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I wanted to live in the house off campus with my brothers, well, one blood brother, three of them brothers in everything but that, but after what happened before, well, they want the counselor to be able to keep a closer eye on me. A smirk tugs at my lips even as I think of it.
Rattling of the handle at my back snags my attention just in time for me to sidestep and twist out of the way of the inward swinging door.
I freeze, my back to the empty side of the room, the cardboard edge of one of my very few boxes, cutting into the back of my calf as I lean away. A flurry of erratic movement as a girl half-falls into the room, slams the door shut, spinning towards it, and then just sort of slumps against it. Forehead pressing to the wood of the door, her slim, heaving back to me, a black cloth bag thuds heavily to the floor, dropping from the crook of her elbow, slipping down her arm, over her wrist, her balled hand.
Watching her, I make no sound. Unmoving in my position, I study her tall frame. She must be six-foot or close to it as she's almost the same height as me at six-two. Tremors zip through her where she rests against the wood, hands pressing flat against it, fingers splayed.
Deep purple polish on her short, rounded nails, a slim gold band on her right, middle finger. Thick brown hair, streaked with natural gold, brushes the base of her spine. Swishing gently with the motion of her quivering legs dressed in black jeans, wet boots on her feet.
I lick my dry lips, swallowing, nervousness feels like a weight in the very pit of my stomach and I don't know what to do. How to announce my presence now when she very clearly is having some sort of episode.
This is why I needed my own room.
I'm not good with other people.
Not after what happened before.
They know all this, it's why I couldn't be here, had to go away. Why I had to leave.
Fuck.
My fingers knot in my bleached blond hair, the coarse texture of the over processed strands rough in my hands. I tug on my roots, take a deep breath, which almost feels selfish as I watch the figure in front of me struggle to do the same.
That's when I hear her.
Mumbling.
Soft, breathless words murmuring beneath her ragged breaths. Too quiet for me to hear, but I tilt my head to one side as though to listen harder, strain my ears to hear her words, all the same.
And I can smell her. Wet snow, something like sweet buttery pumpkin underlying the stronger scent of damp clothes.
Her back rises and falls slower, and I shift on my feet. The sole of my sneaker making an almost silent scraping sound on the rough textured carpet, but not that silent.
Her head snaps up, her entire body tightening, muscles coiling, she turns to face me, slowly. Her hands drop from the door, fingertips squeaking uncomfortably down the glossy wood as she turns.
Her eyes are large. Pupils blown so wide, I almost miss the unusual lilac-blue coloring of her irises beneath her heavy curtain of bangs. A thin nose, slightly crooked at the bridge, maybe from a break or a fracture, a rounded point for the tip. Leading to pale pink lips, all soft and plush and pouty. Parted, the bottom one looks almost too heavy for her slim face where it hangs, trembling, her chin quivering, cheekbones high arches on her round cheeks, flushed with an icy sort of pink.
“I'm having a bad trip,” she says quietly, a strong British accent soft and light as a feather on her tongue, the sound of it as though a ribbon is floating airily through my eardrums.
I watch her fingertips curling into the door at her back, nails cutting into the wood. I find my fingers relaxing, grip loosening, now that I have something else to focus on. My arms drop to my sides and I think about lighting a joint. But I'm not entirely sure that's what this girl needs to be inhaling right now.
“It's okay, Treasure,” her big eyes blink at the rough sound of my voice, maybe at the endearment, clinging onto my thickly accented Texan timbre, trying to reconnect herself with reality.
I know what that's like.
“I'm Lynx.” My hand presses to my chest, fingers splaying over the fabric of my white cotton shirt. “What's your name?”
Gasping, she blinks again, staring at me, but not really seeing. And then she inhales a short, sharp breath. The punch of it lifting her chest, breasts jiggling beneath her too-thin coat, loose black shirt underneath.
“Ppp-Ppop-Poppy,” she stutters, sucking in her cheeks as she gets the word free from her clattering teeth.
“Okay, Poppy, can you sit there for me?” I gesture with my hand towards what I assume is her bed, dressed with white cotton sheets, little pink flowers embroidered on them.
Glancing at where my own bed still sits bare, I scrunch my nose, thinking about it. This is a co-ed dorm, but there's not usually co-ed rooms. This must be a mistake.
Poppy nods as I shift my gaze back onto her. Throat working, she swallows dryly, and without hesitating, she crosses the space, following my instruction, which does a weird thing to my insides. Her shoulder gently brushing my own, she drops heavily onto the end of the bed, mattress springing up slightly before the metal coils settle beneath her weight. Shoulders slumping forwards, she curls in on herself. Breath rushing in and out,rasping down her throat, eyes wide, unblinking as she stares ahead. I'm not really great at this. This is more Rex's territory, coaching someone through a bad trip, something he has done for me many times before.
But he knows me.
