Harvard Square, July 2, 10:40 PM
Emily, Phuong and I were on the rooftop at Daedalus in Harvard Square, and we were drinking and telling stories and getting generally rambunctious. A bachelor party came and sat down next to us and introduced themselves. I’m still not totally clear on this, but it seemed like half of them were from Cambridge, and half of them had gone to Harvard with the bachelor, who had both grown up in Cambridge and then gone on to Harvard. He lives in India but was back for the wedding, which was happening next week. He was, it was clear, the nice boy of the pack. They did a waterfall and the nice bachelor only drank an inch of his beer.
Later on, the nice bachelor would puke all over the stairs at the Hong Kong. I would be the only one to see this, despite the fact that like three other people were standing with me at the bottom of the stairs.
One of the bachelor party members ended up hitting on me the whole night. It was a weird situation, because I didn’t realize he was actually hitting on me until later, when he started talking about my eyes. Before I realized we were flirting we had just been joking around and I was calling him a rich Harvard asshole a lot, which, in retrospect, is making me reconsider the way I flirt. He had a weird, Northern-European name, and while we were talking Emily was rolling her eyes at another bachelor party member. “I’m thinking about dropping out of Harvard,” she told him. “Existential literature. It’s too much.” She spoke with him in-depth about her thesis for a solid half hour. She went home shortly afterward, and the guy kept bringing up where we were living at Harvard. “SHE WAS LYING,” P shouted. “YOU ARE SO DUMB!” I fucking love my friends.
P and I went back to the Charles Hotel with them for a nightcap. Then the rich Harvard asshole asked me back to his hotel room. I had drank too many vodka tonics and was about to get sick from the fumes of some douchebag’s cigar at the next table. “I can’t,” I said. I mostly just wanted to make out with him for a while, but I can’t imagine being in someone’s bed and being very drunk and him just stopping there, so no, I couldn’t do that. “I see,” he said. “It’s okay. I understand.” I don’t know. There’s something about a nice hotel and a super-rich 27-year-old consultant that would kind of make me feel like either he’d try to kill me, or I’d wake up in the morning to a wad of cash on the dresser.
P and I left shortly afterward. The next morning, to my utter shock and awe, I got a text message from the guy. “Hey, Kaitlin, thank you for having enough sense for both of us last night. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
Huh.
