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Alice goes into the bathroom to shower. I start drying the mangled strands of hair, using the brush to straighten them out as I go and then apply some light makeup, using the mirror in our room.
Twenty minutes later, like the beauty queen she is, she comes out of the bathroom, fully dressed and ready. I slip into my ankle boots and finish myself off with a spritz of my favorite perfume.
“Ready?” Alice turns to me and smiles.
“Ready,” I confirm, and we both head out together.
The walk to Lincoln Hall is short, and we make it there in under ten minutes. The building itself looks older than dirt, but inside it’s beautiful, with high ceilings and huge windows that let lots of light in. Entering the room, I discover it’s already filling up with people. There is an entrance table with one of the helpers handing out name tags and explaining the seating chart. Great, I won’t be able to sit with Alice like I had hoped. A nervous knot forms in my stomach. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles, Willow. Sighing, I walk up to the table.
“Willow Bradford,” I tell the lady at the table.
“Good morning, Miss Bradford, you will be sitting at table eight, and your father is already here,” she smiles, and I almost choke on the air in my lungs.
“What?” I don’t understand. He’s not supposed to be here. Why is he here? Suddenly any appetite I might have had is gone, and all I want to do is go back to the dorm and crawl in my bed. But I can’t, definitely not now. Scanning the room slowly half praying this woman might be wrong, I spot him. Damnit. My insides burn, and my muscles tighten. There he is sitting at our assigned table, wearing a gray tailored suit looking every bit out of his element. His dark gaze moves about the room, watching as students pass by with their parents. Parents that care. That love them. As I stare, one single question remains. What the hell is he doing here?
“Oh, cool. Your dad came, after all,” Alice exclaims excitedly. “My family is at table 3, but we can get together later, okay?” She’s bubbling at the seams with excitement over seeing her parents, while I would rather stick forks in my eyes. I swallow thickly, the saliva in my mouth suddenly turning to glue. Not wanting to have to explain to her the shitshow that is my family, I just nod instead.
We part ways, and it takes everything inside me to continue walking toward that table. I’m angry, sad, and disappointed because this was supposed to be my break. My chance at freedom, instead, it feels more like a gilded cage. All over again, I’m trapped, just like I was at home.
“There you are,” my father greets me with a forced smile as I walk up to the table. He gets up, presses a kiss to my cheek, and pulls my chair out for me. Once we’re both seated, he leans in so no one else can hear and says, “Would it have killed you to wear a dress for an event like this?”
What the hell?
He straightens back up, and I stare at him dumbfoundedly. What has gotten into him? Why is this stupid brunch so important to him, and what is wrong with the clothes I’m wearing? This isn’t a charity ball or some fundraiser. Everyone else is dressed in a similar fashion to me.
Biting back a shitty remark, I ignore his comment about my attire and decide to change the topic, “Why are you here?”
His thick eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “What kind of question is that? Why wouldn’t I be here? All the other freshmen parents are here.” As he is talking, his eyes scope out the room, almost like he is looking for something… no… someone.
Suspicion creeps up my spine and starts to fester deep inside my gut as I continue watching my dad. Even though he’s supposedly here for me, his attention is everywhere but on me. Matter of fact, he almost seems distracted. I’m not really shocked though. Crossing my arms over my chest, I just stare at him, wishing he would disappear.
“Have you made a lot of friends yet?” he asks out of the blue.
“I really haven’t had much time. I spent the last few days getting oriented with the campus and unpacking. My roommate is nice though. She wants to meet you later, but you don’t have to.”
“Nice?” he asks like he doesn’t know what the word means. “What’s her name?”
“Alice,” I answer briskly, before taking a sip of my water.
He looks at me like I’m dumb. “What’s her last name, Willow.”
I’m so close to rolling my eyes, it’s not even funny. Of course, he’s only interested in her last name. Because last names signify everything about you. Forget what kind of person you are. Without the right last name, you’re a nobody.
