What is so damn wrong with me in the first place?
A whimpering sob flies out of me, and I scrub my face harder.
I turn off the light, stomping out of the attached bathroom and into my room.
Kappa Alpha Theta is practically empty, thanks to a fraternity house across campus throwing a rager. I imagine my lonely bedroom window is one of the few illuminated in the house, and the thought only has me crying harder.
So I flick off the light and plunge into darkness.
The tears won’t stop, so I defiantly choose to stop wiping them away. They drip like an annoying sink faucet, intent on keeping me awake until dawn. My black silk pajama tank is dotted with shame as I stalk to the bed. I snatch my phone from my nightstand.
2:27 a.m.
Another whimper escapes as I crawl into bed, scrolling through the calls and text messages that Brandon ignored.
What had I done wrong?
Or was it me simply existing in the first place—the chronic disappointment?
My mother’s words ring in my ears. “You’ve had your fun, now grow up.”
I laugh through another sob. What part of this has been fun? Forging a path through a world where I’ll never be loved? Signing away any chance of my parents’ affection for a career I so desperately want?
Something inside of me cracks, and I slip deeper into the shadows. Haunted voices slither in, whispering so quickly that I cannot decipher truth from lies. I let the darkness pull me, and finally, sleep claims me.
The next afternoon, my black boots click across the classroom floor. Ms. Njay glares as I file out the door after the other students, but I don’t have enough energy to even roll my eyes. My figure drawing class went as expected. I drew yet another human-sized bunny rabbit, and Ms. Njay scolded me for it.
I exit the Fine Arts building, holding my head high as I stalk down the sidewalk. I’m numb inside and out, but I’ve made up my mind. My walls are fortified steel, my eyeliner sharp enough to cut anyone who approaches me.
I’m ashamed to admit my phone has been glued to my body all morning, each cell hyperaware of every vibrating call and text.
From everyone that isn’t Brandon.
Suddenly, someone scrambles into my path. Air ceases to exist as a pair of frantic green eyes crash into mine. Brandon is still a head taller than me, even though I’m wearing heeled boots. He’s dressed in a black button-up, but it’s crumpled like he slept in it.
“Kate.” He pants, squeezing the shoulders of my red peacoat. “I’m so sorry.”
The lines around his eyes are emphasized from lack of sleep. The way he’s blinking all bleary-like makes suspicion curl in the pit of my stomach. He’s the furthest thing from steady.
I yank out of his grasp. “Are you drunk?”
He rears back. “What? No.”
I roll my narrowed eyes. “Technically, you’re probably hungover now. Let me guess: you just couldn’t miss that bangin’ frat party last night? You didn’tmeanto get wasted and ignore your girlfriend?”
Brandon’s mouth clamps hard, black eyebrows angling. “You gonna give me a second to speak? Or are you sticking with whatever story you seem to have already made up?”
I scoff, the sound as cold as the snow edging the sidewalk. “And yet, I don’t hear you telling me that I’m wrong.”
His laugh is void of humor. “Wow. This is how you’re gonna act?”
I level him with a glare even as my heart twists. Beneath my anger, it worries me to see him like this. But then I remember the ache in my soul beside that parade route, and all concern for him dissipates like smoke.
“I—” Brandon huffs. “I didn’t stand you up, Kate. Something…happened.”
I shove any distress on Brandon’s behalf deep down and hike my bag higher on my shoulder. “Hmm…Something, was it? Riveting.”
Brandon’s anger crests like a wave. “Yeah. Something I can’t tell you about. Not yet. Especially not if you’re gonna act like this when stuff gets hard.”
