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Luna robs me of those upturned lips when she turns her back and heads for the door, yet another interaction coming to an end too soon for my liking.
But with one hand wrapped around the door handle, she pauses. Indulges me a little more by half-turning. Sighing, big and dramatic, in a way that matches her big, dramatic expression of false exasperation. “You’re really gonna make me ask for your name, huh?”
My face fucking hurts with the magnitude of the smile that erupts. “It’s Jackson.”
“Jackson,” she repeats, rolling the word around on her tongue, and shit if my name isn’t suddenly the best sound in the world. “It’s nice to properly meet you, Jackson. I’m Luna.”
“Luna,” I repeat the same way she did, reveling in her pleased hum. “It's nice to meet you, Luna.”
Again.
7
LUNA
“Shit, shit,shit.”
A light breeze whips against my bare legs as I rush across campus, teasing the hem of my dress and flashing everyone in my path. If I hadn’t woken up late, I would’ve been able to coordinate my outfit with the blustery weather. Instead, I rolled out of bed with barely twenty minutes to spare before my first class of the semester, and my only choice was to throw on the first thing I saw.
I knew I shouldn’t have gone out last night.Just a couple of drinks,I’d told myself.You deserve it.
Honestly, at this point, I should know better; a couple is never a couple. Every time, a single vodka cranberry turns intoohh, let’s have a cocktailand before I know it, bottom-shelf liquor shots are scorching my throat and my inhibitions are on the floor and the contact lenses improving my vision might as well have evaporated.
Pro; I wasn’t quite drunk enough to try and fail at seducing kind men in a dingy bathroom.
Con; I did, unfortunately, bring yet another unworthy opponent home.
In and out of the apartment in under half an hour, last night’s conquest once again made me wonder if this bad sex epidemic is campus-wide or specific to my unlucky self. I can’t even remember the guy’s name, and I don’t feel bad about it; it’s an unwritten, steadfast rule in my mental hook-up handbook that if you don’t make me come, I don’t have to remember your name.
Plus, it’s not like Ineedto remember it. A guy who tasted like onion rings and clearly viewed me like a blow-up doll? Yeah, it’s safe to say I won’t be calling him up again.
I shove lamenting thoughts of mediocre sex to the back of my mind as I rush into class, barely making it on time. With a relieved sigh—I fucking hate being late—I slip into a seat near the back, my thumb already spinning the ring on my pointer finger. It’s a two-hour class; my worst enemy. Too still for too long with too little occupying my mind.
It seems I’m not alone in my dread; the chair beside me groans in unison with the girl flopping onto it, her tight expression mirroring mine. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, trying not to chuckle as she curses beneath her breath, dropping her bag on the floor with a loud thump and smoothing back messy dirty blonde hair with a huff.
“Rough morning?”
Head whipping to face me, the grimace playing across her lips deepens. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s had an equally rough morning.”
The girl huffs a laugh. “You trip up a flight of stairs and fall on your ass in front of a very cute group of boys?”
“No.” A corner of my mouth tips upward. “But I did flash a few sprinting across the courtyard.”
Another chuckle morphs into a groan as my classmate slumps, voice low like she’s half talking to herself. “I don’t even wanna take this class.”
Preaching to the choir. “Introduction to Political Theory isn’t for you?”
Her snort says it all, as does her eye roll. “My dad’s the professor and my‘I don’t give a shit about politics’speech hasn’t quite gotten through to him yet.”
I commiserate, “My mom’s an artist so she’s making me take an art class.”
She side-eyes me, mouth curled in amusement. “You didn’t inherit the gene?”
“Stick figures are the extent of my artistic capabilities.”
“A woman of real talent.”
