{"id":5029,"date":"2017-07-14T05:35:30","date_gmt":"2017-07-14T12:35:30","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/?p=5029"},"modified":"2017-07-06T19:35:27","modified_gmt":"2017-07-07T02:35:27","slug":"getting-right-greeks-guy-god","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/2017\/07\/getting-right-greeks-guy-god\/","title":{"rendered":"Getting it Right: Greeks, the Guy, & God"},"content":{"rendered":"
I didn\u2019t belong here in this hazy rented hall that smelled of hops and hairspray and heated bodies. The knowing started in my sternum and crawled outward.\u00a0I crammed it back into the corner where I kept God at times like this. The \u01a9AEs and a cadre of coeds danced to Kiss\u2019s Rock and Roll All Night<\/em>. I schooled my features and tried to look cool.<\/p>\n
At Florida Southern College the Sigma Alpha Epsilons had landed on the pinnacle of the fraternity heap. Testosterone fanned from the tables they inhabited in the cafeteria. I felt its pull deep in my belly every time I pushed through the glass doors. Tugged toward their broad backs, brotherhood, and blond nonchalance. And tonight I\u2019d bagged my first frat party\u2014a freshman pledge invited six of us at once.<\/p>\n
Photo by Julia Caesar<\/p><\/div>\n
The only thing I wanted more than I wanted to dance was scoring \u01a9AE Little Sister\u2014one of the favored few who gained the right to sit at their table, attend their parties, and strut cool around campus. I\u2019d refused to rush a sorority. Even if I had sorority kind of money\u2014even if my lifeguarding checks didn\u2019t go straight to tuition\u2014no Greek club would run me. But \u01a9AEs weren\u2019t just Greeks. At FSC, they were gods.<\/p>\n
Disco Duck<\/em> pulsed in the smoky air and my self-esteem deflated into a chair. I scraped bubble gum from the bottom of my sandal with a fingernail. Maybe I was crazy for cramming gods and God into the same square inch on the timeline of my life. What if they couldn\u2019t co-exist?<\/p>\n
A hand grabbed my wrist and I looked up at one of the girls from my dorm. She yanked me into the conga line.<\/p>\n
Thank God.<\/p>\n
When the song ended, the guy behind me kept hold of my waist. \u201cDance?\u201d<\/p>\n
Dave Holt<\/p><\/div>\n
\u201cSure\u201d flew out of my mouth before I turned around. Dancing with anyone beat picking pink from my shoe. My gaze smacked into the golden \u01a9AE emblazoned across the expanse of a man-sized chest, then swooped up to powder blue eyes framed by wavy, white-blond hair. My breath caught. Well, okay then.<\/p>\n
A couple songs later, sweat beaded across my forehead and along my hairline, trickled down my back.<\/p>\n
He offered to get me a beer.<\/p>\n
I held up my hand. \u201cI\u2019m good.\u201d I\u2019d kill for a glass of water, but I didn\u2019t have the guts to say it out loud. I\u2019d find some later. No alcohol for this girl\u2014I didn\u2019t mind the taste. I wasn\u2019t pounding a stake into some teetotaling moral hill. What gave me pause were the possibilities that sprang from too many Pabst Blue Ribbons.<\/p>\n
His shoulders retreated and my mind slipped back a week. I\u2019d glanced up from brushing my teeth in the dorm bathroom.<\/p>\n
A floor mate stripped down to what had to be her boyfriend\u2019s tighty whities.\u00a0My jaw dropped open. Toothpaste dribbled down my shirt.\u00a0Sex. She\u2019d had sex! I could almost feel the roll of her eyes at my naivet\u00e9 as she stepped into the shower.\u00a0I<\/em> rolled my eyes at my naivet\u00e9, wiped my chin, and spit. Catholicism and the danger of a second emotional apocalypse after Dad had scared me freakishly chaste so far. Even the guy I\u2019d loved in high school hadn\u2019t seen skin to skin contact.<\/p>\n
I looked up.\u00a0Tall, Blue-eyed, and Handsome threaded toward me.\u00a0Lava spurted through my veins.<\/p>\n
The next afternoon I swept leaves from the pool deck while the regulars from New York and New Jersey napped in the sun. I said Hail Marys, Our Fathers,<\/em> and The Act of Contrition <\/em>in my head\u2014<\/em>lunging for God like a life preserver. The compulsion to find my purpose and do something more than landfill the abyss inside, drove me toward Deity.<\/p>\n
Photo by Josh Felise<\/p><\/div>\n
A few days later, the blue-eyed \u01a9AE\u2014Dave Holt\u2014called to invite me along on an errand to his family\u2019s beach house.\u00a0I wavered\u2014recalling frat boy tales, the testosterone I\u2019d fielded myself.\u00a0He just had to pick something up, he assured me.\u00a0I pictured honest blue eyes. \u201cI\u2019ll go.\u201d\u00a0Minutes later, I settled into his car for three hours of exchanging facts. He hailed from Tennessee, a junior majoring in business and marketing. Words, and a sense that he was a man who wore integrity without really thinking about it, filled up the car. And something more earthy\u2014to do with the white hairs curling on his thighs, faint scent of deodorant, proximity of my skin to his.<\/p>\n
He must have felt it, too. Because his hand reached over and curled around mine.\u00a0I didn\u2019t flinch. Instead, I learned the freckles, foreign weight, feel of his warmth mingling mine. And when he dropped me off\u2014a quick kiss brushed my lips. Beautiful.<\/p>\n