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FRESHMAN YEAR (SEPTEMBER)
Ray wouldn't consider himself a particularly judgmental person, but he wouldn't have guessed that Hank Olson of all people would have a girlfriend. Not that it was unfeasible, the possibility just never crossed his mind.
Hank Olson, in his first interaction with the little group currently known as the Musketeers, had declared he was "raring to rip!", which Ray took to mean he meant to get around. Hank had also emphatically agreed with Peter McVries, Ray's roommate, in his returning declaration to "fuck his way across the seven seas".
On top of all of this, Hank was a huge nerd, a self-righteous prick and he swore like a sailor. Ray figured these were generally traits only a mother could love, even as he found himself endeared to Hank's presence.
And yet, here they are.
Art, Hank, Ray and Pete are all sitting around a shot glass, a bottle of vodka and a bottle of lemon juice, playing Never Have I Ever.
It was and is a terrible idea, especially since Ray has a 9:00 AM class the next day. He probably should have joined Art in his lemon juice shots, but the idea of knocking back something as shitty as lemon juice and not even getting tipsy made him unreasonably mad.
He's three shots deep, and he knows Pete has to be getting shitfaced. For all his big talk, Hank actually hasn't done all that much, but Pete has taken shots seven times, even with the outlandish shit Hank comes up with. It fills Ray with admiration and a curiosity like a hand around the throat.
"Never have I ever…" Pete says, slurring his words slightly, "…Had a girlfriend."
It seems like a big thing to drop, that the objectively beautiful Peter McVries has never had a girlfriend. Ray's mind runs slow and wild as he takes another shot before passing the glass to Hank, who raises his hand for one. Ray had one girlfriend back home, Jan, but he'd broken it off with her before he'd left for college. Never mind that they were going to the same one.
"Really, Pete?" Ray says, "You don't got a lady?"
"No, Ray," Pete says, a joke Ray doesn't understand laced through his tone, "No I don't."
"Wait," Hank says, pausing as he pours vodka into their one and only shot glass, "Had a girlfriend or has a girlfriend, 'cause there's a difference,"
"I don't have a girlfriend," Ray clarifies, breaking eye contact with Pete, "I broke it off before I left."
"Whoop-de-do, Garraty," Hank says, "But does it count if I have a girlfriend or only if I have had one?"
"What are you talkin' about?" Art asks.
Pete says, "If you're implyin' you got a girl I'm goin' to have to call your bluff, cause there ain't no fuckin' way."
"I got a girl!" Hank says, and takes a shot. "We've been datin' since junior fuckin' year a' high school!"
"You have a girl?" Ray says.
"You have a girl?" Art repeats, words clear but absolutely bewildered. Art's Hank's roommate, so it makes sense he's so confused.
"Where's she been?" Pete says.
"Does she have a tail or something?" Ray asks.
"I'd love her even if she had fuckin' hooves!" Hank says, which Ray thinks misses the point a little bit.
"Is she from back home?" Art asks. Then with a more teasing lilt, "Does she go to another school?"
Pete clasps his hands by his face, "Is she from Canada?"
"Oh fuck you," Hank says, "She ain't from Canada, she fuckin' goes here."
"She does not fucking go here," Ray says, "We've been at this school for a month and a half, no way we wouldn't have already met her,"
"She's been real fuckin' busy, okay!"
"So what I'm hearin' is that she's cheatin' on you," Pete says.
"Don't even joke, McVries!" Hank says, while Art cackles.
"Okay, fine Hank," Ray says, "Let's say you have a girl. What's she like?"
Hank lights up immediately. Game forgotten, Hank tells them all about his girl Clementine.
It's two weeks later when they get to meet Clementine, who's Black and tall and dresses like a box of crayons threw up on her. She's got a movie-star smile and fluffy black hair, and her New York accent is as thick as Hank's.
They're perfect for each other, even if she is four inches taller than him.
Pete greets her with a gesture to Hank and a "My condolences, ma'am,".
As Hank flips him off, Clementine just laughs delightedly and says, "No, no, he's stuck with me!".
She sits with them during the one lunch they're all free for, and it turns out she's in the same sorority Jan ended up in. That's the main reason Clementine hasn't been around much. Sororities seem like no joke.
She fits right in, but what amazes Ray is the way Hank blooms in her presence. They banter back and forth, leaning into each other's space and stealing each other's food, and neither of them really stop smiling. It's very endearing, and it fills Ray with a warmth he hasn't felt since seeing his parents dance around the kitchen when he was young.
Hank hasn't stopped smiling, hasn't stopped laughing at nearly everything Clementine says. He has his arm around her waist. Clementine, in turn, leans into his space, glances at him to check before she tells a story with him in it. They're adorable, giddy and lovesick, and it makes Ray faintly jealous, though he can't put his finger on why.
