Chapter 7: The Best Friend and the Bet
The knock came at noon on Saturday, and Danny knew before he opened the door.
Not because of any psychic premonition or sixth sense. Because Megan always knocked the same way—three quick raps, a pause, then two slower ones. It was a code they'd developed freshman year, back when they lived in the same dorm and she needed a way to signal that she was coming over to steal his snacks and complain about her philosophy professor.
He opened the door.
She stood in the hallway with a duffel bag over one shoulder and a look of barely concealed judgment on her face. Her dark hair was shorter than the last time he'd seen her—cropped close to her jaw, framing a face that was all sharp angles and knowing eyes. She wore a faded denim jacket and combat boots that had seen better days. She looked exactly the same. She looked completely different.
"Jesus Christ," she said, looking past him into the room. "What the fuck happened to you?"
"That's a hell of a greeting."
"You look like shit."
"Thanks."
She pushed past him and dropped her bag on the floor. Then she turned in a slow circle, taking in the disaster zone that was room 317.
The desk was buried under a landslide of crumpled notes, empty Red Bull cans, and a half-eaten burrito that had been there since Thursday. The trash can was overflowing—condom wrappers, beer bottles, a pizza box that had given up on life. The fern on the windowsill had been dead for weeks, its brown fronds drooping toward the floor like it had seen things no plant should see.
And then there was the bed. The blue blanket. The sheets that hadn't been washed in longer than Danny cared to admit.
Megan's eyes landed on the trash can.
"Condom wrappers," she said flatly.
"Yeah."
"Lots of condom wrappers."
"I've been busy."
She turned to face him. Her arms were crossed. Her expression was unreadable.
"The Danny Sterling I knew didn't have condom wrappers in his trash. The Danny Sterling I knew couldn't even look a girl in the eye without blushing."
"That Danny Sterling is gone."
"Clearly." She picked up a wrapper from the trash and examined it like it was evidence at a crime scene. "Magnum XL. Ambitious."
"It's accurate."
She dropped the wrapper and laughed—a short, sharp sound that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Okay," she said. "Start talking."
They ordered pizza. Cheap pizza from the place down the street that delivered in thirty minutes or less and tasted like cardboard soaked in grease. They drank cheap beer from the convenience store on the corner—Pabst Blue Ribbon, because Megan had always insisted it was the only beer worth drinking when you were too broke to afford anything better.
They sat on the floor because the bed was too intimate and the desk was too cluttered and the only chair was buried under a pile of laundry. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow over everything.
Megan took a bite of pizza and stared at him.
"So," she said. "Spill."
"Spill what?"
"Everything. The last time I saw you, you were crying in your car because Rachel dumped you. Now you're..." She gestured at the room. "This."
"This being what?"
"A guy who fucks. A guy who has condom wrappers in his trash and doesn't even try to hide them. A guy who looks at me like he's undressing me with his eyes."
"I'm not undressing you with my eyes."
"You're thinking about it."
He didn't deny it.
Megan set down her pizza and leaned back against the wall. Her beer rested on her knee, condensation dripping down the bottle.
"Here's what I remember," she said. "Freshman year. You had a crush on that girl in your lit class and you spent three weeks trying to work up the courage to talk to her. When you finally did, you stammered so badly she thought you had a speech impediment."
"I remember."
"Sophomore year. You and Rachel started dating. You were so nervous about the first kiss that you asked me to coach you."
"I didn't ask you to coach me."
"You asked me what girls like. Same thing."
He winced. "I was pathetic."
"You were sweet." She took a long drink of beer. "You were the guy who held doors open and remembered birthdays and wrote shitty poetry that you never showed anyone. You were the guy who cried when we watched that French movie about the doomed lesbians."
"Everyone cries at that movie."
"You sobbed for an hour."
He threw a pizza crust at her. She caught it and ate it.
"So what happened?" she asked. "What turned you into... this?"
Danny leaned his head back against the bed. He could feel the edge of the mattress pressing into his skull. The blue blanket was just above him, close enough to touch.
"I don't know," he said. "I got here and everything was different. The rules were different. The people were different."
"Different how?"
"Everyone was already... doing things. Like, everyone was already fucking and drinking and partying like it didn't matter. Like it was just what you did. And I was the weird one for not joining in."
"So you joined in."
"I learned."
"Learned what?"
He looked at her. "I learned that if you don't care, it doesn't hurt when they leave."
Megan was quiet for a moment. Then she set her beer down and scooted closer. Her knee touched his.
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard," she said.
"Life's sad."
"No. Fucking random girls because you're afraid of getting hurt is sad. That's not the same thing as life."
He didn't have an answer for that.
She studied him—really studied him, like she was seeing him for the first time. Her eyes traced the lines of his face, the set of his jaw, the way his hands rested on his knees.
"You changed," she said.
