Chapter 8
Abby:
“Hey, girl!” Hands land on my shoulders from behind when I’m just a few feet from slipping through the front door and making my escape from the party from hell.
I spin, forcing a fake smile for whoever is so excited to see me. My friend Miranda wraps me in a hug the second I turn around.
“Hey, Mir,” I greet her. “I’m just leaving.” Because I’m barely keeping it together right now and I don’t want to break down in the middle of a freaking frat party. She must read my unspoken thought in my expression because she immediately loops an arm through mine and escorts me through the door. The front porch is blissfully quiet compared to the rager inside the house.
Miranda turns to me the minute the front door is shut behind us. “What’s wrong?” Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s cradling a massive chalice filled with approximately a vat’s worth of beer.
Her question triggers the tears I’ve been fighting since Paul made it very clear where I stand with him. His ex-girlfriend. It’s true. I am, but that’s not what it felt like when he was getting me off in the bedroom upstairs.
So why am I so upset? Why am I standing on the front porch of some frat house crying? “I’m just… having a rough day.” I tell her.
Miranda looks completely unconvinced. She raises an eyebrow at me and waits for me to say more.
“I ran into Paul.” I leave out the part where I ran into his fingers with my vagina.
Miranda looks confused for a moment. “Paul?” Her almond-shaped brown eyes widen, and her lips form an O to match. “The Paul?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak as I barely manage to stem the flow of tears.
Miranda scrunches her eyebrows in anger. “What did he do to you? Do I need to get Jameson and the guys to kick his ass?” Jameson, Miranda’s boyfriend is a Zeta, and so deeply devoted to her, she probably could get him and his frat brothers to beat someone up.
I shake my head and test my voice. “I… I just need to go home.” I ignore the urge to sniffle pitifully.
“Of course, babe. Want me to walk with you?”
Miranda’s always been the sweet mother-hen type, but I’m not about to pull her away from a party she’s clearly enjoying—if the crown of laurel leaves encircling her head and the giant gold goblet that she’s drinking out of are any indication. Especially not just so she can walk with my sad, sorry ass a few buildings up campus. “I’m f-fine, really. Go enjoy your party. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Her concerned expression belies the fact that she is unconvinced, but she doesn’t argue with me. “You better.”
I draw my index finger in an imaginary X over my chest for cross my heart. She wraps me in another hug, taking care not to spill her chalice of beer, then releases me. I give her a soft wave and head toward my dorm. I don’t look back to see if she’s still watching me. Instead, I square my shoulders and do my best not to let the tears flow again until I know I’m out of sight. There’s no way she’ll let me go off on my own if she knows I’m still crying.
Somehow, I manage to keep the tears at bay all the way to my dorm, up the elevator, and to my room. As soon as I open the door, though, Krystal is waiting with a tissue box in one hand and her favorite soft blanket in the other, the blanket she always tacos herself in when she’s feeling down.
“Miranda called you,” I accuse as she wraps me in the blanket and leads me to my bed.
She ignores my statement and sits down on the bed next to me. “Do you want to talk about it.”
No, I never want to talk—or think—about Paul again. “I should have known better than to stay at that stupid job. I should have just left and asked for a new assignment the minute I saw him.”
Krystal doesn’t say anything as my tears begin again, just takes a tissue from the box and places it into my hand. I lie back on the bed, wrapping myself in the blank the same way I’ve seen her do at least a dozen times since we became roommates. There really is something ridiculously comforting about wrapping up in a cozy blanket. It’s like a warm hug.
I curl on my side, facing toward her, and she sets a comforting hand on my shoulder. She sits there like that with me while I relay the entire night’s rollercoaster of events. I don’t spare any detail, but Krystal takes it in stride. I’m not the type to hem and haw over sex. She’s heard me talk about much more epic encounters than getting to third base. I pour it all out to her, and she listens intently. And in her silent support, I find the real cause of my tears. I’m not over Paul.
#
I spend the weekend sulking. Stewing in my own misery, really. I sleep a lot, spend even more time watching crappy sappy movies, and eat a steady supply of chocolate which Krystal keeps producing seemingly out of nowhere. Either she is a magician whose only trick is conjuring chocolate, or she’s been keeping a secret stash of it somewhere in our room and hasn’t told me.
By the time Monday rolls around, I’m feeling halfway human again. I make it a point of recentering myself by starting my day with a shower, fresh hair, and a perfect face of makeup. I even take care picking out my outfit, a pair of black high-waisted short shorts with a gray cropped sweater and my favorite black combat-style boots with chains where the laces should be. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I have to go to work after class. Where I’ll see Paul, who was always a fan of the rocker look. Nope… it has nothing at all to do with Paul and me wanting to show him what he’s missing out on.
I somehow manage to make it through my classes without returning to my dorm room and my bed. After scarfing down a lunch I don’t even taste, I check my hair and makeup and head off to face my asshole ex-boyfriend.
When I get to the security office, Paul’s not there. But John is. He looks up at me in surprise from his place behind his desk. “I thought you weren’t coming in today?”
“What? Why?” What would give him the impression I just wouldn’t show up to work.
John shakes his head. “I thought Paul said something about you maybe not feeling well and probably not coming to work today. I must have misheard.”
I force a smile. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’m fine. And here,” I add as I make my way to the kiosk to sign in. “Where’s Paul?” Not that I actually want to see him.
John looks at the clock on the wall over the door. “He started his circuit about 5 minutes ago. I can radio and tell him to come back.”
I check the time at the top of the kiosk screen. 1:58. I’m two minutes early, and he’s already been gone for five. He didn’t even bother to wait around to see if I was coming. I tamp down the annoyance rising in my chest. “No, that’s okay. I’ll catch up.” Slowly. So slowly, in fact, that he may spend the entire shift ahead of me. With any luck, we may never even have to come face to face today.
I head out of the security office with that plan in mind and head, not for the parking garage where Paul usually starts his shift, but to student services. Based on my experience shadowing him, I might have a good hour or so to chill there, well away from him. Then I can make my exit before he arrives and go wherever he won’t be for the rest of my shift.
Except when the elevator open to let me out on the ground floor of the student services building, who is there right in front of the doors staring down at his phone? Paul.
Please don’t look up. I scan the area for a quick escape route and step gingerly off the elevator in the direction of the south exit. I make it barely a few steps before Paul looks up from his phone and spears me in his gaze.