If couples like Hank and Clementine exist, then true love has to be real, right? Ray watches Hank snatch one of Clementine's fries as she tells them about her fashion major.
His eyes drift to Pete.
Right?
…
SOPHOMORE YEAR (MARCH, SPRING BREAK)
Pete had been having a goddamn wonderful dream before his phone started ringing. Something with a warm kitchen, a record player, and a boy with freckles like constellations. It leaves him feeling light as air until the blaring sound of his ringtone fully processes in his mind.
The boy of his dreams groans from across the room and rolls over.
Pete—on a cot on the floor of Ray Garraty's childhood bedroom—groans in return and feels around for his phone on the floor next to him. When he finds it, he yanks it towards him hard enough that the entire charger comes with it.
"Fuck do you want?" He grumbles. Ray's a real heavy sleeper, but he's not going to risk waking him or Mrs. Garraty, who is down the hall.
"McVries!" Hank's voice explodes from the tinny speakers. "I just had the idea of the fuckin' century!"
Pete mutters as he pulls the phone away from his ear enough to see the contact name (Sinbad the Sailorman) and— "Fuckin' Christ, it's 1:14 in the damn mornin'!"
"That's not fuckin' important right now," Hank says, frenzied, "I'm gonna propose to Clementine!"
That pops Pete's eyes right open. "You're gonna what?" He hisses, almost unable to keep his voice down.
"Propose!" Hank confirms. "Ain't that a good idea?"
Pete finds the whole idea entirely romantic, obviously. But marriage any earlier than, like, twenty-seven is reserved for poems and daydreams.
"Sorry," He says, "Remind me, you how old?"
"Twenty!" Hank says cheerfully.
"And you're gonna propose to your girl? At the ripe ol' age of twenty? You can't even drink at your weddin'!"
"You ain't any older than me!" Hank says, offended.
"Yeah, but I ain't gettin' down on one knee any time soon!" Pete sighs, "Okay, fine," he says, squeezing his eyes closed, "Let's say this is a good idea,"
"Which it is," Hank stresses.
"Sure," Pete says, "Let's say it's a good idea, where'er you gettin' money for an engagement ring?"
"Well, I'm plannin' to get one second-hand—"
"Hank!" Pete bursts out, just a little too loud. "You can't get a second-hand ring!"
"Do you know how much fuckin' carbon is emitted from diamond minin'?" Hank says. "It's unethical!"
"Sure." Pete says, dropping it. "You know her ring size?"
"No," Hank says.
"Favorite gemstone? Preferred metal? Stance on marriage?"
"Her birthstone is topaz," Hank offers. "But no to the rest of that."
"This is what happens when you come up with ideas in the middle of the damn night!"
"Well, I came up with it at like eleven," Hank says, like that's any better, "I was watching Love, Actually, 'cause it's one of the four fuckin' DVDs my parents own, it kind of fuckin' sucks, but anyway, Art wasn't fuckin' answerin' my calls!"
"Yeah, 'cause Art has the sleepin' schedule of an old man," Pete says. Art's going to wake up at 8:00 AM sharp to twenty missed calls on his phone. "Never trust how you feel about your life after 9:00 PM."
"Okay, but I can trust this!" Hank says. "I fuckin' love her!"
And that makes Pete's poet heart sing. "Alright, alright," He says, softer than before, "How 'bout you leave me the fuck alone right now, and then we'll get the Musketeers together soon and go ring shoppin'."
"Great idea!" Hank says, and Pete can hear him beaming. It makes him feel a little bit worse for putting up such a fight, but with it currently being 1:21 AM, can he be blamed?
"Get her ring size," Pete reminds him, "It's no use if the ring's ethical if it don't fit."
"You're right, you're right," Hank says. There's a little hitch in the audio and Pete can tell he's been put on speaker.
"Okay," Hank says, and then, as though he's typing out a message—"What's…your…ring…size! Send, and then what's…your…stance…on…marriage? Send!"
"You're fuckin' with me, Olson." Pete says, laughing, "You did not just send her that text."
"Why? What the fuck's wrong with it?" Hank says.
"Boy, you couldn't be less subtle if you tried. Jesus Lord!"
"I don't appreciate the fuckin' slander!" Hank says. Then, pouting, "She hasn't responded yet."
"No shit, Olson," Pete says, "It's one in the mornin'!"
"Whatevah!" Hank says.
"I'm goin' to bed, Hank," Pete says, attempting to nip the conversation in the bud. "I got shit to do tomorrow." Really, his only plan revolves around trying to impress Mrs. Garraty by making dinner, but he'll need to have his full mental capacity for that.
