I hate this group project.

Now I feel bad for Newt, though. First, he had to write about suicide, then about family. Both things he has issues with. And here I am complaining about what I need to do.

Aris, Jeff, and I are sitting in Aris's dorm, our laptops in front of us.

"Okay, let's start with explaining our own families first," Jeff suggests. "I'll start; I have three younger siblings, two boys and one girl. My parents are together. I've lived in the United States since I was born. That's pretty much it. And you, Aris?"

"I'm an only child. My dad isn't in the picture, but I have a very caring mom. Eh, have always lived here, too. My father appears to be Polish, though," the boy explains hesitantly.

Their heads turn to me. I feel a lump form in my throat.

So, ehm, I've got six siblings, an often absent father, and a mother with multiple affairs.

"I have an older sister and a younger brother. My parents are together, quite happily," I lie. "We live in Elmsville, a town that's a few hours away from here."

Aris nods. "Okay. Got that settled. Now we need to decide a topic. I've noted a few options down: How has the nuclear family evolved in the past century, gender roles in families, parenting styles, blended families and step-parenting, single-parents, impact of culture on families, LGBTQ+ families."

Jeff groans. "Your mind does not match with mine."

"Is that a compliment or not?" Aris wonders.

"I don't know, but it means you're smart." Jeff sighs. "I did write a few theories we could use down, though: Functionalism, conflict theory, feminist theory, symbolic interactionism, or social constructionism."

Aris lets go of a chuckle. "And you say you're not smart?"

Jeff shrugs a bit. "Whatever. So which topic do we use, with which theory?"

"I like parenting styles," Aris announces. "And maybe with symbolic interactionism? We can write about communication, roles, identity formation, relationships, and conflicts. Quite simple, but can go deep."

"Sounds fine to me."

"What do you think, Sander?"

I jump up at my name. "Oh, sure. I don't really mind which one we choose."

"Are you alright?" Jeff wonders.

"Of course. Why?"

"Well, no offense, but you're usually really loud and unhinged."

My week just isn't going very well. I thought that Newt and I had finally formed some kind of bond, even if it was just physical, but he doesn't even remember. And of course I'm not explaining it to him. He'll hate me even more—will probably think I assaulted him. I really did not mean to do that, even if that statement can be considered the truth. But he was taking action, right? I warned him—but I never stopped him. He was drunk. He couldn't have possibly consented, so him taking charge means nothing. Or maybe he'll feel the other way around? Maybe if I explain, he'll think he assaulted me, because he didn't stop when I told him to. But I don't think he assaulted me.

He'd probably never think that anyway. I don't know whether I should be happy or sad about that. It would mean he's considerate. But I also don't want him to regret it or feel guilty.

Whatever, I'm just waiting for him to change.

"We can briefly explain what our assignment is about in the beginning, then overview some parenting styles, and the purpose of the project. The main sections would be how language—verbal and non-verbal—shapes a parent-child relationship, then Charles Cooley's 'Looking Glass Self', the performing roles in families, and repeated daily interactions. Lastly, we interview like three people about their experiences to prove our point and pull a conclusion. Then we get our presentation ready by using visuals, maybe some skits, and discussion questions."

"You are a genius, Aris!" Jeff claps in his hands, and I finally manage a smile.

His cheeks catch a blush. "Thanks. So we'll divide the roles?"

"Sure. I'm decent at interviews. I know how to lighten up the mood even when it's about a hard topic. And I'll look at language."

"I'd be alright with the Looking Glass Self theory and the performing roles," I say.

Aris nods in agreement. "Perfect. Then I'll make sure to write about the repeated daily interactions and the visuals and sources. We'll write the conclusion at the end, together. And then we practice the presentation."

"I think I might get an A for the first time," Jeff gulps.

✧

Newt's on the couch when I return to the dorm, a book in his hands. His gaze was intense and focused until I stepped inside.

"Hi," I greet, trying to make something out of it. "I didn't know you read."

"There's clearly a lot you don't know about me."

