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Grabbing my purse I left on the chair by her, I start making my way to the side of the house, the opposite one where I found Penis Man. I was on my way to leave when I realized I’d forgotten my bag, which was right about the time I saw my first penis.I really need to stop thinking about it…and picturing it.
Peeking around the corner, I check to make sure the coast is clear and, luckily, there isn’t anyone in sight.
Once I make it to my car, I wipe the small drops of sweat off my forehead. It’s been two years since I moved to Braxton, and I still haven’t gotten used to the humidity. It’s not like I’m from the north or anything, but Texas has a different kind of heat than this tropical weather. I think Florida is in its own category when it comes to humidity and heat.
Starting the car up, I make sure the air is blasting cool and directly in my face, making my long hair fly back. While my budget was extremely limited when I was ready to buy a car last year, my number one requirement was that it needed to have strong air conditioning. I got lucky with my cute, red Toyota Camry that is only a few years old. The air runs great and it has not given me any issues.
After cooling off for a bit, I put the car in drive and check to make sure no one is around before I pull away from the curb and onto the road. The road is littered with cars, and I make sure not to ding someone since the street is so narrow.
Now that I have a chance to relax in the quiet, I can firmly say that my first college party was not a success. It was an outright failure to the tenth degree. I didn’t even make it an hour in that place before I was telling Emree I needed to leave. There was no way I could be in that kind of environment with so many careless people surrounding me. I had to get out of there. It has been over a year since I’ve had an anxiety attack and I didn’t want to break that record today.
While my best friend was doing what she thought was helpful, she couldn’t have been more wrong. Yes, I have never been to a college party. I know that sounds lame coming from a twenty-year-old junior, but it’s by choice. People from class have invited me to them in the past, but I had no desire to go.
Emree always understood my reasoning for not wanting to attend any of the parties. That is until some guy on the Braxton soccer team invited her and she begged me to come with her because she didn’t want to be there alone. Emree has had a crush on this guy since she was a freshman and he winked at her in one of their classes. At least, that’s what she told me. It wasn’t until this year that they exchanged actual words and that was only him inviting her to a party at the house he shares with other teammates. How she ended up making out with him—at least I hoped it was him—in the backyard is beyond me.
Pulling into our apartment complex, I make sure to park under one of the streetlamps. Even though it’s lights out, I may end up picking Emree up later tonight. Grabbing my bag, phone, and keys, I exit the car and make my way to the front of the building.
The elevator ride up to the fourth floor is slow and jerky, as usual. We don’t live in the newest of apartments, but this is what we could afford close to campus, and it seemed clean and modern enough. When we first rode the elevator, though, I thought we were going to have something crazy happen like fall to our death or get trapped in the doors, but that could have been from theFinal Destinationmarathon we had the night before. Nothing strange did happen. It’s just old and makes haunting noises.
Walking through our apartment door, I breathe in the scent of fresh linens, or whatever our newest outlet odor plug is. Emree is obsessed with everything smelling nice. My best friend’s perfume collection takes up most of her dresser, but I have to admit, she always smells great.
Dropping my bag on the living room couch, I head into the kitchen to find something to snack on. After grabbing an apple and water bottle, I settle at the small table we have nestled in the corner and decide to sort through the mountain of mail we’ve accumulated over the month. Since it’s usually bills, I avoid anything else addressed to me at all costs.
Chucking sales crap and flyers into the junk pile, I freeze when I see a letter in familiar handwriting. The perfect cursive and flow of every letter can only be one person: my mother.
I haven’t had any communication with either of my parents since moving out here. They continued to try and call me, but after I changed my number, the calls ended. The letters, though, they still come. Somehow, they’ve been able to always know where I’m living.