"Okay, fuck you, goodnight!" Hank says, and hangs up.
Pete clicks his phone off and rolls sideways to gaze at Ray. He's going to be miserable in the morning.
…
SOPHOMORE YEAR (MAY, SUMMER BREAK)
"I give him two minutes." Ray says, starting a stopwatch on his computer. Pete hums noncommittally.
"I think he's gonna do it this time," Art says. Honestly, he thinks Hank might never get out the door, but a little optimism never hurt anyone.
The footsteps that had been getting steadily further down the hall stop and change direction, pounding back towards the door until it slams open and Hank bursts back inside.
"I can't do it." Hank announces to the room, pressed against the door with the ring box against his chest. "I can't fuckin' do it."
"You can do it," Pete says, laying next to Art on his bed. He's playing Snake on his phone, and he currently has a score of forty-eight, which is a lot better than Art can do.
"Thirty-six seconds." Ray says. "Record low."
They've been playing this game for a half hour, at this point. Hank has charged out of the door six times, declaring he's got this, before he chickens out and swings back into the room. His longest time away is four minutes. He'd gotten all the way out into the driveway before freaking out that time.
The house feels empty. It's summer. Collie has been gone for three days, and he's staying in Sioux Falls for the whole break. Stebbins vanished after his last final two days ago, Harkness got on the road bright and early this morning, and Barkovitch has been gone for a week, by virtue of the Bachman Art Department getting their finals over early.
Art's flight is a red-eye that doesn't leave until 4AM the next morning, and Pete and Ray aren't leaving for Ray's mom's until tomorrow afternoon, but Hank is supposed to be driving home right now. Actually he was supposed to be on the road an hour ago. There's only one small issue: he's going to propose while he and Clementine are both back in New York.
"Hank, you have to get over yourself." Ray says. He's propped at Hank's desk, tapping away at the spreadsheet he's making.
"You don't think I'm tryin'!?" Hank says. He opens the box and stares at the ring. Art can't see it from his vantage point on the bed, but he's seen it so much in the past two or so months that he could probably draw it in his sleep. It's a gold band, with a tear-drop shaped diamond surrounded by smaller, multi-colored gems. They'd been to one Goodwill, four consignment shops and two antique malls before Hank had landed on that one. It's a beautiful ring, and Art knows Clementine will love it.
"She's gonna love the ring." Pete says. The snake bonks into a wall and he looks up from his phone. "She loves you."
"Clementine's goin' to say yes, Hank." Art says. Ray nods emphatically in agreement.
"You don't fuckin' know that!" Hank says, and Art furrows his brows, noticing again how stressed Hank looks. He rises and pulls Hank into a hug.
"You can do this, buddy." Art tells him, and Hank groans in response.
"But what if she says no? And fuckin' stabs me with hot pokers?" Hank says, hitting his head against Art's chest. This scenario is the most ridiculous in his growing catalog of what-ifs, which over the course of the afternoon have gone from the already-unlikely "And breaks up with me" to "And seam-rips my skin off."
"That's not going to happen." Ray reassures. He types "stabbed with hot pokers" into the "Possible Proposal Consequences" column of his spreadsheet.
"That's not going to happen," Hank imitates, "You don't fuckin' know that." Art begins rocking them back and forth, and, in a pleasant surprise, Hank makes no movement to leave the hug.
"Okay, c'mon," Pete says, rolling up into a cross-legged position, "You can't keep doin' this."
"I don't know," Ray says, "I think we could let him keep going. This is really entertaining."
Hank groans again.
"Hank." Pete says. He gets up from the bed and peels Hank out of Art's hug, taking Hank by the shoulders and shaking him. "You are goin' to go out there, drive to New York and propose to your girlfriend or else I'm gonna seam-rip your skin off."
That, if nothing else, gets Hank so full of righteous fury that he briefly forgets his fear.
"Don't be stealin' my threats, Peter!" Hank exclaims.
"Oh my God, go get your girl, Henry!" Pete says, twirling Hank around and shoving him out the door. "Good luck and don't come back here!"
"Good luck!" Ray calls.
"You'll be in my prayers!" Art offers, "Good luck!"
"Hallelujah," Hank says sarcastically, before Pete slams the door shut and leans against it.
"Lord willing," Pete says, "The next time we hear from him he'll be a married man,"
…
SOPHOMORE YEAR (JUNE, SUMMER BREAK)
Hank is kind of freaking the fuck out, actually.
He's in his childhood bedroom, staring into his mirror. He hears the doorbell ring and the front door open, before Clementine and his parents' conversation filters through the thin-ass walls of their apartment. Fuck his stupid fucking life.
