1
SUTTON
“Coming through!”My fingers slip and the box I’m carrying tilts, the contents—and the weight—shifting to one side. I lose my grip and it’s all I can do to hold on as I crash into the front door of my new apartment with an unflatteringoof,the air punching out of my lungs.
Mierda. Using the doorjamb for leverage, I reposition my sweaty fingers and hoist the box in the air, silently praying that, once inside, I can make it to the second floor of the townhouse without getting crushed to death by God knows what.
That would be rampant consumerism and a penchant for hoarding.
Whatever. I’ll worry about that in the spring when it’s time to move out.
Today, I just need to get my crap inside and up the stairs without killing myself, which really shouldn’t be this hard because I’m a freaking D1 gymnast. Strong. Graceful.
Short.
I make it all of two steps into the front hall before I lose my grip on the box again. “Moving days are the goddamn devil.”
“There’s my little ray of sunshine.”
I turn toward the living room and my roommate Madison appears, a big-ass grin on her heart-shaped face.
“Why are these boxes so big?” I grumble. “It’s like they’re made for giants with freakishly long arms.”
“I told you not to get the extra-large ones.”
I don’t bother replying. The extra-large boxes were the only ones left because I waited until the last minute to pack—something else Maddie warned me to avoid.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” she chides, sounding just like our coach as she darts into the hall and hefts the other side of the box. “And injured athletes—”
“Don’t compete,” I say, finishing the sentence. It’s Coach Miller’s mantra, one she’d happily tattoo on our foreheads if the NCAA would allow it.
Maddie snickers and then we’re inching toward the stairs like an awkward turtle, the box suspended between us. I let her ascend first, so I’m bearing the brunt of the weight. It’s slow going and by the time we reach the second-floor landing, I’m sweating like a pig and my t-shirt is plastered to my back. We shuffle into my room and drop the box onto the bare mattress.
“One down.” Maddie bumps my shoulder, beaming like she’s just scored a perfect ten.
Eight to go. I sigh and glance across the hall at Maddie’s room. She’s already unpacked and decorated. There’s a familiar mountain of yellow pillows on her bed and a strand of fairy lights glow softly overhead, giving the room a warm, inviting look that is completely at odds with my own, which, at the moment, is stark white and empty aside from a few cardboard boxes.
Her parents moved her in yesterday, and they would’ve helped me too, but I had to work, because while Maddie spent her summer lounging by the pool, perfecting her tan and acquiring natural highlights for her golden curls, I was coaching youth gymnastics camps here at Waverly.
I love working with the kids, and the money is good, but it’s exhausting. You can’t let them out of your sight for a second, which I learned the first week of camp when I caught two of the girls sneaking into the locker room with a bottle of itching powder.
Devious little monsters.
“So your parents really aren’t coming?” Maddie asks, pulling me back to the present. “I thought for sure they’d change their minds. I mean, it’s our first apartment.” She smirks. “No more messy suitemates. No more communal bathrooms. No more cranky RAs watching our every move.”
Thank God. Two years of dorm living was pure hell.
“Sorry to disappoint. I told them I could handle it.” I shrug, not wanting to admit the truth—even to myself—that they would’ve bowed out because my sister Gabby, the real star of the Cruz family, had an event this weekend. “It’s not like I have that much stuff.”
Maddie arches a slender brow.
Which, fair. Because, yes, I’m a packrat, but I didn’t hear her complaining last semester when she needed a copy of the freshman orientation packet and I was the only one on our floor who could produce one.
She sighs dramatically. “Not gonna lie. I was really hoping for some empanadillas.”
“Help me move these boxes and I’ll make all the empanadillas your little heart desires.”
“Do that and I’ll split my leotard before the season even starts.”
