“Wait,” he says, slipping his fingers in the gap my rolled-down window has made.
He must trust me an awful lot more than I trust myself to think I won’t smash his fingers.
“It doesn’t have to be romantic. It doesn’t have to be anything more than…” He pauses, blowing out a breath. “Can I take you for a drink? Please.”
I swallow, my chest tight and heavy with all the things left unsaid and unfinished between us.
“Maybe another time,” I whisper, but when our eyes meet through the crack, I know he sees what I’m really saying.
Never going to happen.
His jaw is tight when he withdraws his fingers, and I roll up my window and peel out of the parking lot without a glance in my rearview mirror.
I don’t even tell Clinton I’m coming, just burst through his front door when I finally make it to his house. He’s on the couch watching a basketball game, a full plate of chicken and veggies in his lap.
One look at me, and the plate is tossed aside.
He runs to me, swooping me into his arms as the first sob chokes through me.
“It’s okay,” he promises. “I’m here.”
And with that permission, I fully let go.
“THIS IS FUCKING HORSE shit!” I bang my fists on the wooden table for emphasis, rattling the entire thing and causing half-a-dozen students to startle at the sound.
“Shhh!” the librarian immediately scolds, her brows folded hard as she shakes her head. She points her bony finger at me as one last warning — likely because this isn’t my first outburst in the last four hours, but she’s saying it’ll be my last, or else.
I murmur an apology before letting my head fall into my hands again, digging my palms into my eyes enough that I see colors behind the lids. I suppress the urge to groan, to growl, to flip the fucking table and try to force a calming breath.
This is supposed to be the easy part.
It’s November. I’m supposed to be coasting after fighting with the alums and the exec board, supposed to be watching all the fruits of our labor come together, supposed to be taking my hands off and letting these brothers ride their metaphorical bikes on their own, supposed to be more focused on planning what Cassie and I will do when she visits for Thanksgiving than anything Alpha Sigma related.
Instead, I’m nose deep in books far too thick with words far too big explaining policies far too complicated — all because the alumni brothers decided to be twats.
“Wow,” a voice purrs over me. I look up to find Chandler smirking, her fingers toying with a few pages of one of the books spread out around me. “I haven’t seen this much fun since senior year Spring Break.”
I try to smile, but know it falls flat as I slump back in my chair.
Chandler chuckles, shrugging off her small backpack and tossing it on the table before taking the chair next to me. She peers over at the book currently splayed at the center. “Aspen University Student Organized Event Policies,” she reads, arching a brow at me.
“Don’t even ask.”
“Too late.”
I sigh, sitting up a little straighter as the back of my hand slaps against the open pages. “I’ve been working with the brothers on an event that will hopefully help put them back on the map — an Anything But Clothes Bubble Bonfire.” I pause when Chandler has to fight back a smile. “Hey, they came up with it, alright? And honestly, as cheesy as it sounds, they’ve been working their asses off and it’s going to be a kickass event. They got a popular band on campus to come play, have an epic set up for the bonfire, all these different seating areas and photo ops, plus a foam pit.”
“Girls do love a foam pit.”
“And the theme being Anything But Clothes? Can you even imagine?”
She laughs. “I know me and my sisters would have been all over that.”
“Everyone on Greek Row is talking about it, and the guys are so stoked.” I sigh. “They’re going to be crushed when I tell them it can’t happen.”
Chandler frowns. “Why not?”
“Apparently, there’s some policy that states that student-run events can’t have any kind of open fire. I mean, I get it,” I added. “It’s Colorado. And even though we’re out of fire season, I’m sure they don’t want some fraternity event causing the next wildfire that runs rampant across the Rockies.”
“Is it an open fire?”
“I guess,” I say, waving my hand at the books. “That’s what the asshole alumni guys I’ve been working with explained to me this morning. I’ve been digging through these books all afternoon trying to find the exact law, but so far, nothing. I figure there’s got to be a loophole, or some way we can still have the event but be in line with the policy.”