"Get up." Hank tells the mirror. "Get the fuck up."
Mirror-Hank stubbornly refuses to get up, and instead continues looking vaguely nauseous.
"Henry!" His mom calls from the living room. "Clementine's here!"
He's practiced on Art, Pete, Ray, Harkness, Barkovitch, Stebbins, Barkovitch's cat, the mirror, and every stuffed animal in his room. He has the ring, he has the picnic basket packed, he has the picnic spot located. He's prepared. He has a plan. He's raring to rip.
"Get the fuck up." He tells the mirror again. Mirror-Hank does not get up.
"Henry!" His mom shouts again. She says something else to Clementine before saying, loud enough that Hank can hear her, "Clementine, why don't you just get him?"
"Ma!" Hank shouts, scrambling for the ring box. Clementine cackles and Hank hears her boots click down the hallway.
She knocks, absolute angel that she is, giving Hank the last second needed to shove the box into his pocket and fling himself at the door.
"Hey," He says, breathless both from the exertion and from how beautiful she looks trying not to laugh, her Afro a halo around her head.
"Hi," She says, loosing her battle with her giggles as she starts to card her fingers through his messy hair. "Tryin' a new hairstyle?"
Actually, he'd almost ripped it out of his scalp while freaking the fuck out, but he's not going to tell her that. He laughs and leans into her touch.
"You look really pretty," Hank says.
"You're lookin' sharp yourself," Clementine says, taking her hands off his head, "Now, we gotta go! A handsome man is takin' me on a picnic!"
There's approximately one bazillion fucking people in New York City and all of them are in Central Park at 11:00AM on a Tuesday.
"Are we gonna be able to get a table?" Clementine asks, and Hank can't believe she'd underestimate him like that.
"Obviously." Hank says, taking her hand and leading her towards the picnic table he'd staked out the day before. Through a completely fucking reasonable and normal amount of time wandering around Central Park, he'd picked the picnic table with the perfect sun-to-shade ratio and the table that was least likely to be taken at 11:00AM on a weekday.
It didn't hurt that he'd attached a large "RESERVED!!!!!!!!!!!!! FOR A DATE!!!!!!!!!!!!!" poster-board sign to the top.
Clementine giggles when she sees the sign and affectionately calls him a piece of work. They sit on the same side of the picnic table, pressed together shoulder to thigh.
Hank made stupid little tea sandwiches with cucumbers and cream cheese and strawberries and whipped cream because that sounded right for a picnic. Clementine is delighted, and keeps doing a British accent when she eats them, sticking her pinkie up in the air.
He also bought and neatly cut pears and watermelon and strawberries, and when he presents the packed containers, Clementine cheers.
"Thank you," Clementine says once they've finished, wiping strawberry juice from her fingers, "For doin' all of this! This was really fuckin' fun."
"Of course." Hank says, distracted. He's been trying valiantly to ignore the ring box burning a hole in his pocket, but all that anxiety and vague nausea is suddenly back in full force.
"You okay?" Clementine says, turning to face him. The warm pressure of her side against his leaves suddenly, and it feels like her leaving him. He can only blame his anxiety on what happens next.
Hank has practiced his little speech approximately one billion times, run through the scenario in his head just as many times. He's been following his plan to a tee ever since he woke up this morning, and so it's a shock to Hank and Clementine both when the next thing to leave his mouth is a rushed: "Will you marry me?"
Clementine's eyes pop fully open, and she opens her mouth to speak. Hank allows himself one brief moment to panic, but before she can get a word out, he throws himself over the picnic bench and onto one knee, digging for the ring in his pocket.
"Clem," He starts again, and finally all his planning comes to fruition, as the speech he rehearsed and rewrote over and over again comes out of his mouth.
"I love you so fuckin' much. Meetin' you is the best damn thing that's ever happened to me, and it would make me so fuckin' happy if you would be my wife." And then, just to get his point across again, "Will you marry me?"
And sure, it's cliche and sappy and ended up with more cuss words than he practiced with, but he watches Clementine beam and it's immediately worth it. Her eyes are watering as she swings her legs over the side of the picnic bench and stands.
She pulls Hank up to standing, leans down, and kisses him, putting her hands on either side of his face.
"Oh my God," She says, sniffling once as she pulls away, "Fuckin' Christ, Yes!"
Hank grins and puts the ring on her finger. It fits perfectly, and she admires it in the light. It's every cheesey, shitty proposal scene he's ever watched or read—Pride and Prejudice and Crazy Rich Asians and Sweet Home Alabama and Love, Actually—only this one is infinitely better. It's theirs.