“What the fuck does that mean?” Jett demanded.
“Well, you’re, you know . . . you.”
“No. Idon’tknow. Why don’t you tell me?”
Could you die on the spot from mortification? I didn’t know if there were actual cases of it, but I was possibly close to being the first one recorded on campus.
“I didn’t mean to cause offense.” Tucking my hair behind my ears, I refused to look at him. “I said thanks, we’re even as you said. Can I go now?”
“I wasn’t aware I was keeping you.” Jett’s tone was no longer friendly. His look was hard, and I was more than ready to leave.
“Okay, um, have a nice day.” I turned and quickly left him standing there.Have a nice day?Seriously, after telling him he was basically a manwhore? Well done, Ava. I didn’t look back, but I could feel his heavy stare on me, and I had to stop myself from running, anything to put distance between us. He didn’t remember me. He didn’t remember Friday. Or I was just one of so many, he couldn’t remember me even if he wanted to. If that wasn’t a slap in the face, I didn’t know what was. I was grateful that he got the generator fixed, but I didn’t think we would ever be even.
Not by a long shot.
I made it to my first class by the skin of my teeth, and I heard nothing that the professor said in the fifty-minute lecture. Not one word. I was the same in the next class, my attention focused inwards rather than outwards. What I did hear was my conversation with Jett on a constant loop. I told him I didn’t know him, and then I told him he was a slut. Wonderful.
My fingers continuously threaded through my hair as I wondered for the hundredth time how the hell I had met him on Friday. I was at the party. He was not. I had too many drinks. I knew that my stomach had been tender right into Sunday night. Even drunk off my ass, I would know if Jett was at the party. I would know if any of the football guys were there, but it was the night before a game. They shouldn’t have been out.Heshouldn’t have been out. I would remember if they were there.
Wouldn’t I?
“Ms. Bryant, are you listening?”
My head shot up, and my mouth dropped open. “Huh?”
“I’ll take the lack of articulation as ano, shall I?” Professor Windsor asked me with an easy grin.
“Sorry.” I knew I was turning red, but the professor was now openly laughing at me. “Didn’t sleep last night.” I immediately regretted my words, because the catcalls and whistles were expected, even if they were juvenile.
“What kept our Ava Bryant awake?” Professor Windsor asked me. His name was Joe, and he encouraged us to use it, but it felt odd, and I hadn’t managed it yet. Not even in my head.
“Generator broke, no AC.”
“Ouch, and we’re not even in the first week of September,” he said with a shake of his head. “Southern heat is a killer.”
“I did spend about three hours during the night going over the assignment,” I told him as I hoped that this would distract him from the fact that I hadn’t been paying attention.
“In the Southern heat, while overheating, you thought of Blanche?” The professor gave a cheerful laugh as he turned to the whiteboard. “Okay, Ava. Tell me howA Streetcar Named Desirereflects your inner turmoil in a hot room in the middle of the night, with no air.”
“Well,” I began, and I was off. It was one of my most favorite plays, and I had been thinking about her last night as I lay and thought abouthim. A desperate woman confusing illusion with reality. Was I confusing my fragmented memories of Friday with something they weren’t? I was having flashbacks of a hot and heavy sex-a-thon, but what if it wasn’t? What if I had simply passed out and all the sexcapades were in my head?He didn’t even know who I was, for God’s sake.Maybe some small — very small, possibly minute part of me —wantedit to have been a sex session, but in truth, my virgin, inexperienced self had actually been so bad in bed, and drunk, he had simply rolled over and gone to sleep?
Giving the class my attention, as I should have done, and talking about the play lessened my inner ramblings, and I became more focused.
Packing up my things afterwards, I was pleased that I had started a good discussion in the class, but like so many other times, my mind wandered back to him. Realistically, I knew I had to take the hit. My ego was bruised. I should have meant more than I did to him. But then, truthfully, he should have probably meant more to me than he did.
So . . . was I any better than Jett? Really?
I didn’t remember the night much, and he didn’t seem to remember me . . . so . . . maybe he was just as drunk as me? And honestly, did I actuallywanthim to remember? God no. I could quite happily live my life without him having that knowledge.
He had done a nice thing for me today.
In return, I’d been a bitch.
We would never be friends, but I should do the honorable thing and thank him properly. Civilly. I hadn’t been polite with him so far, but maybe me being purposefully nice to him would shock him so much that I could deliver my apology and get out of there before he could reply?
If unicorns were real, they’d fart rainbows.
I texted Mia after my third class when I received the email that the AC was fixed. She sent me a trophy emoji for killing it in the admin building. I would tell her later who we should actually be thanking. Or to avoid the conversation, I could keep it to myself. Mia wouldn’t care who really got it done, as long as it was done.
