‘Not everything needs a snarky response,’ I snap. ‘Maybe you could try not being such a bitch all the time instead.’
She takes a step back, a look of shock widening her perfectly made-up eyes but now I’ve started I can’t stop myself.
‘I know, I know, stupid Mia should know better. Well, there you go, you were right, congratulations. Feel free to run back to Michael and have a real good laugh.’
Tears are coming, I know it, and I do not want to cry in the middle of the ref in front of every student at Hemden.
‘Fuck,’ I mutter under my breath, dropping my head so Jenna won’t see.
She doesn’t stop me when I turn to leave, doesn’t say anything as I push my way through the party until I’m at the door.
‘Can’t take that drink outside.’
An arm bars the exit, and I look up to see a doorman frowning at the whiskey in my hand. Oliver’s drink. I’m still holding Oliver’s drink.
‘Can’t go off property, sorry. You’ll have to neck it.’
And because I’ve always been a good girl who does as she’s told, I do.
With whiskey burning the back of my throat, I hand him the empty glass, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and walk out into the night.
36
Ethan
I don’t want to be at the dance, but I don’t want to be alone in my room either. For the first time, I’m fucking thrilled Assad convinced me we should wear our uniforms instead of real costumes, because when I start sprinting down the path along the river, I don’t have to worry about my junk falling out of a giant cardboard box or whatever the fuck else I would’ve ended up wearing.
What a shitty night.
The ground is firm against my feet, pushing me on and driving me harder. The faster I go, the less brain power I waste on dark thoughts. A blank slate, that’s all I want to be. How did tonight go from almost hooking up with four girls at once to running sprints by myself? I have no idea but at least it’s peaceful down here. The rush of the river drowns out the music coming from the ref and there’s not a single soul to be seen.
Exactly what I need.
Almost an hour goes by before my legs begin to feel heavy, my hamstrings tight from the strain of the workout I snuck in before class this morning and however many miles I just lapped around campus. Somewhere along the way, my rage and frustration lower from a boil to a simmer. I’m not exactly the picture of zen but I’m calm enough to let myself think again.
As I come closer to campus, I hear music seeping out from theref, clashing with the peaceful vibe of the campus. It’s past eleven but according to Assad, these bops run all the way through until dawn. For a bunch of supposedly stuck-up snobs, British college kids really like to party. Outside The Snug, there’s some natural spillover from the bop, girls wearing flour sacks hugging, a bunch of kids smoking, and a few couples making out in secluded corners where they think no one can see them. Spoiler alert, they’re wrong. I keep my head down and my eyes on the path in front of me. I don’t want anything to do with any of it.
I’m on the path, almost at halls when I see someone walking ahead of me. Smaller than me and wearing a white mini dress, most likely a girl, but given the things I’ve seen tonight not definitely. Either way, I don’t want to freak them out by storming up behind them or lurking like some stalker. This can only mean one thing. It’s time to implement my patented ‘Don’t Be Afraid, I’m a Good Guy’ strategy, as developed by me and a couple of my teammates, with the help of our girlfriends, back at Marshall. A steady pace, not too fast, not too slow, hands where you can see them and a loud, proud rendition of a Taylor Swift song.
I’m not even at the chorus of ‘Fortnight’, a personal favourite, when the person ahead stops. She’s right underneath a lightpost when she whirls towards me, long hair flying around her shoulders like a cape. It isn’t a white mini dress she’s wearing, it’s a towel. It’s Mia.
‘Are you singing Taylor Swift?’
‘And Posty,’ I reply without slowing my pace, although my heart is pounding at the sight of her. ‘Headed home?’
When she doesn’t respond right away, a thousand questions present themselves. Where are her friends? Why does she look so upset? What happened to the douchebag? Because if he has hurther in any way, shape or form, I’m going to rip him apart limb from limb, and enjoy doing it.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she says. ‘Nothing has ever gone wrong in your entire life, I’m sure.’
She’s so wrong it’s not even funny.
‘What happened?’ I ask. ‘Tell me whose ass I need to kick.’
We’re face to face now, underneath the streetlamp, but she won’t meet my eyes. Mia’s makeup is smeared, and she looks miserable and beautiful and I can’t stand it. With a sad slump of her shoulders, she walks away, plastic slides slapping against the footpath as she goes. I catch up to her with two long strides.
‘I fucked up,’ she says, to me, to the night, to no one. ‘I made a mistake, I overreacted and now they all hate me.’
‘That’s pretty hard to believe.’