It isn't exactly said in the nicest tone, but he's been worse to me. "I know more than you think."

He doesn't look up from the book. "Do you now?"

"I do." I cross my arms. "I know your favorite jacket is under a pile of other jackets, while other years, you wore it every day."

Newt's Adam's apple bobbles. "Taste changes."

I can see he's lying. That's why I know him better than he thinks. I can usually read him. I try to understand him. But he's too distracted to notice, and has been too distracted for many years.

He lifts the cigarette from his mouth, flips a page, and puts the thing back in his mouth. I fill a glass with water and plop down on the comfy chair next to the couch. Both of them are darkish green. The walls of the dorm are brown. I have no complaints about how this place looks.

"Can I have one?" I blurt out.

Newt finally looks up. "One what?"

"A cigarette."

Multiple emotions flash on his face—confusion, offense, disgust, and submission. He pulls the Marlboro pack out of his pocket, handing me one of them, along with a lighter. I hesitantly light it. I've smoked before, but it's been a while. I don't even enjoy it that much. Just needed a way to force myself not to complain about how he smokes inside: If I do it, I can no longer complain.

"Thanks." I hand the lighter back as I put the cigarette in my mouth. At the first tugs I take, I nearly start coughing, but save myself. Then it's fine.

"I remember now," Newt suddenly acknowledges. "What happened that night."

The moment he says it, I freeze. My cigarette lingers awkwardly between my fingers, a thin curl of smoke rising up.

Newt doesn't look at me. He's still pretending to be absorbed in the book, but the way his jaw clenches give him away. "I didn't remember at first," he says flatly, "but now I do."

I stare at him, unsure whether I should speak or wait for him to continue. My chest feels like it's caving in. He remembers. What does that mean for me? For him? For us—if there even is an "us" to think about.

Newt closes the book. He doesn't look angry, but there's something steely in his eyes. "You should've stopped me," he says.

"I—" My voice cracks, and I immediately hate myself for it. "I tried, but—"

"But what?" he interrupts, his voice rising just slightly. "You didn't, did you? You just stood there and let it happen."

"In what sense? Do you think I assaulted you or do you feel guilty because you kept going?"

After a second hesitation, he replies, "Both."

"That's not fair," I say. "You were the one who kissed me. You were the one—"

"Don't," he snaps, his accent thickening with his anger. "Don't put this on me. I was drunk, Sander. You weren't."

"Yes, I was! I was drunk, too."

"Clearly not as drunk as me." He stands, looming over me, and I have to fight the instinct to shrink back. "You knew I wasn't in my right mind, but you let me—"

"I didn't want to stop you!" The words explode out of me before I can stop them. Newt freezes. T the shock flickers across his face before he quickly masks it.

"That's twisted," he says. "You're twisted."

"I know. I know I am. But don't act like you're any better, Newt. You wanted it, too, or you wouldn't have done it. Don't pretend like you didn't feel anything."

"Feeling something doesn't excuse it," he shoots back. "You don't get to justify this because of—" He cuts himself off as he struggles to find the words. "Whatever the hell is wrong with you."

"Whatever the hell is wrong with me?" I repeat, bursting. "You're the one who's so messed up you can't even face yourself. You're so busy pretending to be perfect that you don't even realize how broken you are."

"Don't you dare—"

"Why not? It's true, isn't it?" I stand now, matching his height even though my knees feel like they might give out. "You're scared, Newt. Scared of who you are. Scared of what you want. Scared of me."

For a moment, I think he's going to punch me—or maybe just walk out. But instead, he laughs. "You think I'm scared of you?" he asks. "You're nothing to me, Sander. Nothing."

The words cut deeper than they should, and I hate myself for letting them. I hate him for saying them. But most of all, I hate the way my voice wavers when I respond. "Glad to know where I stand. Thanks for clearing that up."

He doesn't answer. Instead, he grabs a leather jacket from the back of the couch and heads for the door. "You're pathetic," he says over his shoulder before slamming it behind him.