Main Bonus #68: Oscar Meets Donnelly (Patreon)

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RESOURCES:  Check out this narrative timeline graphic to visually see when this bonus scene takes place.

MUSIC: We listened to "Ray of Light" by Madonna while writing this bonus scene. 

I BETTER NOT STINK of desperation because that’s what I am right now. Motherfucking desperate. My stride is too urgent, too panicked, and I try to slow each fraught step across the quad. Who cares about the beautiful fiery oranges and reds of a Connecticut fall when I’m bombing at Yale?

College reps can shove their idyllic Ivy League campus up someone else’s ass. Put me in a metal shoebox, as long as I pass Genetics. Please, Mother of God.

My phone chimes, and I rummage in the side pocket of my backpack until I find it. I never stop moving.

sry about last night ozzy. let me make it up to you. 8 pm, my place? – Darrien

My dick says yes, my brain says fuck no. Without answering him, I shove my phone in my back pocket and concentrate on why I’m awake at 7 a.m. after crashing at 3 a.m. Four hours of shit sleep. But I’m not running on fumes.

I’m fueled by 43. The grade I’ve currently achieved in the fucking hardest science course at Yale.

I don’t care who challenges that statement. I’m a sleep-deprived college student in my junior year. What I think is Bible right now. No one can argue with me. Not until I have at least two cups of coffee or a shot of adrenaline.

My phone rings this time. I check the call.

It’s my little brother.

Later. I tuck my phone back in my pocket. Ignoring family has been easier being so far away, and the guilt is a balloon pop. Swelling, a burst, and then gone.

I hustle.

“He said he’s where?” I mutter to myself. I am truly losing it.

This dorm. I direct myself to an on-campus dorm. Stately. Noteworthy. Yale. Who cares. As a student exits, I enter and try to recall his room number.

Never been inside his dorm room, and I didn’t foresee myself ever needing to.

Farrow Keene has an air about him like he just does not give a shit. About anything. Let alone the guy he sat next to in Genetics.

That’s how we met. August. Day 1 in a science hellscape.

I arrived early and took a seat toward the front-center. Not the very first row. Definitely not the back. Despite this failing grade, I earned my way into Yale because I’m far from dumb. When it comes to academics, I typically rise to the top, not sink to the bottom.

So there I was—minding my own business, opening my laptop. And the massive lecture hall started to crowd. Three minutes before class began, he dropped down in the seat beside me, clicked his pen. Pulled out a yellow legal notepad.

Said nothing.

I wasn’t expecting an introduction. I’ve taken plenty of courses where I fully ignored the person to my left and right. Most of the time, that person didn’t stay the same unless assigned seating was enacted.

There were minutes to spare, and I didn’t want to sit in awkward silence. Plus, I like good conversation.

So I looked over at him, and at first glance, I did a doubletake. Realizing he was hot.

A lapse of judgement, considering I now know his DNA is at minimum comprised of 1/3 asshole.

He wasn’t the typical Yale student. Not with the dyed jet-black hair, the eyebrow piercing, lip piercing, nose piercing, the tattoos running down his arms—and beneath the ink, his biceps were supremely cut. Jawline masculine. He was built less like a bulky heavyweight champion, more like he could race everyone down and put them in a headlock if he wanted—even me.

An ex-pro boxer.

It threw me off about his age. I thought he must’ve been twenty-two. Later, I come to find out he’s eighteen.

But yeah, I found him attractive in the most mainstream sense of the word. Literal eyes from every direction were falling on him, not just mine, and he didn’t look away from the whiteboard while we waited for the professor to arrive.

He knew he was hot.

It should’ve made him less hot, but it didn’t. I know I’m insanely attractive, in the most mainstream sense of the word, but I also don't act indifferent to stares. If a girl hits on me, I’ll likely smile back, at least.

Two minutes to spare. Now I really wanted to talk to him. “Your hand isn’t going to cramp?” I asked him.

He gave me a brief glance.

“The notepad,” I pointed out. “Writing by hand.”

His brows rose. “No shit.”

Dick. He was a dick. “You must be fun at parties.”

