“Mhm,” I hum as I fill a glass with water and chug it down. “Are you ready? I just need to put on shoes.”
“I’ve been ready! Felicity is probably sitting there already, waiting for our asses.”
I close up my bag of Skittles and turn to face my best friend. “Alright then, let’s go!” I shoo her with my hands as I slip into a pair of ankle boots I keep at the front door of our apartment. The three of us share one of the few apartments in Harrow House reserved for seniors and those who can afford it, and it is so much better than a stuffy dorm. Luckily for us, Sloane’s parents are practically Corvus royalty, so they’re paying for it. I hate handouts, but it was living with my two best friends or another year in a dorm room with a random pairing. No thanks.
Together, Sloane and I leave the warmth of Harrow House and step outside into the unseasonably cold weather. An early winter will be here before Thanksgiving; I’m calling it now. If I breathe deep enough, I can almost smell the smoky scent of snow on the breeze.
Corvus College is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever lived, and as I step onto the old, cracked cobblestone, I throwmy arms outward and let my head fall back to face the sky, taking a deep inhale of the crisp autumn air around me. I fill my lungs with the richness, feeling a slow sensation of wholeness as it spreads through my veins.
There’s a pull I’ve always felt to the grounds here, something I can’t quite explain. It’s more than the quiet eeriness of the college; it’s deeper, almost instinctive, like the place itself is humming just under the surface, calling me home. I live for the ivy-covered old brick walls, the vines that thread themselves through the mullions and delicate tracery. My eyes are drawn to them now as they choke the stained glass of the windows into obscurity, dimming what little light can pass through.
I’ve never been one to thrive in a crowded room, always looking for the things that reveal themselves in the quiet, wanting to explore what hides in the dark. I rebel against doing what everyone else is doing. My lips turn up in a smile.Little rebel.My heart pangs when I think of how that nickname sounds on Parker’s lips. Did I ever expect to fall in love with two people? Never. But it happened, and my heart has been torn in two ever since. I can’t explain it any more than why my lungs need air to breathe. Loving them is biological, innate,primal. I can’t pick just one of them without my heart being forever split in two.
Sloane and I walk in silence, which I appreciate. Even though she’s typically a chatterbox, she lets me look around at our surroundings, even though I’ve seen it all a million times. The courtyard in the center of the school is surrounded by massive Gothic architecture. Above us, spires reach up into the colorless, gloomy sky, their sharp silhouettes decorated with weathered gargoyles and grotesques that leer down, casting their silent judgment. And encircling it all, towering white oak treesstand as sentinels, their branches heavy with leaves in shades of amber, rust, and blood red, their colors a brief light against the campus’s otherwise lifeless gloom.
The school echoes with rich history and dark secrets, and it’s one of the many reasons I’m so enthralled by it. Most students ignore the whispers that breathe life into the grounds, too busy with the hustle and bustle of day-to-day life, but it’s among the quiet stillness that truth tends to reveal itself, and that’s where I like to be.
In no time, we arrive at the café. Felicity sits at a booth in front of the window, sunglasses still on, even though there’s no sun in sight, her long hair piled high on top of her head. Sloane and I tap the window just as she brings a mimosa to her lips, rapping our fingers against the glass. Felicity jumps, the orange liquid spilling over the rim and dribbling down the stem. She flicks us off, and our combined laughter echoes around us. Sloane and I pull open the door, a welcome blast of heat flushing our cheeks as we enter.
The café reminds me of a speakeasy, with dark, black-painted walls and rich, crimson-colored velvet tufted booths. Gold frames with famous artists, writers, composers, and scientists adorn the walls. I love the atmosphere, and it’s a spot the three of us often frequent.
After shrugging out of our coats, we take our seats with our friend, who looks worse close up. Bloodshot eyes, dark circles, and a hand rubbing her forehead.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you this hungover since freshman year. You get a little wild last night?” I ask her.
“Not hungover, exhausted, and ‘wild’ is an understatement. Abigail is like a sex goddess with no off switch,” she whines.
Sloane sags dramatically into the booth next to me, bringing her fists up to her eyes and mock-crying. “Oh, boohoo, poor Felicity, her girlfriend fucks her, so terrible!”
“Oh, I didn’t say anything about it being terrible. Quite the opposite. But when you’re in a relationship with someone obsessed with making you come, they become obsessed with finding your limit. And being the stubborn asshole that I am, guess who came so many times last night that I passed out? Like, passed the fuck out. Pretty sure my clit is going to fall off, and my vagina is just a big gaping hole at this point.”
I can’t hold it back; a laugh bursts from deep in my belly, and Sloane joins me as Felicity drops her forehead to the tabletop with a groan.
“What an image you just painted!” Sloane bellows.
“Does your hooha need some ice?”
“Yes, actually, you bitches. I could use some ice down there. My lips are so puffy, it’s uncomfortable to sit.”
Sloane and I share a look and then start laughing again at our friend’s expense.
“My best friends are assholes. Straight up assholes,” Felicity says to herself. “Changing the topic! Where did you two end up last night?”
“Mia ended up on either Leo or Parker’s dick, and I went home alone. Which is annoying. Can’t say I want my clit to be played with so much it feels like it’ll fall off, but some attention downstairs would be nice.”
I push Sloane with my shoulder just as the waitress comesover. We order a round of mimosas and blackberry pancakes, and then we’re back to gossiping some more.
“I was withLeolast night, thank you very much. I’m with Leo, not Parker.” The words taste like ash on my tongue, and I have to bite back the wince.
“Have you thought about telling them to share you? You’re jumping back and forth between them anyway, why not get them on board with it?” Felicity asks after taking a long pull of her drink.
“Share me,” I repeat incredulously.
“Yes, share you. Those two men are head over heels for you, you think they wouldn’t share you?”
“I think they’d rip each other to shreds. Leo is . . . possessive. And Parker is . . .”
“Obsessive.”
