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Rolling my eyes hard enough to give myself a headache, I snap. “It’s not like that, D. I mean it kinda is, but it’s not. It wasn’t… we didn’t do anything that night.”
D crosses her arms over her chest. “You can’t say it’s kinda like that, and then it’s not. It’s either fucking or not fucking. Which is it?”
My mouth pops open. “Neither. It’s neither. Go to class. I have a headache, and I need to try and find a way to make this better.”
“Well, a good start would be to just screw him. It’s evident that you have chemistry.”
How did I know she would say that? Like it’s no big deal to sleep with the Dean of the university. Like it won’t get him in trouble or cost him everything? Like it won’t make people look at me, or call me names? As if screwing will make all of our problems go away?
“Chemistry doesn’t make it okay, D. I’ll explain more later.”
Slinging her backpack over her shoulder, she takes a step toward the door. “Whatever, if you aren’t going to spill, then I’m not going to risk being late for class.”
“Good idea,” I concur.
“Make good choices. I’ll see you at dinner.” She smiles and walks out of the cafeteria.
I clean up our table and bring the dishes to the conveyor belt before leaving myself. I don’t have any more classes for the rest of the day, so I’m heading straight to the dorm, planning to relax with some painting, a tub of ice cream, and a glass of wine.
Fifteen minute later, I’m back at the dorm, and do exactly what I’d planned to do. Getting out my art easel, I set up my canvas before I line my paints and brushes. I get out a glass, and the wine bottle, as well as a tub of ice cream and a spoon.
There we go, the scene is set for a perfect afternoon.
Taking a few bites of the ice cream, I use the time to fill the canvas in my mind. As the cool sugary chocolate chip mint goodness melts on my tongue, I decide on a night-time skyline. Putting the ice cream down, I hold my full wine glass in one hand and my paintbrush in the other.
Starting with the outline, I carefully place each line, getting a feel for the entire composition. With each stroke of my brush and each sip of my wine, I feel the tension leave my body. Home. When I’m painting, creating this piece of magic, it’s like nothing can touch me. Like I’m invincible. It doesn’t take long to finish the painting or the bottle of wine.
I’m just adding the final details on the oversized moon hanging high above the skyline when a knock on the door rips my attention away from the canvas.
Delilah must have forgotten her keys again. I swear the girl would forget her head if it wasn’t attached. Meandering off the bed with my almost empty wine glass in hand, I open the door. Ready to start making fun of D for being so forgetful, I open my mouth, but the words never come as the person on the other side of the door isn’t Delilah at all, but one of the dorm monitors.
Her eyes instantly go to the wine glass I’m holding. Shit. Alcohol is a no go in the dorms, they even have you sign paperwork upon moving in stating that you understand that and agree to abide by the no drinking rule.
“Ms. Kline,” the petite middle-aged woman tsks.
“Yes…”
“May I come in?” At her question, I open the door all the way and wave her in with my free hand. She crosses the threshold, and I feel compelled to slam the door in her face, but don’t. Having a place to sleep is pretty high on my list. Once inside, she turns around, her eyes roam over the room. It looks like she’s trying to find something, anything to write me up for.
When her icy gaze swings back to me, she asks, “Are you aware that alcohol is prohibited in the dorms?”
I can’t help but roll my eyes at her. “Yes, I know, but do you know that this is college, and everybody drinks?” I immediately regret my words. Fucking wine. Curse you. It has words tumbling out of my mouth before my brain can catch up.
The woman’s mouth pulls into a thin line. “That might be so, but your drinking must be pretty excessive if we have other students complaining about you.”
What the fuck?
My eyes go wide at her accusation. I mean, yes, I’ve been drinking a few nights a week, but doesn’t every other college student on the planet? I can’t imagine anybody reporting me for it, and it’s not like I’m loud and obnoxious when I’m drunk. This woman should go to the frat houses on a Friday night.
