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5
The cab ride had been just a quick ten minutes from Pierre’s apartment complex to the campus. By the time we had taken a walk around the cafeteria, my stomach was already craving lunch—as if I didn’t just have a plate of some of the best crêpes in all of Britain. The smells coming from the kitchen weren’t as rich as those in C’est Bien, but they were good enough to warrant me standing in the doorway for a solid two seconds before Pierre had to pull me out of the way.
“Is the food good here, at least?” I asked, trying not to think about how badly I was craving some fish-and-chips.
“I don’t really eat here, actually,” Pierre replied. “Unless someone’s giving me a free meal swipe, I’d rather cook my own stuff.”
“Ah.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “We’ll have to test your cooking skills for lunch, then.”
Even though he made it sound like he preferred whipping up his own meals, I knew for a fact that he didn’t exactly have a choice. I knew from the price of the most basic meal plan at Freeman that it was way cheaper to cook at home. Once again, I found myself silently thanking Felix for the gift card—maybe it was a little much, but if it meant that Pierre could order in some high-quality French cuisine to tie him over for a few days, then I’d be grateful for it.
Looking around, I noticed how different Durham’s atmosphere was from Freeman’s. The students here were more stylish, yet seemed more chill, basking in the sunlight on the lawn and walking slowly along the perimeter rather than rushing from one place to the next. It was like we were in some sort of dream world, a movie set, where everyone was free of the social drama and academic insipidness that plagued the American campuses of so many films and books.
I guessed that was what studying abroad was all about—escaping the old and familiar. In Pierre’s case, the old and toxic. I was proud of him for coming here.
“The library here is amazing,” Pierre said, nodding to the large red-brick, columned building ahead of us. “Kind of reminds me of the one at Columbia. Sometimes I spend, like, four hours in there, just—”
Suddenly, I felt something on my ass—someone.
“I’d smash that,” I heard a deep voice say behind me. I whirled around.
There were two guys. Both were big, tall jocks. It wasn’t hard to make that assumption. The one behind me let out a low whistle, as if seeing my face was the icing on the cake.
Pierre grabbed onto my arm, pulling me toward him. “Did he just—”
“Yeah.” It wasn’t a question. But I shrugged it off, pulling Pierre along. We didn’t have time for this. “It doesn’t matter. Just ignore them.”
“No.”
I looked into Pierre’s eyes for a brief moment, shocked at the tone of his voice. It was almost like he was berating me for wanting to forget about it.
And then I realized why.
“Holy shit, Pierre’s got a girlfriend,” the other guy said, looking me up and down. “What a miracle.”
“Nah, I don’t believe it. How much is he paying you, sweetheart?” The guy who’d grabbed my butt lifted his eyebrows at me. “Ten pounds for every minute you spend with him?”
These two weren’t just some random students who’d happened to be jerks. Pierre knew them. And they knew him, it seemed.
Bullies. That’s what they were.
What a coincidence.
“Hey, Tommy. Derrick.” Pierre said, letting out a nervous laugh as he left my side. I could only stand there with my jaw dropped as he reached out his arm to give them each a bro shake. Then, he turned back to me, and I could practically see the sweat beading at his temples. “This is, uh, Kat.” he explained, as if he didn’t see what just happened to me. “A friend from home.”
“Wait.” I squeezed my eyes shut, and had to bite back a string of filthy swears. I looked back at Pierre and I knew he could tell I was seething. “These are your friends?”
I didn’t even bother keeping my voice down. So what, I embarrassed him. He should’ve been embarrassed. He deserved to be.
I knew exactly what was happening here—because it was exactly the kind of situation I’d avoided getting my own ass into that first week of college.
“We’ll take that as a compliment,” the misogynistic ass-grabber, Tommy, said in what was now an excruciatingly posh British accent. The grin plastered on his chapped lips was worse than any glossy smirk that Vivian could pull. “Pleasure to meet you, sweetheart.”
Oh my God.
I wanted to vomit at that the sound of that word coming out of his mouth. Sweetheart my ass.
Rather than returning the nicety, I planted myself firmly beside Pierre and crossed my arms, looking between the two guys. They were conventionally attractive, square jaws, tall, typical jock facade. Blonds. I didn’t have to stand there long to convince myself that there was no way in hell that Pierre would ever voluntarily stick around these guys for five minutes, let alone act like they were good friends of his.
