Chapter 26: Mouthful of Defeat
The ceiling in his dorm room had twelve tiles, split by a crack that ran like a lightning bolt from the light fixture to the wall. Ben had been counting them for two hours. The party’s thunder had faded into a dull, campus-wide hum—distant shouts, a slamming car door, the low bass from another house down the street. His own silence was a thick blanket.
His phone, face-down on the desk, buzzed again. He didn’t move. The buzzing stopped, then started once more, an angry insect. He knew who it was. His mom. His dad. Probably campus security, too, because someone had surely reported the photos by now. Or maybe not. Maybe everyone who mattered had already seen them, laughed, and scrolled on.
A different sound cut through the haze: a sharp, familiar rap on his door. Not Patricia’s knock. Hers was a declarative statement. This was quicker, impatient.
“Thompson. Open up. I know you’re in there.”
Avery Collins. Soccer mid-fielder. Kappa Delta’s social chair. She lived two floors down.
Ben didn’t answer. He willed his breathing to be silent.
The handle jiggled, then a keycard clicked in the lock. The door swung open. Avery stood silhouetted in the fluorescent hallway light, one hand on her hip, her athletic bag slung over a shoulder. She looked him over, lying fully clothed on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Pat said you might be catatonic,” she said, stepping in and letting the door swing shut. She didn’t turn on the light. “You look catatonic. Get up.”
“Go away, Avery.”
“Nope. You owe me.”
He finally turned his head. “Owe you what?”
“You spilled my Gatorade last Tuesday at the library. The orange one. All over my organic chem notes. You said you’d replace it.”
“I’ll Venmo you five dollars.”
“It’s not about the money.” She dropped her bag on his roommate’s empty desk—he’d wisely chosen to stay at his girlfriend’s for the weekend—and began untying her sneakers. They were high-end cleats, caked with dried mud from evening practice. The smell of fresh-cut grass and damp earth entered the room, incongruous with the stale air. “It’s about the principle. You made a mess. You clean it up. That’s the social contract, Ben.”
She pulled off the first shoe, then the sock beneath it in one fluid motion. It was damp, a twisted tube of white cotton. She did the same with the other foot, sighing with theatrical relief as she wiggled her bare toes. Then she stood, holding both socks.
“These are also a mess,” she said, her voice conversational. “Two-hour practice. Turf fields. They’re soaked. It’s gross.”
Ben pushed himself up on his elbows, a cold dread seeping into his limbs. “What are you doing?”
“You’re going to hold these for me. Until they’re dry.” She walked toward the bed.
He shook his head, a feeble, automatic refusal. “No.”
“It’s not a question.” She was in front of him now. The socks dangled from her fingers. The scent was potent, a sweaty, lactic tang that overpowered the room. “You’re going to kneel on the floor, and you’re going to be my little dryer. Consider it community service for being a spill-prone library menace.”
The memory of the leash’s weight, of the ranch dressing and vodka, flashed behind his eyes. This was a different flavor. Avery wasn’t Patricia’s gleeful tormentor; she was cool, administrative, treating this like a tedious chore she was assigning. That made it worse, in a way. It was so mundane.
“Avery, please.”
“Kneel, Ben. Or I start texting. I have some great shots from tonight of you looking very… domestic. I’m sure the pre-law society would love to see their former treasurer in action.”
His body moved before his mind could formulate another protest. It was easier to obey. The floor was cold through his jeans. He looked up at her. She smiled, a thin, efficient curve of her lips.
“Open.”
He parted his lips. She didn’t just place the socks in his mouth. She balled the first one up, a dense, damp wad, and pushed it deep against his tongue with her fingers, a swift, clinical motion. He gagged immediately, his eyes watering. The taste was overwhelmingly sour, salty, a physical presence of her exertion.
“Uh-uh. Hold it.” She clamped her hand over his mouth, her palm pressing his lips shut, her fingers digging into his cheeks. With her other hand, she pulled her phone from her pocket. It lit up her face in the dark room. She tapped the screen, brought up a message thread.
Ben tried to breathe through his nose. The smell was inside him now. The cotton absorbed all the saliva in his mouth, becoming a prickly, expanding mass.
“‘Guess who’s chewing on my laundry because he lost another bet?’” Avery murmured, typing with one thumb. She showed him the screen. The contact name was ‘Nate ❤️🔥’ with a dozen emojis. Her ex. The star striker who’d transferred to a rival school.
She hit send. The whoosh sound was audible in the quiet room.
Almost instantly, three dots appeared. Then a reply.
Avery laughed, a short, sharp exhale. “He says ‘LOL prove it.’” She shifted her grip, her hand still sealing his mouth. “Smile for the camera, dryer.”
She angled the phone, capturing his wide, watering eyes, the pronounced bulge in his cheeks, her hand covering the lower half of his face. The flash went off, bleaching the room white for a second. She sent it.
Another immediate ping. She read it, her smile broadening. “He says ‘Pat’s really got him trained. Looks like he’s enjoying his snack.’” She looked down at Ben, her head tilted. “Are you enjoying your snack, Ben?”
He made a muffled sound, a negative grunt deep in his throat.
“I don’t believe you.” She started texting again, her thumb flying. “I’m telling him you’re a natural. That you’re probably going to ask for the other pair in my bag.” She paused, listening. Another notification. “Oh, nice. He sent a laughing emoji. And a trophy.”
She finally took her hand away from his mouth, but the command was implicit. He kept his jaw shut, the intolerable wad lodged in place. His throat convulsed around dry heaves.
Avery perched on the edge of his bed, swinging her bare feet. She looked utterly at ease, as if waiting for a bus. “You know, I always thought you were kinda arrogant. In those debate seminars? You had that look. Like you were the smartest guy in the room.” She scrolled through her phone. “Turns out you’re just the most useful. Different skill set.”
Ben’s knees ached. The taste was leaching into his soul. He thought about the crack in the ceiling. He tried to focus on that, to map its path again in his mind.
Her phone buzzed with a call this time. She looked at the screen, smiled, and answered. “Hey, you. Yeah, I’m just… tidying up a loose end.” She listened, her eyes on Ben. “No, he’s right here. Very cooperative.” A longer pause. “I know, right? It’s wild. Truly a fall from grace.” She laughed at something the caller said. “Yeah, totally. Anyway, dinner tomorrow? Sure. Pick me up at seven.”
She ended the call and stood up, stretching her arms over her head. “Okay. I’m bored now. You can take them out.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. His fingers flew to his mouth, hooking inside, pulling the sodden, twisted cotton free. He dropped it on the floor as if it were live coal, sucking in huge, ragged breaths, spitting onto his own carpet.
Avery collected her socks, picking them up distastefully between thumb and forefinger. “See? Much drier. Thanks for your service.” She dropped them into her bag. “The Gatorade debt is cleared. We’re square.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked to the door. She paused, her hand on the knob, and looked back at him, still kneeling on the floor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Oh, and Ben?” Her voice was light, almost friendly. “If the socks are too much next time, just say so. I have running shorts from this morning that probably need a good chew, too. Just an option.”
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
Ben crawled to his trash can and vomited, a thin, bitter stream of nothing. He stayed there, forehead against the cool plastic. The phone on his desk started buzzing again. The crack in the ceiling was still there. Everything else was different. It wasn’t just Patricia anymore. The world had been given a key, and it was letting itself in, one amused, casual visitor at a time. The door wasn’t just unlocked; it was off its hinges.