Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time

Caleb Reed has a tongue like a scalpel.

I've always been on the curvier side, and when the sample for a photoshoot—a delicate white lace dress—arrived from the online boutique, he'd smirked.

Are you seriously going to humiliate yourself in that? Anyone who sees you will think a sausage is trying to play dress-up.

I've lost count of the number of times Caleb's words have broken me, but I always convinced myself to let it go. He was devastatingly handsome and outrageously generous, and I forced myself to believe that was enough.

Until the incident with the freshman from the debate society, Chloe. The night before the finals, she leaked our entire case file to the opposing team.

Normally, this is the kind of catastrophic incompetence that would have had Caleb sneering, asking if her brain was just for decoration.

But this time, all he did was toss her a pack of tissues and turn his face away.

"What are you crying for? It's ugly."

1

Chloe's sobs were a theatrical performance.

"I'm so sorry," she wailed. "It's all my fault. Because of my mistake, everyone's disqualified!"

Five minutes earlier, the tournament organizers had officially booted us from the competition. Months of grueling preparation, all of it gone before we even had a chance to step on stage. The air in the hotel hallway was thick with fury.

"A mistake?" one of our teammates shot back. "You call that a mistake? Who 'accidentally' prints out a dozen copies of our entire strategy and leaves it neatly stacked in front of our opponent's hotel room?"

Chloe's voice hitched. "I'm sorry… I must have mixed up the room numbers…"

That just fanned the flames. "Our rooms are all next to each other! You're telling me you don't remember where we are, or even where you are staying?"

Another teammate piled on. "Just stop. You could cry a river and it wouldn't be enough to fill that empty head of yours."

Caleb, who had been leaning against the wall in silence, finally pushed himself off with a sharp sigh.

"Dude, your breath stinks," he said to the guy. "Seriously? You think ganging up on a freshman makes you look tough?"

A stunned silence fell over the group. Caleb wasn't just our star first-chair debater; he was the undisputed king of verbal evisceration.

Under any other circumstance, a screw-up this colossal, this blatantly intentional, would have had Caleb coldly dissecting the person's entire genetic lineage. He would've asked, with genuine curiosity, if their parents were siblings.

But this time, he just fished a pack of tissues from his pocket, tossed it at Chloe's feet, and averted his gaze.

"It's done. Crying isn't going to change anything."

Watching him, my heart pricked, a sharp, thin sting. It felt deeply, uncomfortably wrong. Caleb was sharp-tongued and allergic to comfort. I thought back to the countless times he'd made me cry. He'd stand there, hands shoved in his pockets, impatiently tapping his foot on the ground.

"Are you done yet? It was a minor thing. How long are you going to drag this out?"

Everyone was now looking at me, the team president, waiting for a verdict. I pushed down the strange, sour feeling in my gut and focused on Chloe.

"Whether it was intentional or not, your actions have consequences for the entire team. You're no longer a member of the debate society. Don't come to any future meetings or events."

Her eyes widened, fresh tears spilling over. "Claire, I know you've never liked me, but everyone makes mistakes! Are you really going to take away my chance to pursue my passion over one little slip-up?"

A teammate scoffed. "What passion? You can barely string a sentence together! The only reason you ever got to speak was because Claire gave you her own talking points, and even then you stammered through them and dragged the whole team down!"

"And this wasn't a 'little slip-up'!" another added. "This was the championship tournament! This was everything! How can you call that a small thing?"

Before Chloe could answer, Caleb's voice cut through the air, low and dangerous.

"Enough."

He turned his gaze on me. "Claire, you're the president, for Christ's sake. Are you just going to stand there and watch your team bully a freshman?"

He raked his eyes over me, a dismissive, head-to-toe scan. Then, he let the final words drop, soft and lethal.

"Oh, right. I forgot. You're leading the charge."

My throat felt like it was stuffed with wet cotton. The sudden, suffocating pressure stole my voice. Thankfully, someone else spoke up for me.

"What are you talking about, man? How are we bullying her?"

"Claire just kicked her off the team. She's not pressing charges or getting her expelled. How does that make her the ringleader?"

Chloe sniffled, grabbing the sleeve of Caleb's jacket. "Caleb, it's okay. I know you're just trying to stand up for me, but…" She shot a look at me, as if I were some kind of monster, and lowered her head. Her voice was laced with a tragic whisper. "Maybe it's just because Claire really doesn't like me."

2

The night ended with everyone scattering in anger and disgust.

Before leaving, Caleb took Chloe's hand. He glanced back at me, his expression cold as ice. "You're being petty, Claire. I hope you take a good, long look at yourself."

I watched their retreating figures, a profound sense of confusion washing over me.

What did I do wrong?

The question echoed in my mind as I walked, zombie-like, back to the apartment Caleb and I shared. Staring at the flawlessly polished floors, a bitter thought surfaced. Caleb was a notorious neat freak, a germaphobe who practically had a "Do Not Touch" sign tattooed on his forehead.

He didn't just keep strangers at a distance; sometimes, even I, his girlfriend, was treated like a contaminant.

Unless he initiated it, any attempt I made to touch him was met with a cold recoil. If I tried to hold his hand, he'd pull away. If I did what Chloe just did—tug on his sleeve—he would, without fail, take off the shirt right in front of me and toss it into the trash like it was radioactive waste.

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