Chapter 3

Abby:

I somehow manage to make it all the way through my shift, though only by sheer force of will. After Paul’s little comment about my shoes, no way in hell was I going to give him the satisfaction of knowing my feet are killing me. By the time we leave the Student Services building after clocking out, I’m wincing with every step. We part ways outside the atrium, him to the student parking lot, and me toward the dorms across campus. Once I’m sure I’m out of sight, I slip my shoes off and make the rest of the trip back to my dorm room barefoot.

My roommate, Krystal, is in our room, dressed in cozy pajamas and sitting cross-legged on her bed doing homework when I get there. She looks up at me as I enter and shoots me a knowing wink. This isn’t the first time that I’ve come home after a night out looking more ragamuffin than rock star and carrying my shoes—or other parts of my ensemble–instead of wearing them. This is, however, the first time, I didn’t have a good time to end up looking so tore up.

“I thought you had to work today?” Krystal sets her pen in the crack of her open text and pushes the book away from her, stretches her legs out and crosses her ankles. She leans back against the wall behind her and folds her arms behind her head. And waits. She’s waiting for me to give her all the juicy details. She’s going to be waiting a heck of a long time. I wish I had something juicy to report. Instead, all I’ve got is ex-boyfriend drama.

“I did.”

Krystal’s curious expression folds into a mask of confusion. “I thought you got a job on campus.”

I huff a sardonic chuckle. The shoes I’d thought were so perfect—perfect for getting under Paul’s skin—turned out to be an epic fail. He basically implied I was silly for wearing them. So, not the reaction I was hoping for when I put them on this afternoon. I toss the shoes into my closet, unzip my skirt, and let it fall to the floor. Stepping out of it, I leave the tiny skirt on the floor and pull my shirt over my head to join the skirt on my way to my dresser for pajamas. A knock sounds on the door just as I unclasp my bra and let it slide down my arms. I catch it with crossed arms over my chest before the garment falls completely away. Then I shoot a questioning look at Krystal.

She hops off the bed and goes to the door without any concern for my near nudity. “Don’t worry. It’s just Mir. I talked her into bringing me her Ethics notes on her way home from the frat house.” Krystal’s bestie, Miranda, practically lives at her boyfriend’s frat house these days. I’m a little surprised she’s even going home tonight.

I relax and let my arms drop. My bra falls away, and I reach for my pajama drawer, pull it open as Krystal opens the door for Miranda. I’m not at all concerned about her seeing me in nothing but my panties. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.

“Oh shit,” Krystal mutters a heartbeat before someone coughs uncomfortably, a loud, male cough. I know in an instant that it isn’t Miranda at the door, but instead of turning my back to them, my brain misfires and I turn toward them instead.

“Paul.” My voice is breathless.

Paul fills the open doorway. He skims my entire body, and even though his gaze only touches me for a matter of seconds before he averts his eyes, I’m sure I’ll feel the heat from that look for the rest of my life.

Or maybe it’s the heat of embarrassment.

I scramble for my clothes, grabbing the largest T-shirt in my drawer and yanking it over my head. By the time I tug it down to my thighs, Krystal has slammed the door in Paul’s face. A little late there, Krys. I grab a pair of pink flannel pants and pull them on quickly. Once I’m fully dressed, I join Krystal at the door.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, stepping aside so I can grab the knob.

“It’s okay,” I answer as I pull the door. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. At least, that’s what I try to tell myself as I step out into the hall. Paul stands across the space, leaning against the wall with his head tipped back and his eyes closed. His face is tense, and his hands are fisted at his sides. He almost looks like he’s in pain.

“What are you doing here?” I don’t even bother with hello. We’re not that kind of exes. We’re also not the still-see-each-other-naked type of exes.

Paul lowers his head and opens his eyes. When he meets my gaze, his expression is schooled, no hint of whatever he was feeling left on his face. “I still had your driver’s license.” He holds out a Florida state ID card.

I reach out and take the card from him, flip it over to look at the picture for confirmation that it is actually mine. Sure enough, there’s my smiling face staring back up at me, right under the hologram of Florida. Paul took it at the start of our shift to make a copy for John to put in my employee file and must have forgotten to return it.

“How did you know my dorm room?” Did he follow me all the way back here and only wait until I was undressed to knock? I shake the thought away. He couldn’t possibly have known I would be naked. Besides, creeper was so not Paul’s style. No, he was every bit the gentleman. Until he wasn’t.

“It was on your paperwork,” he reminded me, and I feel a little silly for not having realized that in the first place.

“Oh… well… thanks.” I wave my ID in the air between us. “For bringing this…”

“No problem.” He steps away from the wall, and suddenly the foot or so of space between us feels like mere inches and it’s shrinking with every breath.

For a moment, I think he’s going to come closer, going to trace gentle fingers along my cheekbone, down my neck, along the collar of my shirt—the way he used to when he was feeling playful. Heat pools low in my belly at the memory of his touch on my skin, and in that moment, I don’t care that we broke up three years ago. I don’t care that he broke my heart. I forget all about the nights I spent crying in my room missing him, or how the memory of him haunted me in even the most mundane parts of my days. But he doesn’t touch me. Instead, his hands stay fisted at his sides.

“So, I’ll… uh… see you tomorrow?” It sounds more like a question than a fact.

“Yep, four p.m. on the dot,” I answer.

Paul smirks. Something in my response is amusing to him. “Sure.” Then he turns and walks away without a backward glance. I know this, because instead of going back into my room like a regular person, I stand there in the hallway like a lovesick schoolgirl, watching until long after he turns the corner in the direction of the stairs.

Eventually, I shake off my Paul-induced stupor and manage to get myself back into my room. I ignore Krystal’s questioning look and collapse facedown onto my bed. I know she wants details, but there’s so much going on my brain right now, I wouldn’t know where to start if I tried.

“Who was that?” She asks finally.

“Paul,” I answer, the word muffled against my pink down comforter.

I hear Krystal suck in a breath before she asks, “Paul? The Destroyer of Hearts, Paul?”

I half smile that she remembers my old nickname for him. “The one and only.”

“Fuck.”

I nod against my blanket. Fuck is right.