Page 58 of The Unravelings

If I’m not careful, I’ll lose myself in all the things piling up, and they’ll take me under.

I take a deep breath and center myself in the now, taking in the pleasant smells of my favorite café.

I am here. Everything is fine. Mom is okay at the care facility. I’m getting an education. I am bettering myself for the future.

I slip my phone from my pocket, checking how much time I have to waste until my first class of the day. Thirty minutes. That’s enough to order, eat, drink, and then get on my way. Not enough time to dwell on the bullshit I can’t control.

Like my mom’s disease. Like my association with the Shades. Like my life careening off a cliff into the darkness that fucking terrifies me.

Don’t stress about what you can’t control. At least, that’s what I try to tell myself. Over and over again, so I don’t lose my goddamn mind in the bullshit.

Without second-guessing myself, I click on a name I haven’t texted in a few days. We aren’t close. Yet, we aren’t acquaintances, either.

Oliver Davenport.

Wilder: Are you actually coming to class today? Or need my notes again?

I smirk at my jab. For three days, Oliver has been MIA. And the only reason I know is because I’ve had my eyes on him. Or…lack of eyes on him since he’s been holed up in his dorm room with the flu.

For whatever reason, Malic has it in his head that Oliver would make a great fucking addition to our frat, AKA joining Boss Man’s cause.

But I’m not too fucking sure.

I’m not sure anyone is good enough to join our ranks. Why would they want to, anyway? This job is bloody, unrelenting, and unforgiving.

But it was something I had to do. For survival.

Them? They’re hungry for the power the Shades will bring to them. The prestige.

I swallow hard, hitting send and hoping for whatever fucking reason that Oliver makes it. My mind flashes to the day after our first class together.

Since then, Oliver and I have texted here and there. I don’t really know him that well. So why does my heart beat faster as I read over our previous messages? Why does sweat form on my palms, and my tongue feels heavy with words I haven’t said?

Why does Oliver Davenport have this effect on me?

Whatever it is, I shove it down. I don’t have the time or energy to explore whatever is happening to my mind and body.

“Oh, God,” I groan to myself as I scroll through our past text messages, and butterflies burst in my stomach at our interaction.

Wilder: You missed class. Ya good?

Oliver: Flu. It’s bad. I’ll be back soon…

Wilder: You, uh, good then? Need something to help? Meds? Soup?

Oliver: All good. Thanks, man.

My cheeks heat at the thought of giving him soup. Fuck. What was I thinking? Soup? That was literally the first thing I thought of when he said he wasn’t well. Soup. I could smack my damn self sometimes. I didn’t know why I cared. Why I texted. Maybe the memories of Brutus and my stupid brother plotting against the kid made me protective. It was that first day of class when Mack and Brutus ganged up on him, getting in his face, and I had to step in.

Assholes.

Oliver is half their size. Small. Dainty, even. With a soft jawline and freckles dotting his cheeks and nose.

There’s…

I lick my lips and rear back at the thoughts running through my head and furrow my brows. No. Oliver is a cool dude. That’s it. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I shake my head and gather myself, really focusing on the shit happening around me again. I’ve been too lost in my own thoughts since the moment I stepped through the double doors of the café. I get behind a tall guy I recognize from around campus. When he sees me, he nods in recognition and then faces forward with an uneasy expression. With all the gangs and Mafia heirs from different places wandering around campus, I wouldn’t think we’d be the ones people are afraid of.