Page 2 of Five Things
“We love you, Beatrice,” she breathes, her eyes dipping to the floor as emotions swirl in the depths. She pats me on the back as I pass, and I make my way down the stairs to where my keys sit on the entrance table, my college information in a folder next to it. Grabbing them, my heart pounds as I twist the door handle, turning to Mom once more.
Her eyes shimmer with all the words she won’t say as she lifts a hand in the air, her back pressed to the stair rail.
“See ya, Mom.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it as I pull the door open and step outside with a final wave to her.
My baby-blue Nissan Sentra sits in the driveway, already packed with all the essentials to move into my college dorm. The backseat is covered in bags and boxes. My whole life is there, thrown in haphazardly—reminding me of my own mind.
Mom watches from the window as I toss my bag on the passenger seat and bring the engine to life. The smile on her face is long gone, replaced by a frown and worry lines etched into her forehead.
I’m sure it’s common for parents to worry when their kids leave for college, but I’m not going too far. Braylee University is only a couple hours away from home, and she’s not worried I’ll go to parties, or try drugs, or drink too much alcohol. Those are simple worries; the ones most parents would have when waving their kids off to start college.
My parents’ concerns . . . they’re more complicated.
They worry I won’t make it back home when the semester ends.
Their concerns are valid, but I’ve worked too hard over the last two years to not at least give this a good shot. My future beckons, and I’m ready to get my life back on track. To live again.
Though the thought alone isn’t enough to stop the tornado of butterflies that take flight in my stomach as I peel out of the driveway and leave my protective bubble behind.
The campus is quiet when I pull into the parking lot, the early morning sun beaming through the window, promising a warm California day. A few students linger around the parked cars, unpacking and heading toward the dorms dotted around the grounds, otherwise it’s quiet and peaceful. A nice welcome.
Turning the engine off, my fingers curl around the steering wheel as I blow out a slow breath. Coming here is a good thing. It has to be.
I close my eyes, peeling one finger away at a time before grabbing the folder from my passenger seat and pulling my keys free.
A couple of people smile at me as I pass them, the folder tight in my clammy hands and my purse hanging over my shoulder. The atmosphere is carefree, the weather making for a nice move-in day for those arriving today.
Pushing through the doors of Havers—my home for the next four years—I hold my breath, my eyes dancing over the wide lobby.
“You need any help?”
Startled by the intrusion, a squeak escapes my throat, and my body jolts, sending me backward. I trip over my feet, my bag falling from my hand as I stumble to keep myself upright.
My breath shallows, and I almost feel sorry for the guy when he grimaces, his arm held awkwardly midair. “Shit, sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you. I’m Grayson.”
He holds out a hand, but I’m too lost in the anxious energy pouring through me to do anything but stare at him. The longer I stand there, the more uncomfortable the air around us becomes.
Dropping my gaze quickly, I blow out a breath at the sight of my belongings scattered across the floor. I bend down, heat flooding my cheeks as I focus my attention on grabbing the papers that have fallen from the packet and stuffing them back in before hugging them tight to my chest.
As I’m about to stand, a loud voice rings from behind me, halting me midlift.
“Yo, Gray. Stop flirting with the fresh meat and get your ass outside.”
That voice. I know that voice.
Forcing myself upright, I spin slowly, my eyes locking on Nash Mason. The folder bends under my grip, my throat drying as he stares at me, his eyes wide like he’s seeing a ghost.
I guess to him I am.
His mouth gapes when I back up a step, his feet cautiously moving him closer. “Bea—”
Spinning around, I run for the stairs and refuse to look back. There’s an elevator to my right, but I bypass it, taking every other step in my rushed panic to escape.
Nash calls my name, but I don’t stop, instead flying up to the third floor.
My dorm sits at the end of the hallway, beckoning me to come inside and hide. The door closes with a deafening click behind me, blissful silence following as I slump to the floor, my breaths coming out in heavy pants.