"Everyone changes."
"You changed into something different. Something... harder."
"Sounds like you don't like it."
"I didn't say that." She paused. "I'm just trying to figure out if it's real."
"What if it is?"
"Then I missed something. I missed something big."
He turned to look at her. They were close now—close enough that he could smell her shampoo, something herbal and clean. Close enough that he could see the faint freckles across her nose, the ones she'd always tried to hide with makeup.
"You didn't miss anything," he said. "You were always there. You just saw the version of me I showed you."
"So show me the other version."
The words hung in the air between them.
Danny felt something shift—a crack in the careful wall he'd built. Something dangerous. Something hungry.
"I don't think you want that," he said.
"Try me."
He kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was the kiss of a man who had spent weeks learning how to take what he wanted, who had spent months forgetting how to be afraid.
She made a sound—a surprised, throaty gasp—and then her hands were in his hair, pulling him closer, dragging him in.
Her mouth was hot and beer-tasting and familiar. He'd imagined this a hundred times—back when he was the old Danny, the scared one, the one who thought Megan was too good for him. He'd fantasized about it in the shower, in his bed at night, in the back of his mom's minivan on long drives back to school.
Now he was actually doing it.
He pulled her to her feet and pushed her toward the bed. She stumbled backward, laughing against his mouth, and then they were falling together onto the unmade sheets.
The bed smelled like sex and stale beer and Mari's perfume, but Megan didn't seem to care. She was pulling at his shirt, her fingers fumbling with the buttons.
"This is insane," she said.
"I know."
"We shouldn't—"
"Then stop."
She didn't stop.
He helped her out of her jacket, then her shirt. She was wearing a black bra with lace edges that peeked out above the cups. He reached behind her and undid the clasp with one hand.
"Where'd you learn that?" she asked.
"Practice."
He pulled the bra away and looked at her. Really looked. Her breasts were small and round, her nipples dark and hard. A thin scar ran along her ribs—a souvenir from a bike accident when she was twelve. He'd been there for that. He'd held her hand in the emergency room while she got stitches.
He bent down and licked one nipple.
She arched off the bed. "Fuck—"
He sucked her nipple into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth. She gasped and clawed at his back.
"You've gotten good at this," she said breathlessly.
"I've had practice."
"I hate that."
"Which part?"
"All of it. That you're good at this. That you've done this so many times. That I'm not the first."
He lifted his head. "Do you want to be the first?"
"I want to be the only."
The words hit him like a punch in the chest.
He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to explain that there had never been an only—that there had been Rachel, and then there had been everyone else, and none of them had meant anything because none of them were her.
So he didn't say anything.
He kissed her instead.
Then he kissed down her stomach, past her belly button, to the waistband of her jeans. He unbuttoned them and pulled them down her legs. She was wearing plain black underwear, cotton, practical. Not like Mari's lace or Danvers's silk. Just Megan. Just real.
He pulled those off too.
And then she was bare before him, her thighs spread, her cunt glistening with a nervous kind of wetness.
He didn't wait. He dragged his tongue through her, slow and deliberate.
She cried out—a raw, startled sound that made his cock twitch.
"Oh my god," she gasped. "Oh fuck, Danny—"
He licked her again. Found her clit. Circled it with his tongue while he slid two fingers inside her.
She was tight. Hot. Wet. Her inner walls fluttered around him like she was trying to pull him deeper.
"Don't stop," she pleaded. "Don't you dare stop—"
He didn't stop.
He ate her out like it was the last meal he'd ever have. He licked and sucked and fingered her, learning her rhythm, her taste, the way she responded to pressure and speed. She tasted like beer and salt and something else—something sweet and sharp that he couldn't name.
She came on his tongue, her body convulsing, her hands wrenching at the sheets.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
He crawled up her body and kissed her. She tasted herself on his lips. Her eyes were wild, her lips swollen, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Turn over," he said.
"What?"
"Turn over. On your stomach."
She rolled over. Slowly. Uncertainly. She looked back at him over her shoulder, her eyes wide and questioning.
"Watch the laptop," he said.
"What?"
He pointed at the laptop on his desk. It was open, the screen dark, a perfect mirror in the dim light. He could see both of them reflected in it—her body spread across the bed, his body rising behind her.
"Watch," he said again.
He positioned himself behind her. His cock was hard, leaking, aching. He dragged the head of it through her folds, coating himself in her slickness.
"Tell me you want it."
"I want it."
"Tell me who you want."
"You." Her voice cracked. "I want you, Danny. I've always—"
He pushed inside her.
She screamed—a raw, guttural sound that echoed off the walls. Her back arched. Her fingers clawed at the sheets.
He watched her face in the laptop screen. Watched her mouth fall open. Watched her eyes go wide.
"Look at yourself," he said.
She looked.