“A riot,” he said, squishing the butt of his pen on the notepad. “What’s your name?”

So he does have social etiquette. “Oscar Oliveira.”

He nodded to me. “Farrow Keene. And to answer your question, no, my hand won’t cramp because I’m not writing down everything the professor says. That’s dumb as fuck.”

“And there are no dumb fucks on campus,” I said conversationally, “like that one poor fucker who took the bus in circles around the school for four hours before realizing it does the same loop. Over and over again. And he’d been on the wrong bus.”

Farrow laughed. “No way.”

“He was my freshman roommate. Guy had zero common sense but could solve math equations that’d make my head spin. Smart and dumb.”

“Eh, college will fix that.”

“You think?”

“For the sheltered ones, the learning comes from outside. Intuition, hands-on experience, real life skills—that shit isn’t going to be taught in a classroom.”

What kind of hands-on experience did this guy have? “You from around here?” I wondered.

“No,” he said. “Philly.”

I laughed. “You’re kidding me.”

“You’re from Philly?”

“I grew up around Pennypack.”

He smiled. “I was afraid you were about to say Chestnut Hill.”

I waved a hand at my face. “Is this giving rich snob?”

His smile stretched even wider. “No, but I’m not really looking to run into anyone who lived down the street from me.”

My face fell, and I pointed at him. “Chestnut Hill.”

“Rich snob.” He raised and lowered his brows in confirmation, and then Professor Carr strutted into the lecture hall, causing all heads to rotate forward. His and mine.

Farrow's smile stayed, radiating pure amusement, and I kept shaking my head, then I grinned too. It was funny, me calling him a rich sob on accident, and he could’ve cold-shouldered me—but he laughed about it.

After that, we’d talked here and there, before class and right after, and I’d seen him around campus. He was hard to miss.

October rolled around.

Genetics was beginning to really kick my ass, and we exchanged numbers in case one of us missed a lecture and needed notes. Farrow rarely talked about science.

I didn’t even know if this shit interested him, but he always paid attention. His eyes stayed on the board more than his own notes. If he cared about something, I’d say it was his education, but I wasn’t even fully certain about that.

Because if I flunked out, I’d be in a full-blown panic. If he did, I have a feeling he’d just shrug.

Halloween arrived.

We were gathering our things after lecture ended, and I told him, “There’s this costume party. It’s not a frat. Just some of my friends from freshman year at their house.” I figured he was still making friends since he was a freshman. “You should come. Free booze.”

He chewed a piece of gum casually. “What’s the address?”

I told him. He didn’t write it down. Didn’t pull out his phone. I added, “If you have a girlfriend, she’s welcome too. The more, the merrier.”

His amused smile slowly remerged. “Definitely do not have a girlfriend.”

I nodded. “Playing the field,” I said, not surprised, given his indifference to most things. Seemed like a commitment-phobe.

“Something like that.” His smile remained.

As we climbed down the auditorium stairs and went out into the throngs of students rushing to their next class or loitering in the hall, I was held back by a friend saying hi.

“Oscar!”

I up-nodded to my friend, but I looked ahead, seeing Farrow leave down the hall. He wrapped an arm around a guy’s shoulders who’d been waiting for him, and I was about to look away, thinking it was friendly, until Farrow kissed him.

Not straight.

He was not fucking straight. At this point, I wasn’t interested in him romantically, sexually—but I reran our conversation through my brain and kept shaking my head. “That motherfucker,” I muttered and laughed in shock.

He didn’t go to the party.

Next lecture, we were both five minutes early. I said, “You motherfucker.”

“What?” His lips crawled upward again, knowing. He knew I saw him kiss that fucking guy. He might’ve even done it on purpose to screw with me.

I shook my head. “You don’t have a girlfriend because you’re not into girls.”

“Something like that.” His grin turned into a laugh, and I laughed with him.

“You have a label or you just into kissing guys?” I asked him.

“I’m gay,” he said simply. “Are you bi or do you just like bi-flag keychains?” He pointed to the keychain on my car keys, which I had tossed on my laptop.

