I grit my teeth but give a clipped nod.
With one final look, he releases the bag and takes a step back. Before he can turn to leave, I shut the door on him, the brown paper bag making a crunching noise as I clench my fist around it.
Using a breathing technique to stop myself from chasing the little shit down, I open the bag and take a gander at what he thought would make a good little mating gift.
A double-chocolate-chip muffin, a brand-new packet of acetaminophen, and a small bottle of electrolytes.
Scrunching the bag up, I head over to the trash can and toss the whole thing in, only to turn around and find Oakley leaning against her doorframe, staring at me. Her gaze flicks down to the trash and back up to me, a knowing look on her face before she walks into the bathroom, the door locking behind her.
Chapter 21
Emery
I glance around the dorm, the only noise coming from Oakley’s room, where she is on a call with one of her regular sugar daddies.
Will’s study group is going to be here any minute, and nerves have crashed into my system like paint being splattered on a canvas. Chaotic and messy.
Thank fuck Xavier isn’t here. I have no idea where he is right now, but I’m happy I didn’t have to get into a conversation about why I needed him to leave. Having more students see him in our dorm room is not something that needs to happen.
I stupidly checked the forums again today, and there I was, front and center, being carried bridal style by Derek, my backpack on his back. The comment section for that thread is a series of photos tracking our progress across campus to my dorm and a whole bunch of speculation that was, honestly, a little gross. It’s a fucking nightmare.
I’m still not sure of my feelings about that whole situation. Like, him carrying me and caring for me and not giving a shit who sees? Actual swoon. But that is swiftly followed up bytoo little, too late. And then a high dose of irritation that he just painted a target on my back for all the self-identifying Monarch Lovers.
Even without the headaches that are still lingering, this would be enough of a reason to stay in my dorm for the next few days. I have no idea how I’m going to make it to the dean’s office tomorrow without having a million eyes following me as I go.
Wait. Fuck.
If I’m seen going into the administration building, what the hell are the forums going to say about that? I squeeze my eyes shut and jam my fingers into the sockets and rub hard, trying to ease every ounce of fucking pressure from…everywhere.
It doesn’t work.
My phone chirps from its spot on the couch, and I glance at it.
Will:Coming up to your building now. Still all good?
I scoop up my phone and reply that, yes, everything is still good. Just like it was twenty minutes ago.
Staring at our messages, I will myself to feel something about him other than generic friendship. Anything. Even a pinch past friendship. But there’s nothing. Nada. Zip.
I have more feelings about Oakley than I do about Will. Which is frustrating as fuck.
Will is the kind of guy I need to be dating, I remind myself. He is incredibly good-looking, tall, very obviously built underneath the street-smart wardrobe he wears, sweet, charming, kind, and likes sports, all of which completes a row on a book-boyfriend bingo card. So why the hell don’t I get even the tiniest tingling when his fingers brush my arm? Or butterflies in my stomach when he looks at me with those blue eyes?
It’s so fucking unfair.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll get used to it. I’ve faked interest before, and I can fake it again. And besides, what’s that saying?Fake it till I make it? I need to allow myself to be open to the opportunity, and eventually, something will spark. It has to. I want my college experience, and if that gets to be with a hockey player, then yay for me.
I’ll just keep repeating all of his positives to myself every time I start to doubt. Manifestation and all that crap.
Even though I’m expecting it, the knock at the door startles me, but I pull myself together and hustle over to let my guests in.
Will and Vinnie are both there, with three other students that look vaguely familiar, which makes sense because they are in the same class as me. The boys both grin and I find my smile for them.
“Hey,” I start, but my words fade when the only girl in the group stares at the bruise on my cheekbone, which is actually starting to lose some of its purple and gain a little orange and yellow.
I flap my non-braced hand at my face and then my brace. “Had a stumble on a sidewalk, and the sidewalk won.”
The smile on my face feels more like a grimace, but I force it to stay there. I need these people to like me, so I can stay in their group and maybe expand my social circle by a person or two.
