“I need a bottle of water.” Although it’s doubtful anything will wash away the bitter taste that lingers in my mouth.
“Whatever,” Brayden calls after me with a shake of his head.
I should have realized this night would turn out to be a total bust. If I’d been smart, I would have sat my ass home. Instead, I kissed the one girl I shouldn’t have and nearly fucked over my friend.
Chapter Nine
Elle
I rattle off my drink order at the Roasted Bean and step to the side to wait.
It’s been more than a week since the Sig Ep party, and I’m relieved to report that I’ve been able to avoid Carson on campus. There were a handful of times during the week when we’d bump into each other—like when I’d leave stats.
In order to prevent this from happening, I began exiting from the opposite end of the building and taking a different route. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’d usually run into him while grabbing something to eat for lunch at the union. Instead of taking a chance on that happening, I now pack something portable I can eat on the run or at the library. A protein bar, piece of fruit, or trail mix.
Normally, I’d drop by Brayden’s house on the weekend to visit him and Sydney or stop by one of their parties. I skipped the get-together they had, just like I plan on avoiding any other future events. The further I can stay from Carson, the better off I’ll be. I can almost fool myself into believing that the whole ugly situation never transpired.
Almost.
The only time I’ve caught sight of him was when I attended the football game Saturday afternoon. And that was unavoidable. I’ve never missed one of Brayden’s games and I’ll be damned if I start now. Especially since this is his final season playing for the Wildcats. As much as I tried to keep my attention off the blond tight end, that’s exactly where it ended up. All I can say is that Rome wasn’t built in a day, and it’ll take time to forget about him.
Until now, I never realized how much I looked forward to seeing him around campus or talking with him. Distancing myself has been a challenge. I’m like an addict attempting to detox cold turkey without assistance.
If it were possible to rewind time and make different choices, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I have no idea what got into me Saturday night. When we’d been dancing, it had almost felt like he might want me.
Clearly, nothing could be further from the truth.
A dull flush creeps into my cheeks as his clipped words ring unwantedly throughout my head.
I’m a twenty-two-year-old dude. I’m always hard. Don’t take it personally.
Every couple of days, he sends a text. Even though it’s difficult, I ignore them. I wish he would get the hint and leave me alone.
When the barista calls out my vanilla latte, I grab the to-go cup and wind my way through the cafe-style tables before arriving at a ratty couch that has seen better days near the front window where bright sunlight pours in. I set the drink down on the scarred coffee table and pull out my statistics book, notebook, and AirPods before getting to work. I met with Professor Holloway on Tuesday during office hours, and we went over the last test one problem at a time. It was painful. The only positive to come out of that situation is that I now have a firmer grasp on the material.
I think.
Three problems in and it’s all too tempting to bang my head against the table. All right, so maybe I’m being a bit dramatic. What I do know is that I really hate this class. It just doesn’t seem to get any easier. It’s like trying to comprehend a foreign language I’ve never heard before. For the record, I suck at that too. No matter how much I try to understand the information, it just doesn’t seem to penetrate.
Tumbling down the rabbit hole of statistics, I lose all track of time. I only glance up when a shadow falls over me, cutting off the beam of sunlight pouring in through the picture window. I blink as Dr. Holloway’s lips lift into a smile. His gaze settles on the book spread wide on the stretch of table in front of me.
I quickly pull out my AirPods.
“Working on my favorite subject, I see. How’s it going?” There’s a beat of silence. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”
I hesitate, embarrassed to admit that it’s not going well. Having so much trouble with a subject makes me feel like an idiot. Brayden has always aced his math classes with minimal effort. I, on the other hand, have always struggled to pull off passing grades. Over the years, I’ve worked with a handful of tutors, and I still didn’t do as well as my brother. It’s frustrating to work so hard and not see the payoff. One reason I love the theater is because it has absolutely nothing to do with numbers.