“I’m bi, into girls and guys.”

He nodded.

I said, “If you want to join one of the LGBT clubs, I know a lot of the members.”

“I’m good.” He was not in a hurry to make friends.

I wondered if he had any. He did kiss a guy already, so…

November.

I’m now on the verge of flunking Genetics. I'm not quiet about my failing grade, and Farrow has heard me complain enough that he offered to lend me his notes. I’ve seen him scribble on his legal pad, and it’s shorthand jargon to me. But at this point, I’d take a McDonalds Happy Meal receipt if it means I’ll pass the mid-term.

“Third floor,” I mutter to myself, climbing the stairs of Farrow’s dorm. I walk down the quiet hall. It’s early, but I texted. He said he was awake if I wanted to stop by now.

I find his room and rap my fist against his door.

He swings it open. Shirtless. For the first time I see he is absolutely ripped for eighteen. That catches me more off-guard than the tattoos. “Share the Wheaties, bro. Are you trying to make me look bad?”

He rolls his eyes, but smiles. “You do that all yourself.”

“Cold and very untrue.” The panic begins to wear off. I can’t tell if it’s Farrow’s give-no-fucks demeanor or because I’m in arm’s length of a Genetics lifeline.

Farrow guides me inside the sizeable dorm room. Two desks, two closets, two single beds…both of which aren’t vacant. One guy is passed out beneath a blue Yale quilt. He’s drooling on his bed pillow, and the other guy is half-covered by black sheets. All I see is the lily-white skin of his back and the color of his tattoos. One is a red devil with the words Not Today, Satan.

“They’re in my desk. Just give me a sec.” Farrow squats to a bottom drawer and shuffles through papers.

My nosy ass can’t shut up. I have to ask. “Which one’s the roommate?”

Farrow doesn’t even look up. “Left bed.” The drooler. “Andrew Andrews.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. He drank a handle of vodka last night, so he’s not waking up anytime soon.” Farrow takes a quick peek back at him, as if assessing him. Weird, for someone who doesn’t give a shit about anything. He flips back through the papers.

The other guy stirs beneath the black sheets of Farrow’s bed. Just by his back alone, he’s who I thought Farrow would sleep with. Skinny and tattooed.

“I can go if now’s a bad time,” I say, but I want to know more than I want to go.

Farrow is confused until he follows my gaze to his bed. “He’s a friend.”

“You sleep with whoever, bro. I’m not judging.”

His smile is a half-wince, and he stands with a small pile of spiral bound notebooks. “Man, I’m not fucking him. He’s just a friend.”

At this, Farrow's—who I thought had no friends—friend rolls over onto his back with a yawn. He stretches an arm and combs a hand through tousled chestnut brown hair. His eyes open on me and he gives me a loose finger-horn gesture.

“Donnelly,” Farrow says, then motions to me. “Oscar.” Then, “Oscar. Donnelly.”

“Donnelly,” I say with a nod, now I’m finding this very strange. “You’re not together?”

“No.” Farrow makes a face like I’m cracked. He shoves the spiral bound notebooks in my chest.

I can’t get over it. “Life-long friend who got into Yale?”

“Nah, I don’t go here,” Donnelly says, and I catch the accent immediately.

“South Philly.” I grin, thinking I have it figured it out. “He’s your childhood friend.”

“No. We just met in August,” Farrow says. He opens his mouth, but before he reroutes this to Genetics, I speak again.

“You just met three months ago? He doesn’t go to Yale? And you’re letting him crash in your teeny-tiny twin-sized bed with you?” I question.

“I slept at my boyfriend’s apartment last night,” Farrow says, not happy with me, and I have pegged him so wrong. “Where’d you sleep?”

I wish I could shut my mouth for two seconds. “My boyfriend’s apartment,” I say with an apologetic look, but I add, “Sorry.”

Donnelly is laughing.

It makes Farrow smile.

Donnelly sits forward, his arm on his knee. “Want me to test out your bed next?” He looks like he smells like cigarettes and sex. But I can’t smell anything other than musk and cheap vodka.

