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Losing is an experience Bradley never thought he’d have to grapple with. He’s used to servants waiting on him hand and foot, to crowds parting at his will, to having his friends answer every beck and whim, each snap of his fingers.
The crown is—was—heavy on his head, he thinks bitterly, a hand clenched around a can of beer. Uppercrusts don’t lose. They’re showered in praise, they excel at everything they do, they win X Games undefeated. Until they don’t. His shoulders have never felt so cold without a royal mantle.
The kicker is that he should be more angry—should be tearing the frat house and the world apart in a flurry of injustice but… he hadn’t lost unjustifiably, had he? He doesn’t have a legitimate reason to be caught up in this amalgamation of frustration circling around his head, not a good one at least. He imbibes from his stale beer, gone warm in the heat of his palm, and decides he’s had enough of his stifling bedroom, inundated with reminders of his failure. He can scarcely look at his skateboard without Max Goof searing his retinas like an afterimage on a television. Max Goof: what an unusually stupid name. Such an unassuming name for the tornado that shredded his life to scraps.
Shrugging on a coat, he pockets a couple more cans of beer before stepping out into the tail-end of autumn. A gentle breeze ruffles his bangs as he fumbles to lock the front door, grateful that he hadn’t run into anyone on his way out. The park—or more accurately, the sad excuse of a park on campus—seems as good a place as any for depressing rumination so he sets off, glaring at two giggling girls as he stalks toward a more shadowy area. There’s a bench on the outskirts of a nearby pavilion, shaded by an overarching treetop and shielded from direct view for the most part, that he collapses onto.
It’s quiet out here with nothing but the company of a cacophony of crickets. The hiss of a freshly cracked can of beer is his only company, no cliques, no façades to hide behind. It’s not any easier to breathe out here.
Footsteps pad somewhere distantly behind him right as he cracks his beverage open—he whips around, alarmed, praying that it’s not a campus officer here to slam him with a fine for underage drinking. Public drinking too now that he’s thinking about it. He has the money and then some but god, his reputation is already in tatters—he doesn’t need another red mark on his record.
“Oh shit,” says a voice he knows all too well. “Sorry, I didn’t think—Brad?”
He bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s Bradley.”
“You haven’t been here before,” remarks Max. He sits down on the bench, too close for comfort. Bradley refuses to so much as dignify him with a glance—if he does, he might shatter.
“Why are you here?”
“I smoke here every night.” Max flicks his lighter, polluting the air with cigarette smoke—wait, no, not cigarette smoke. Bradley can hardly believe the audacity; he breaks his short-lived promise not to look at him to stare at him incredulously. “Why’re you here?”
“None of your business,” replies Bradley. He chugs about half the can of beer under Max’s indecipherable scrutiny, feeling as though ants are crawling on him. This is—is what he despises about Max, how jittery and unsure of himself he can make Bradley feel without saying anything at all. He wonders what it’s like to go through life with that level of nonchalance, to not calculate every move he has to make.
“You’re right,” says Max, exhaling another cloud of foul smoke. “Something happen?”
Bradley finishes his beer, setting it beside him. He cannot possibly be serious. “What?”
Gesturing vaguely to his empty can, Max raises his eyebrows. He’s got a dopey smile on his face, eyes half-lidded, and something in Bradley’s gut twists.
“You happened.”
The world is still around them for a charged moment, then two, then three, then Bradley stops counting. They clear their throats simultaneously—he has to bury the urge to fish his other beer out of his pocket, anticipation prickling his skin like a crack of thunder. Even he can’t calculate what this conversation will branch into.
“Look man,” starts Max, sounding as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “I’m not sorry that I won. I’m not sorry about a lot of things that went down before that competition if that’s what we’re talking about. But, uh—I’m sorry that you hate me. I think in another timeline we would be… I dunno. Maybe it’s just the weed talking.”
“… Do you hate me?”
Max squints at him, dragging his joint up to his lips. “No.”
“You should,” says Bradley. He drums his fingers on his thigh, acutely aware of Max inching closer.
“But I don’t.”
“Strangely enough.” Bradley flattens his palm, catches himself holding his breath oddly enough. It feels as though something is ending between them that never started—like there’re words unspoken left lingering in the atmosphere, dangling just out of reach, the blank space between the last letter and a period.
“Strangely enough,” parrots Max with a resigned sigh.