It’s the coming winter that scares me. Note to self: buy an electric blanket. Or two.
He crosses his arms, his face flat. I think he might have planted roots.
“What?”
He grimaces as he waves a hand at me. “Why were you crying?”
I start at the question. Why does he fucking care? “Me? Never happened.”
He points at my cheek.
I wipe at it. Mascara. Shit, okay. My eyes are probably red, too. “None of your business.”
“You need money?”
Pride rears up immediately and forces me to glare at him. There’s no way in hell I’d ever admit my predicament to him. I made the mistake of fucking him once, but I learned from the experience. Even at my lowest, the payback he’d expect is far more than I’d be willing to sacrifice. “No.”
“Liar.”
I huff at him. Of course, it’s a lie. I wasn’t desperately counting money on a street with tears streaming down my face for nothing. “I’ve got to go. I’m not your problem, Eric.”
This time, he doesn’t stop me, but I feel his eyes on my ass as I climb the steps to the front porch. I don’t look back until I’m in the house, and when I do, he’s gone.
Good.
The house is dark, and it’s a good bet my roommates, Poppy and Taylor, are asleep. I’m the one who keeps vampire hours. I rush up the stairs, fingers working my cell, seeking out Arnim, a wealthy lacrosse player I hooked up with last year before things went to shit.
I text: Hey. What’s going on? How was your summer?
No response.
I scroll to Brendan, a rugby player. Another text: Hey. How’s the knee?
Nothing.
They’re probably partying or sleeping.
I sigh and scroll some more, my fingers stopping on a name. Parker Cavendish. My heart clenches. Oh, boy, is he a memory I want to forget.
I hooked up with him once and cut him loose. But he was persistent in chasing me and I enjoyed the attention. He hated that I stripped and would show up where I worked and glare at anyone who tucked bills under my bikini. Once he started a fight at Boobie Bungalow over me. I know, I know, I should have seen the signs that our relationship wasn’t healthy—but I ignored them.
Still, I thought we had something special. Ugh. The truth is, I’d never dated a guy for real and assumed everything was rosy.
I mean, why the gifts if he didn’t care?
Why the hand-holding and dates to nice restaurants?
Why the long drives out in the country with the top down on his Mercedes for a picnic?
My jaw pops. A few months into our relationship, I caught him in bed with two girls at a Kappa party. He was trashed and begged my forgiveness.
It’s like masturbating with other girls, a means to an end, he told me. People expect it of me. I get off and it’s over. It’s not like I’m dating them. You dance half-naked for men. How is this different, Ju-Ju?
I shove thoughts of him away.
Sears. A basketball player. That could work. Hey. How’s your sister?
Nothing.
I stop at the next name and stare at the Tennessee area code. Sugar, my old roommate. After graduation, she moved to Nashville with her boyfriend Zack—or Z—Morgan. She’d help, but prickles clog my throat at the thought of explaining all of this to her. I just can’t. She’d be so disappointed in this awfulness I’ve gotten myself into.
“I’m doing the best I can,” I whisper to myself as I head to my room at the end of the hall. Inside is my bed, a full-length mirror leaning against the wall, and an old dresser. My textbooks are piled on the nightstand. On the walls is a faded blue and gold butterfly damask wallpaper, a throwback from a different era. It’s actually beautiful and as soon as I saw it, I knew this was my room. Over my bed are hundreds of drawings painted with watercolor. Butterflies, roses, peonies, and rabbits. I adore rabbits. “It’s the long ears,” I say to no one.
Little quotes accompany my art, written above or below.
I stare at my latest, a Painted Lady butterfly, one of the most common in the world with its orange and black wings.
A butterfly is proof that you can become something new.
It’s rebirth and transformation.
Something beautiful.
Ethereal.
Someday that will be me.
Off to the side of my bedroom is a small bathroom that must have been added about fifty years ago. There’s pink tile on the floor, an aqua colored pedestal sink, and a rusty clawfoot tub with a shower added into the wall.
I throw my phone on the bed, grab underwear, then hop in the shower to get rid of as much of Scott as possible. I scrub up, paying extra attention to the places where he touched me. My eyes close as hopelessness attempts to take over. I fight the emotion, pushing it down deep.