“You test out my bed, it’s getting burned, bro.”

“I could solve your bed bug problem.”

“By bringing them?”

“Bringing ‘em, eradicating ‘em. I do it all.”

I laugh and Farrow smiles. I nod my head to Donnelly and tell Farrow, “He’s a two-star comedian.”

“More like one-star, but I’d put you in the same category, so.”

“Aw, fuck you.” We’re both grinning, and I glance down at the spiral notebooks he handed me. “These aren’t the notes you take in class.”

“That’s because they’re not those notes.” He explains, “They’re my textbook notes. I skim the books, then write down the important topics. Professor Carr’s exams are basically three-fourths textbook and only one-fourth lecture material.”

“Which is bullshit,” I say, flipping through the spiral notebook. “When she never finishes her lecture in an hour, then decides to record the rest and make us watch it outside of class. It should be illegal to put us through two hours of an hour lecture.”

“We should be getting extra credits.”

I nod. “And you have a long way to go, Freshman.”

“I came in as a junior, technically.”

I choke on a noise. I need to stop assuming anything about him. At least I already know he’s pre-med. I remember when he told me, I said, “A doctor with hand tats?”

“Thumb tattoos,” he corrected. “Not hands. That’s what I’ve been telling my old man, at least.”

Because it sounds so much better. Granted, the blue sparrows were inked along his thumbs.

I scan his legible textbook notes. They’re intensive and already helpful, and more relief washes over my panicked ass. “When do you need these back by?”

“I don’t. Keep them.”

I’m confused. “You took the time to write them—”

“I wrote it down so I’d remember it. I remember it,” Farrow says plainly.

I shift my weight. “What are you pulling in the class exactly?”

“Higher than you, apparently.”

I can’t even laugh. “Seriously, Farrow.”

And he says, “98.”

I cock my head, and I realize, “I’m staring at the motherfucker who set the curve.”

He says, “She’s not a very good professor, in your defense.”

“You’re a mediocre defense attorney.”

“Good, don’t hire me.”

I’m about to banter back, but my phone chimes.

I check the text.

if you need to talk it out, i have time. or we can do other things. whatever you want. – Darrien

My dick still says yes, and my brain is suddenly on board too. That fast.

“Boyfriend?” Farrow asks.

I look up. “You can tell?”

“Yeah. You look distracted, man.”

“We had a stupid argument last night.” I pause. “We’re working it out.” I’m not ready to lose him. I love him, and I’m not an idiot. I know he’s been a very, very big mental distraction from my courses this year.

Grades are slipping, and Genetics has taken the biggest hit, by far.

I’ll pass the mid-term. I’ll be fine.

Farrow nods like he gets it. It reminds me that he has a boyfriend. A relationship. Who would have thought? I should have. I think I’m normally perceptive. Intuitive.

I really am sleep-deprived.

“Thanks,” I tell him about the notes.

Before I leave, he catches the door on my way out and says, “You ever been to Mad Tracey’s?”

“The bar?”

“Yeah,” he nods.

“Never been,” I admit.

“I’m going tonight. I’ll text you the time if you’re free.”

I think about Darrien’s offer to meet up at his place.

Farrow sees me mulling it over. “Bring your boyfriend. Mine’s coming.”

“What about Donnelly?” I ask.

“He might join if he’s not working.”

He works?

Another question. Another time. Looks like we’ll have more of it. “Mad Tracey’s,” I nod, a grin spreading. “Text me and I’ll let you know if I can make it.”

Farrow nods, not concerned either way, and as I leave, my steps are slower and lighter, and stress begins to fade.

Thanks so much for reading this month's main bonus! We're sorry the bonuses are coming to you at the very tail end of the month. We've been editing these in between writing Nobody Like Us, so it's been taking a bit more time. We hope you enjoyed seeing Oscar meet Donnelly (and technically Farrow too!). There is still more Yale Boys to come! We were on a Yale Boy kick this month :D 

Stay tuned for the extra bonus tomorrow! 

xoxo Krista & Becca

"Oscar Meets Donnelly," Copyright © 2023 by K.B. Ritchie