“I appreciate it, but there are some people here I just want to deal with and move on. I can’t put it off,” I say, glancing up at him. He’s close enough he has to look down to see into my eyes, and the moment our gaze locks my heart starts to pick up its rhythm again. He looks like he wants to argue with me, like he has more to say, and we stare at each other for what feels like minutes, even though I’m sure it’s only a second or two. It’s long enough for me to imagine his hand coming up to lift my chin, and the moment I do that, I shake my head and take a step away.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I say, waiting as he holds a few fingers up for a polite wave. He turns and walks down the front steps back to his car. I close the door when he opens his, not wanting him to see me watch him leave. But I want to watch him leave. I settle for listening to his engine start and fade instead.
The warmth from being near him evaporates as soon as I turn around and face the dark emptiness of the sorority house. Only a handful of the girls are back, but the ones who are—they hate me.
And I hate them.
I drag my bags up the steps, letting them scratch and scuff along the way. What do I care? Once I get to my room, I take a deep breath and push my key in, knowing my key—it’s a farce. There isn’t anything that can keep everyone out. My bed is packed up, the blankets and pillows all stacked in the center. The clothes I left behind in the drawers and closet are all piled in a basket at the foot of the bed. And the makeup and perfume I decided not to bring—it’s gone, most of it cracked and spilled in the metal trashcan at the edge of my vanity. I’m not surprised, but this act—it’s still a slap in my face.
There’s a note in the middle of my mirror, and I hesitate to read it. Reading it gives it power. I walk past it and sit at the edge of my bed to survey the details, wondering what else they’ve done that I’m not seeing. My saved belongings are protected in my bags by the door. I hear someone down the hall giggle, and I hear a door close. The Delta House is old—historic. And the hardware sounds as such. I used to hate the noises—the creaking and the pops. But I adore them now—the way they expose the rats.
Standing, I walk to my mirror and pull the purple sticky note from the glass.
We gave you a head start.
I crumple the paper and throw it in the trash bin along with my cosmetics. I turn back to the bed and slide the pile of pillows and blankets to the floor, pulling one comforter out of the pile to sleep on, and another to sleep under. I bundle my hair in a bun and slip into a pair of sweatpants and my sister’s old soccer T-shirt. She gave it to me when I needed something to work out in over the break, and I kept it. It’s nothing like I normally wear—plain, red, with a giant logo on the front and her number on the back. There’s a hole at the bottom, and I loop my thumb through it to stretch the shirt out so I can take my reflection in. At a quick glance, I look like Cass in this.
With one more check on my lock, I pull my bags closer to my bed. If anyone tries to fuck with me tonight, I’m going to hear them. And maybe, wearing Cass’s shirt will give me Cass’s strength. I slip my phone from my purse, and set the alarm. Then, I shoot one last text to Houston:
Make it 7.
I keep the phone clutched in my hand, and when it buzzes minutes later, I smile, knowing it’s from him. I tilt it just enough to read his response:
OK
It’s short, and there’s no pretense to it. It’s what I want. But yet, I’m also disappointed that there isn’t more to his message, that he isn’t asking me if I want him to come back, if I haven’t changed my mind about staying tonight. I laugh silently to myself at how unfair I’m being.
It’s almost midnight.
Seven hours.
I can handle one night.
I let my eyes drift shut, and soon my ears take in only the gentle hum of the heater. It lulls me to near sleep, and I start to forget why my arms are flexed and my fingers are gripping my phone so hard. And then I hear the creak down the hall and I remember.
One night. But not a minute more.
Chapter 8
Houston
I showed up at seven, and Paige was already packed and waiting for me. She doesn’t strike me as the wake-up-early kind of girl. She’s been yawning most of the morning while we load things into my car and then out of my car, upstairs, and to her new room.
“Why don’t you rest for a while? I’m off today, and was just planning on taking Leah to the park. You can get settled in your room—maybe take a nap?” I suggest.
Paige flops on her new bed, bouncing on it a few times, testing the softness. I can tell she’s disappointed, but she’s biting her lip, looking off to the side, like she’s searching for a way to show she’s grateful.