1
chloe
There’sblood on the floor, a gun in Jax Teller’s hand, and yet, I’ve barely registered the muffled sounds of my favorite show. Not because I’ve seen this episode a hundred times, but because I’ve been too busy checking my phone, hoping for a text from Nathan.
“Ahh, the sweet sounds of Saturday morning.” Savannah stretches her arms over her head, her long dark hair going every which way, as she comes into our shared living room. “Who doesn’t love a little violence, betrayal, and some emotionally unavailable men?”
I clutch the couch pillow a little tighter to my chest. “Are we talking about the show or my life?”
Her yawn is cut off by her laughter as she props her hip against the arm of the couch and drops her hand to my shoulder. “Feeling a little melancholy this morning, are we?”
“I have cause,” I deadpan.
“Mhmm.” Savannah smiles, stepping over my legs that are propped up on the low wooden coffee table. She picks up the new pink velvet pillow I got over the weekend, takes one look at it, and tosses it to me. I love my little storm cloud of a best friend, but if it were up to her, our apartment wouldprobably be white walls, a couch of any color, and a tv mounted to the wall.
I, on the other hand, grew up planning what my own space would look like from the time I was eleven. From the air purifying plants hanging along every windowsill to the trinkets I’ve collected from thrift stores and garage sales over the years. Everything is exactly how I had planned, down to the stack of magazines I’ve been collecting since middle school on the bottom shelf of the coffee table.
I tap my phone, checking to make sure that the minute of back and forth with her didn’t cause me to miss a text from Nathan. When the screen lights up with no notifications, I try not to let my disappointment show.
“Well, lucky for you, I’ve been itching to get into a fight. Who or what ails you this morning?” She throws two clenched fists up in front of her face and there’s not even a hint of a smile to indicate she’s joking. Honestly, I’m surprised she’s made it this long without getting into some sort of a tussle with anyone.
Ever since she finally gave in to the captain of her dad’s hockey team and went full-blown lover girl, she hasn’t had anyone to bicker with, and I think it’s made her usual feisty tendencies build to new heights. The problem is, I can’t tell her that I caved when Nathan called me last week. She would look at me the way she always does with her beautiful tan face, full lips slightly pursed, and dark eyes full of pity.
Anger or disappointment, I can handle, but not pity. The only thing worse than waiting for a guy to text you back is having your best friend pity you for waiting for said guy to text you.
Thankfully, I am a girl with many problems right now, though, so I divulge one that won’t get me the sad eyes.
“I’m just stressed about this TA situation,” I say, plucking at the tassels of the pink and orange blanket on my lap.
“Aw, Chlo. You’re a shoo-in for that position.”
“So is everyone else that applies for it.”
“Yeah, but you’re better.” She shrugs with a stone face, saying it like it’s a fact, and I can’t help the way the corners of my lips lift at her unwavering belief in me. With everyone else it always feels like expected perfection, but with Savannah it just her love rooting for me.
“Fifty percent of the people who take this criminology class need it for their major. The rest take it for the sole purpose of getting an in with the professor.”
Savannah’s never-ending eyelashes blink repeatedly until she drops her head on the couch behind her. “Okay, sorry. I thought you said for the purpose of gettingitin with the professor,” she says, smiling through her laughter.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if there are people who have tried that method as well.” I stand and head to the kitchen where the little cheetah print lamp is already on, lighting up the tiled counter top. I start the Keurig with one hand, and pull out two coffee mugs with the other. “When is your first day with the team?”
“Officially? They started practice last week, but I don’t need to go until classes start next week.”
“Perks of being the coach’s daughter?” I lift a brow at her, hoping she doesn’t notice how I’ve walked back to the couch to check my phone again.
“Are you waiting to hear from someone?” she asks, mimicking my expression.
Well, piss.
I can’t blame her curiosity. Last semester, I claimed to be done with Nathan, and even though the sentiment was only half-hearted, I stayed true to my word by not reaching out to him. By summer, I was finally enjoying casually seeing other guys. But in typical Nathan fashion, sometimes it’s like he’s just out of my reach; other times, I’m certain he has a sixth sense for the moment I start to move on. Last week he called, and like a bad habit, I found myself back on his doorstep.
“I hope it’s the face of the tall, dark, and handsome man’s lap you were on at Rowdy’s the other night.”
My phone hits the counter with a soft thud. “Sorry to burst your bubble. I didn’t even get his number.”
“Because?”
“Because he left with his girlfriend,” I say, switching the Keurig pods. “Anyway, I’m just waiting for an email from my advisor about when I can meet with her next week,” I lie.
