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I left campus and I’m temporarily back to stay in my empty childhood home. The plan is to hide out here while I plot out my next move.
My situation could be worse, I guess. At least I have the place to myself for the moment. Having an empty house while I lick my wounds is nothing short of a blessing. I’m looking forward to the space and solitude, spending this summer alone as I try to figure out what to do with my life.Reading books. Listening to podcasts. Untangling the web in my tangled head and searching the depths of my broken soul.
No pressure, Karli.
The land is meticulously maintained, despite the fact that my parents have been vacationing in Europe for the past few months. I park in the cluttered garage and drag my heavy backpack up the walkway, toward the rustic house.
The early morning sun hangs bright overhead. Gauzy clouds float across the prettiest pastel blue sky. The distant sound of wood-chopping fills the morning air.
“Hellooo!” I call out, just to make sure I’m truly alone. With the way my voice echoes off the walls, I decide that it must be true. In fact, the faint scent of mom’s trademark lavender-rose air freshener in the air is the only response I get.
I shuffle across the weathered hardwood floors and catch a glance of my greasy reflection in the decorative mirror hanging on the living room wall. Sheesh! I look like a re-heated scoop of hell, fresh out of the microwave.
Brushing my fingertips along the dusty bannister, I climb the creaky wooden stairs. I drop off my backpack in my childhood bedroom. As soon as I catch sight of my worn out comforter and my music posters on the wall, a sense of nostalgia rushes in. A real smile touches my lips for the first time in days.
Home.
Even when life kicks you in the lady balls, home is like a big, comforting bowl of warm, gooey mac and cheese. As terrible as I feel over failing at school—and at life, really—I know that these familiar wallpapered walls and the worn-out rugs I grew up with aren’t judging me.
Desperate to wash off all this sweat—and other bodily fluids that shall not be named—I head straight to the bathroom for a shower. I kick off my undies, wrinkling my nose as I do. These pink and white tiger-patterned things are absolutely ruined because of that sexy, arrogant bastard who made me come three times in the same night. Damn him and his dimpled smile and his chiseled jaw and those piercing brown eyes that twisted my tummy into a knot. Damn. Him. I’m actively trying not to think about him.
The unused bathroom pipe coughs melodramatically before spewing out a heavy stream of rusty water. When the water clears up, I stand under the hot spray, allowing myself to breathe for the first time in days.
But as I start scrubbing my body, the heavy ache between my legs reminds me of the sexy stranger from the motel.Shit.
Still trying not to think about him. It’s not working.
Full disclosure—I wasn’t myself last night. That girl who threw herself at a random dude in a dingy dive bar parking lot? That’s not Karli Brighton.
I wasn’t lying when I told Mr. Pretty Boy that I don’t do one night stands. No shade on anyone who does, but the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am thing just isn’t my jam.
Last night, though? Something just came over me. I think that, after all the rejection I faced these past few days, I wanted to feel…wanted. Come on. Twelve differentfuck you’s from twelve different medical schools? Ouch.
Pretty Boy on the other hand…well, there was definitely no rejection happening there. Touching him and letting him touch me felt good in the moment. But in the after-sex stillness, as he basked in the happy-making hormones of his own orgasms, I found myself struggling not to give in to the razor-sharp talons of my guilt.
Sigh. Why are us girls so hard on ourselves?
Still trying to shove all thoughts of the mystery man from the motel far from my mind, I get out of the shower. I dart to my bedroom wrapped in my towel, and dig through my backpack. I find a few more pairs of clean underwear identical to the ones I shucked off earlier. Pink and white tiger-stripes. Cotton with lacy ruffles. So cute. And who can pass up a six-for-$10 deal? Especially in this economy? Sheesh!
As I apply some moisturizer, I go over my plan for this morning. Unload my car. Get settled in. Do a quick grocery store run. Maybe drive across town to check on my bestie. But first, breakfast. Because after skipping dinner last night then ‘doing the dirty’ well into the wee hours of the morning, I’m in desperate need of sustenance.
I tug my college sweatshirt back on, pop in my earbuds and turn on my favorite Rockhard Butterflies playlist. On my way to the kitchen, I say a silent prayer that there’s something edible in this house.
Not surprisingly, there isn’t much in the fridge, but I thank my lucky stars when I find some coffee beans at the back of the pantry. I’m on my tiptoes, reaching for my favorite old mug on the top cupboard shelf when I feel the air shift around me.
I pause. I don’t hear anything different because my music is still blasting through my earbuds, but I can sense it immediately.Someone is in the house with me.Shit. Oh, shit.
My panicked brain immediately snaps to all the self-defense moves my five older brothers forced me to learn in my childhood. I spin around, ready to do some made-up, on-the-fly form of kung fu, when I come face to face with…
Him.
My mouth gapes wide. My cherished mug slips from my hands. It hits the tile floor with a crash.
3
MASON
Ahallucination.That’s what this is.