At herself, pinned beneath him. At him, above her, his hips slapping against her ass. At the two of them, reflected in the dark screen like a movie playing for an audience of two.
"Look at how good we look together."
"We shouldn't be doing this—"
"Look at how good it is."
He drove deeper. Harder. His balls slapped against her clit with every stroke, and she moaned—a low, animal sound that made his spine tingle.
"I've thought about this," he said.
"You have?"
"Since freshman year. Since the night we watched that French movie and you fell asleep on my shoulder."
She made a sound—something between a laugh and a sob.
"I was awake," she said.
"What?"
"I was awake. When that movie ended. I was awake when you carried me to my room. I was awake when you put me in my bed."
He stopped moving.
She looked at him in the laptop screen. Her eyes were wet.
"I was awake the whole time," she said. "I was hoping you'd kiss me."
He didn't know what to say.
He didn't know how to process this—that the girl he'd spent two years pining for had been waiting for him all along. That the shy, nervous boy he used to be had missed his chance because he was too afraid to take it.
But he wasn't that boy anymore.
"I'm kissing you now," he said.
He pulled out and flipped her onto her back. He kissed her—hard, demanding, desperate. She kissed him back, her arms wrapping around his neck, her legs wrapping around his waist.
He pushed inside her again.
She gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound.
He fucked her like he was making up for lost time. His hips ground against hers, his cock driving deep, hitting that spot that made her eyes roll back.
"Harder," she begged. "Please, Danny, harder—"
He fucked her harder.
The bed slammed against the wall. The laptop wobbled on the desk. The dead fern on the windowsill shook with every thrust.
"You feel so good," he grunted. "So fucking good."
"You feel—" She couldn't finish. She was panting too hard.
He reached between them and found her clit. Rubbed tight circles while he fucked her.
"Come for me," he said. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it."
She came.
Her body clenched around him—tight, hot, perfect. Her nails raked down his back. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream.
He kept fucking her. Rode her through it. Didn't stop until his own release was building, coiling in his spine, threatening to explode.
"Where?" he gasped.
"Inside."
"I can't—"
"I'm on the pill. It's fine. Just—"
He came.
His hips jerked. His vision went white. He emptied into her with a groan, his whole body shuddering, his mind blanking out to nothing.
For a moment, they didn't move.
Then he collapsed on top of her.
The room was quiet except for their breathing. The fluorescent light buzzed. The dead fern drooped. The laptop screen had gone dark and stayed dark.
Megan turned her head. Her lips brushed against his ear.
"So," she said. "Was that real?"
He lifted his head. Looked at her.
"Did it feel real?"
"It felt..." She paused. "It felt like you were trying to prove something."
"I was."
"Prove what?"
He didn't answer.
She pushed him off her and sat up. Her hair was a mess. Her chest was heaving. She looked at the room—the condom wrappers, the empty cans, the stink of sex and regret.
"I should go," she said.
"You just got here."
"I know." She got off the bed and started gathering her clothes. "But I'm not sure I'm ready to see what comes next."
He watched her dress.
"What comes next is you stay," he said. "We order more pizza. We talk about shit that doesn't matter. We fall asleep watching bad TV."
"Like old times."
"Better than old times."
She stopped. Her jeans were half on. She was looking at him with an expression he couldn't read.
"That's the thing, Danny." Her voice was soft. "I don't know if that's true."
She finished dressing. She pulled on her boots. She grabbed her bag.
"I'll text you," she said.
Then she was gone.
Danny lay on the bed, alone. The sheets smelled like her. His heart was still hammering. His body was covered in sweat and splashes of cum and something that might have been regret.
He looked at the laptop screen. It was dark. But he could still see her face—the way she'd looked when she came, the way she'd looked when she told him she'd been awake all those years ago.
He didn't know if he'd just gained something or lost something.
But he knew the room felt emptier than it had before.
He pulled the blue blanket over his head and closed his eyes.
The knock came at 8:47 that evening.
Three quick raps. A pause. Two slower ones.
He knew who it was before he even stood up.
Megan stood in the hallway, her duffel bag still over her shoulder. Her eyes were red. She'd been crying.
"Never mind," she said. "I want to stay."
He stepped aside.
She walked past him, dropped her bag on the floor, and climbed onto the bed. She pulled the blue blanket up to her chin and stared at the ceiling.
"Your room is a disaster," she said.
"I know."
"You have a dead fern."
"I know."
"You're a mess."
"I know."
She turned her head. Looked at him.
"Come here," she said.
He didn't know what came next. He didn't know if they would fight or fuck or fall asleep or fall apart. He didn't know if she'd be there in the morning, or if he'd wake up to an empty bed and an empty room and an empty promise.
But he knew he wasn't going to walk away.
Not this time.
He lay down beside her and pulled her close.
The blue blanket covered them both.