I’ve never responded to any of them or ever read a single one. There’s nothing they can say that would make their betrayal go away. Four years later, and the pain is still there. I’ve tried to let it go, forgive them for being who they are, but how they treated me at a time I needed them the most can’t be forgotten. Nothing in a letter or a phone call can change that. I’ve lived a happy and somewhat normal life since I moved here, and I know opening the can of worms these letters will cause is not what I need. Everything in my life is finally starting to come together. I’m on the fast track to graduating with honors, my nightmares are finally starting to come around less, and I’m beginning to feel normal again. Or as normal as I can be.
Leaving the untouched letter and bills on the table, I grab the junk mail and toss it in the garbage. I hitch my purse over my shoulder and gather the rest of my mail, letter included, and bring them to my room. Dropping my bag on the bed, it lands with a plop, and I head over to the desk. I have a special place for the nine, now ten, unopened letters my mother has sent. Even though I won’t read them, I don’t have the heart to throw them away. I would always live with the regret of what could be written inside of them.
Opening the bottom drawer, I reach for the stack of letters held together by a thick rubber band and add the newest one to the pile. Clutching them in my hands, I can’t help but stare at all my mother has written me in two years. A part of me wants to open them and find out what they say, but another part, the young girl who left home at eighteen, can’t bear to think of what could be in there. I’ve made so much progress in my life since moving to Braxton and the last thing I want to do is head in the wrong direction.
Letting out the breath I didn’t know I was holding, I place the letters back in the drawer and close it. One day, I might be strong enough to read them, but the indecision I’m feeling right now tells me today is not that day.
Reaching into my back pocket, I fish my phone out to see if there are any notifications. Emree would usually call or text and keep me updated since she knows I worry. Before I get a chance, a new message catches my eye. It’s Emree letting me know she’s staying the night with some guy named Levi. I’m only hoping it’s the same one she was making out with earlier. After shooting a text saying ‘Okay, be safe,’ back at her, I toss my phone onto the bed and grab my Kindle off my desk and make my way to the living room. After snuggling in on the couch with a blanket and the new book I downloaded this morning, I enjoy my last weekend before a hectic semester.
3
CAMDEN
“Shit!” I yell, throwing the covers over my head, trying to block out the obnoxious screeching coming from the nightstand. Reaching over, I slap around. My hand connects with my phone. After turning the alarm off, I groan. It’s too early.
It’s the first day of classes and I’m not prepared for the 8:00 a.m. wake-up call. You’d think after all the years of being in school, this would have gotten easier, but no. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m just not a morning person. While some enjoy watching the sun rise and listening to the birds chirp, I’d much rather be dead to the world and hide away in the dream I was enjoying minutes ago.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes with the palm of my hands, I run everything I can remember about the dream I was in the middle of through my head. I was with a girl, a beautiful girl, but I can’t see her face. I was dancing with her, which is surprising because I don’t dance, and her head was thrown back, laughing. So much of her was a clear vision. The deep throat laughs, her long, chestnut hair falling down her back, and her pale skin.
She seemed too familiar, but I can’t for the life of me picture the chick’s face. Every time the dream comes back to me, her face is blurred out, which pisses me off because I know she would be even more beautiful with some damn facial features.
Rubbing my hands down my face, I try to forget the girl from my dream and prepare for the day ahead.
The first week of classes is all bullshit. We don’t do anything important. It’s pretty much a half hour of the professor going over the syllabus and what the semester will be like and then we’re out of there an hour early. Not worth my time.
Usually, I would skip the first week and enjoy a few extra days of summer, but Coach has been on our asses about attending every class this year. I guess he found out a lot of the players show up whenever we want and wasn’t too happy.
My movements getting dressed are robotic, just going with the motions of changing into some jeans, a tee, and my old sneakers. Grabbing some gel off my dresser, I put a small dab on my hand and run it through my wavy hair, trying to tame it as much as possible. Once I get it in the perfect messy look, I grab my backpack and head out of my bedroom.
Making my way to the kitchen, I notice the house is strangely quiet. The rest of the guys are probably still asleep since they aren’t as dumb as me to schedule a class at nine in the damn morning.
