He’s the one who’s repeatedly broken it off with me and expected me to come back to Chatham U as if he hadn’t. I’m not an object for him to push to the side when he gets bored or wants something better. It’s not fair that I have to put my life on hold while he has fun without me. Being shoved into adusty container and pulled back out when he’s ready to play has miraged my perception of him as a boyfriend.
I let out a heavy breath and weave around a group of guys. Judging by the jerseys they’re wearing, I’m going to assume they’re on the football team. They hoot and holler, rear back and bounce their chests off each other.
I scope the area for Everleigh, wondering where she ran off to. She’s probably with Tristan, but I don’t see him either. He’s not with Fletcher and the others like he was a few minutes ago, and I take that as a sign that he’s finally decided to shift his attention to his girlfriend. I squeeze between more people to get deeper into the kitchen, hoping to find Sebastian or Colson. I stop short when I catch Sylvia on the island counter, swaying her hips to the Kesha song playing.
The last time I saw her, she was in here with a bottle of wine, languidly sipping at it. Something tells me she found something stronger because if she were sober, she’d be smacking Fletcher’s greedy hand away from her. At least, that’s what I’d like to think.
I’m a fly on the wall as she dips her ass to the counter and plants a sloppy kiss on Fletcher’s lips—nasty—and pops back up. She runs a hand through her hair before whipping it to the side, and Fletcher’s beady eyes light up.
I knew it wasn’t a good idea to separate. A bit ago, she told me and Everleigh that she was going to get another drink but never came back. I didn’t think I’d find her putting on a show for Fletcher, of all the people, and his friends.
3OH3!’sMy First Kisscomes on and she hoots while shimmying her hips more. I’m close enough to hear it when Fletcher cups a hand over his mouth and shouts, “You just gave me my first kiss, how about a second?”
One of his teammates high fives him, and he smirks. Another hollers, “Yeaaaah, Fletch!”
I shove my way through the rest of the kitchen crowd. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I quickly pull it out to make sure it’s not Everleigh or one of the others messaging me. It’s Olive, asking if I ever found a guy to take my mind off things. I don’t have time to respond, so I shove my phone back in my pocket, make a mental note to text her back later, and turn my attention back to my friend.
Sylvia shouts but I can’t make it out because yelling carries in from the living room. The entire house is too loud, but I stay centered on her. I don’t miss the smirk on her face as she continues to shimmy her hips and dips into a squat. At the snap of a finger, she’s back up to her full height, her fingers playing with the hem of her shirt.
Don’t do it, Syl.
Don’t take your top off.
I want nothing more than to go back to the apartment and hide away, to dig into the coursework from this past week, fit in a few yoga stretches, or pop on a Netflix special to try and calm the chaos from this party.
Her abdomen shows above the band of her shorts as she tugs her top higher. When the lining of her pink bra flashes the kitchen and Fletcher and his friend whistle, I kick it into high gear.
I shuffle between two more people, not bothering to excuse my way because they won’t care anyway, not when there’s a beautiful girl damn near stripping in front of them.
I place a hand on the countertop and reach up for her hand with my other, grasping it gently to let her know I’m here. She looks down, a cryptic smile on her face.
“Heeey, girl!”
“I think it’s time for a break.”
If she rips her shirt off in a house filled with football players, who knows what’ll come next. And with the way Fletcher is eyeing her? I’m not willing to risk that.
“I’m dancing!” Her voice, slightly slurred, tells me how much she’s had to drink in the thirty minutes we’ve been separated. This is far from Sylvia’s first party, but she doesn’t always hold her liquor well. Give her the light stuff, and she’s fine. Start throwing in shots, and she’s toast. And when she’s already emotionally primed, it makes her spiral worse, morphing her into an entirely different person.
I hate to think about what would happen if I wasn’t here. If she were somewhere else with people who didn’t have her best interest at heart.
“I know,” I shout, “but it would be good if you drank a bottle of water and kept your shirt on.”
“Ah, don’t tell her that!” Fletcher chimes from next to me, his eyes glimmering from the sight of Sylvia. I glare back, hoping he gets the message that if I have it my way, she wouldn’t be here at all, much less giving him a strip tease.
“It’s too hot for clothes!”
I grip her hand tighter. “The water will cool you down.”
“I don’t want water. I have this.” She bends down, picks up a random shot glass, and slurps it down in a single gulp.
“Syl, come on.”
“Ugh,” she groans. “Don’t call me that. I’m not a child. My name isSil-vee-uh.”
The fact she enunciates each syllable tells me she’s talked to her parents and taken a trip down memory lane. The only person who’d remind her of that is her father. Too uptight for his own good and too many unreasonable expectations for his daughter. It’s crazy that he manages to hold so much authority over her from afar, but I guess that’s the price a person pays when yourfamily has endless amounts of generational wealth and a last name that carries the weight of its own country.
I used to wonder how she convinced them to let her attend college in the States, rather than under the fine microscope of her homeland.
