions. He can't believe he did that.
The next day, Pete sees Vegas in the cafeteria, again. And the day after, again. On the third day, his eyes on their own started roaming around the cafeteria to spot the certain brown-haired guy. Vegas’s silk shirts always made it easier for Pete to spot him. Although he couldn't get past the staring, it was still something.
A few days later, while jogging around the campus, he hears his name called out. The familiar voice makes his heart react to it on its own. He decides to ignore it and continues to jog until he hears it again. This time, he stops and looks around, half wanting to see the person he's expecting and half hoping it's not who he's thinking.
“Is this how it's going to be?” Vegas says as he jogs towards Pete.
“Huh?” Pete says blankly.
Vegas smirks, “me chasing after you all the time, that is.”
And there goes his heart rate.
“Did you call me?” Pete asks, hoping to sound unbothered.
“Uh, yeah. Can I join you, if you don't mind?” Vegas says, vaguely moving his hands. Pete notices the football jersey and the way it perfectly clings around his shoulder.
Vegas clears his throat. "Pete?"
Pete fakes a cough to hide his embarrassment when he realises he had been checking Vegas out. "Huh?"
"You 'huh' a lot, you know that?" Vegas teases.
"Hu-no, I don't."
"Sure," Vegas says, visibly smiling, "I'm Vegas, by the way."
"I kno--I mean, it's a nice name." Pete clears his throat, wishing it would somehow reduce the trailing embarrassment. So much for being smooth, Pete.
Vegas chuckles, clearly amused by the quirks of Pete. "I have a few questions for you. Can I ask?"
Pete starts to jog. Vegas follow along beside him.
"Uh, why?" Pete absolutely loathes the phrase 'Can I ask?' Nothing good ever seems to follow up that question.
"You had hit me with your shoe, don't you think it's fair?"
Pete speeds up a little, not wanting Vegas to see his face. "I did apologize for it, but whatever, fine."
"Cool. Do you play basketball?"
"Sometimes."
"Do you like sweet?"
"Love sweets."
"Dogs or cats?"
"Definitely, cats."
"Can I get the magic words?"
Pete stops and turns to look at Vegas. "What?"
"I want to throw my shoe at someone." Pete would've thought Vegas was joking had it not been the serious face he had on display.
"Oh," Pete says, realizing the reason Vegas was here. Any little hope he had that Vegas might even slightly like him is thrown off the cliff. Why did he even hope that? "It's stupid. It doesn't work. It didn't work on you," he adds bitterly, ignoring the ache in his heart.
"Who said that?" Vegas looks genuinely curious. Pete was about to ask him to leave him alone but Vegas beats him to it.
"I think it only works...one way," Vegas says as he drags his hand through his hair and looks away.
Pete clicks his tongue. "What are you saying?"
"Pete, do I have to throw my shoe at you to make you like me back?"
- ten years later -
"And that's how your papa and I started dating."
Venice jumps on the bed, clasping his hands. "This is the best bedtime story ever, dad!"
"I can't believe you're telling this story to a seven-year-old," Pete says, fondly smiling as he straightens the comforter out of habit.
"It's my favourite story, too, Venice." Vegas raises his hand in the air and Venice gives him a high-five. Vegas looks to his side to see Pete looking back at him adoringly. He takes Pete's hand and intertwines their fingers. Even after all this time, Pete still feels his heart race at the touch just the same.
Venice looks at his parents with a wide toothy smile as he sits up straight on his bed. "Pa, dad, you know Casie?"
"Your classmate?" Pete asks, suppressing his smile, already sensing what their son might have to say. Venice nods, shyly.
"I...like her," he says, almost proudly.
"Our little Venice got a crush?" Vegas coos, lightly tapping on his nose with his finger. Venice looks at Pete and then at Vegas. His smile gets bigger, looking innocent as ever.
"Papa..." Venice says, "can you tell me the...magic words?"
Pete gasps and Vegas burst into laughter. This is Pete's biggest nightmare coming close to reality; their son going around, throwing his shoes in the air, in search of love.
"Venice, no, do not throw your shoes on anybody, please," Pete says and gives Vegas the look. "Vegas, tell him."
"I'll tell you the magic words," Vegas says, teasing Pete, which earns him a glare from his beloved husband. Vegas leans forward and gives Pete a quick peck. "Don't frown." Pete's eyes widen and he immediately turns to look at Venice, who has his eyes covered with his hands.
"Are you done, dad and Pa?" Venice asks in a small voice, peeking between his fingers. Pete couldn't help but smile at their adorable ball of sunshine.
Vegas chuckles. " Yes, you can, but before you get the magic words," Vegas says, "you'll have to," a dramatic pause, "plan our summer trip."
"Summer trip?" Venice chirps in excitement. "Really? Wow! Okay! Venice will do it!"
"And no throwing shoes," Pete adds.
"And no throwing shoes," Vegas repeats, nodding.
Venice pouts. "Fine," he finally says, defeatedly.
Pete can't believe he has come so far in life where he has the love of his life sitting in front of him, telling their child stories, and laughing together.
"If the shoe hits, it's a fit," Vegas had said that once, and thought it was funny. Pete, however, still feels a little embarrassed every time the story resurfaces. He found his love in the most unexpected and strange way. But, he wouldn't have it any other way.
So, does falling in love involves throwing a shoe at a stranger? Yes, maybe. At least in Pete's case, it did.