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Along with a small monthly stipend, I get to live for free while I help incoming freshman girls navigate the complicated world of dorm life.
Best of all, I didn’t even have to leave the dorm room I used in college. I live in the same cube I shared with Carrie. It’s charming, said no one ever.
I’ve retrofitted the place somewhat since I live alone. Instead of a second twin bed, I have a long desk. Half of it is used for normal desk functions. It houses pens, books, and a desk calendar I thought I needed but never use. The other half contains a state-of-the-art kitchen…if you squint your eyes a little. I have a coffee pot and a drying rack. A shelf, hung at eye level, stores two plates, two bowls, and two mugs—two of each just in case I have company in the form of Carrie. There’s a small sink, a mini fridge, and a microwave, and instead of one minuscule closet, I have two.
The rug (thrifted) and art (also thrifted) on the walls try hard to dress up the dwelling but mostly function like lipstick on a pig.
I would move out, and I will, eventually. Just…not right now.
Right now, this room is a safe haven, a place where problems don’t exist outside of “Jessica stole my Pringles!” and “Candace used my towel again!”
This morning especially, I don’t want to leave the safe confines of my dorm, but I have work. With a woe-is-me sigh, I grab my bag and make for the door, walking right past a photo of my family. I glance at it wistfully, like I would if they were all deceased and I was staring in a Hallmark movie. But nope, they are alive and well in New York City with Avery.
I spoke to them last night.
“Your sister is busier than ever, rehearsing nonstop!”
Eight years of hard work has paid off. Avery has managed to land a starring role in a Broadway musical. (I now know the difference between “on” and “off” Broadway, thank you very much.) Opening night is only three months away, and I’ve agreed to take time off and fly up to see her perform. It should go the way of all my other visits. I will suppress my deep-seated resentment toward my parents while putting on a brave face for Avery, who most of the time isn’t there anyway because of her demanding schedule. After a few days of strained family time, I’ll fly back to Georgia with a bad taste in my mouth and a stomachache that lingers for a few days.
But now’s not the time to worry about that.
I have bigger, hunkier issues to deal with today.
Derek Knightley and his grotesquely perfect features await me at Elena’s Castle.
It’s cruel the way time decides to play favorites. Before, he was so handsome I could barely look at him. In the eight years since, time has decided to bestow even more genetic gifts unto him. Cheekbones? Yup, let’s go ahead and hone ’em even more. Jawline? Sharper! Smirk? We want panties dropping, boys!
It’s why I behaved like a perfect asshole on Friday. Well, part of the reason. I was actually tired and I did, in fact, need to use the restroom. But, I was also shocked he’d come to see me, shocked he was there in all his glory. I didn’t have time to prepare myself for the battery of emotions that assaulted me upon seeing him again up close, smiling at me.
“You might not remember me.”
That line was a shot to my heart. Him suggesting I wouldn’t remember him is a projection of his own feelings toward me back then. Of course I remember you, you fool! I LOVED YOU!
Wrong!
No!
I take a pencil eraser to my thoughts. It was not love. I had feelings for him the way all teenagers do. It was just a silly crush. This over-the-top reaction I’m having to his return from London is completely uncalled for. I was rude to him and he didn’t deserve it. He must think I’m deranged after the way I treated him.
So today, I’m going to fix it.
I walk through the Underground on my way to my dressing room, waving to everyone I pass, saying hello, stopping to talk as time allows. It’s the same way I’ve started all my shifts in the last few years. The shy girl Derek once knew is long gone. After almost a decade of working at the Knightley Company, I know just about every face I pass in the tunnels.
It’s not as if one day I just decided to jump out from the shadows and greet the world with jazz hands. It was a gradual change. Everyone in the college internship program grew pretty close over the four years we took classes together, bonding over tyrannical professors and piles of homework. After we graduated, a good chunk of them continued working for the Knightley Company. On top of that, my second job as a residence hall manager means a handful of the employees here were once freshmen on my floor. Homesick, worried, out of tampons—I was their mother hen.
