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When I first saw him back on campus the week after Halloween weekend, I actually laughed.
Really, literally burst out laughing when I spotted him a couple yards away while walking to a class. After being so thoroughly fucked by Liam, a man who put him to shame in every way possible, it struck me as downright absurd that I wasted two months of my life moping overWillof all people.
Now I’m here in Ridley, sharing a tiny two-bedroom apartment with my best friend, Kayla, with a totally clean slate. I’ve left all my baggage back in Georgia and I’m ready to start over.
Heck, I’m more than ready to start over. I’m excited to start over.
And as for Liam? I just need to appreciate it for the smoking hot, one-time hookup that it was.
I doubt I could recognize him without the face paint on, and I doubt he’d recognize me without my mask.
So, that’s in the past, too.
And next time I wake up sweaty from a dream where I relive that night—which probably won’t be more than a couple days from now—I need to appreciate the memory for what it was, rather than feel sour that it didn’t blossom into more.
I settle on a cute skirt, a warm pair of wool leggings, and a fuzzy grey sweater. Standing in front of the mirror, I like it. Casual, but still stylish, and warm for the weather which is forecasted to be freezing today.
Not that I’m complaining. I always was an autumn and winter girl. One of the things I didn’t like about living in Georgia.
I meet Kayla in the kitchen. She’s spreading some cream cheese over a bagel. “Want one?” she asks.
As good as it looks, I decline. “I’m meeting my dad for breakfast on campus before classes,” I say.
“Really? That’s awesome,” she says with a smile.
Both my dad and I are eager to make up for lost time now that we’re living close by for the first time since the divorce.
I say goodbye to Kayla and pull a knitted beanie down on my head before stepping out into the winter morning.
The sun’s finally reached over the horizon, coloring the small, picturesque college town of Ridley in serene morning light. Clumps of snow still dot the landscape from a storm last week. Most of it has melted, but there’s still enough lying around at uneven intervals to look pretty, and to add an extra crispness to the fresh, chilly air.
I’m only among a small trickle of students walking towards campus right now, just before seven-thirty. Nothing like the flood of late risers and stragglers that’s sure to clog the sidewalks between seven-fifty and eight-thirty, at least if Ridley is anything like any other college campus I’ve seen. Rush hour isn’t just for car commuters.
My dad gets an early start on his day, so asked if we could meet for a small breakfast at one of the on-campus coffee shops at seven-thirty. A smile spreads across my face as I approach a cute little shop called Ridley Grinds, with a hand-painted sign hanging above the door, and notice my dad sitting at one of the tables through the glass walls.
I come up behind him and tap his shoulder. “Hey sweetie,” he exclaims, his face brightening when he turns around and sees me. He stands up and wraps me in a hug.
Dad is short, not a whole lot taller than me, but he’s stout and powerful. Sometimes he can get a little too gung-ho about his hugs and just about squeeze the life out of you. This happens to be one of those times, but I don’t hold it against him.
Once he relents—and I can take a deep breath again—he gestures to the table he was sitting at. “You’ll have to grade me on my memory,” he says.
Smiling, I take my seat across the table from him. The Cheese Danish sitting on a white plate definitely earns him A+ marks when it comes to remembering my favorite breakfast pastry. And when I pull back the lid on the coffee cup next to it, a steamy pitch-black surface confirms his memory of my preferred drink.
“One hundred percent,” I say, leaning over and letting the delicious scent of the hot coffee waft into my nose.
My dad screws up his face. “It’s hard to forget a drink order so disgusting,” he jokes.
It’s been a long-running joke that he can only tolerate coffee loaded with cream and sugar while I exclusively take mine black, when most people would assume the opposite at a glance of the two of us.
“Excited for your first day?” he asks.
“Excited and nervous,” I reply. I take my first bite on the Danish and arch my eyebrows in surprise at how good it is. I can already tell that this place is a step above the on-campus coffee shop we had back in Georgia.
Dad smiles. “I always tell my boys before a big game, being nervous is good. It means you care. Don’t let nerves shake your confidence. In fact, being nervous should make you more confident. If you’re not at least a little nervous about something important, that’s when you should worry.”
His boys. I let out a tiny laugh.
Dad’s always thought of his hockey team as his own children, in a way. There was a time when I was young that it made me self-conscious, worried about my dad’s approval when he was so into something that I had no real interest and definitely no aptitude in: sports.
