Page 70 of Faking the Goal

More importantly, I'm out of the old apartment.

That alone is worth the sore back, the depleted savings, and the fact that my Thanksgiving dinner so far has consisted of half a granola bar and a gas-station coffee.

The last few weeks there had started doing things to my head that I didn't like. Every creak outside my door made my stomach tighten. I'd check the locks before bed, then check them again ten minutes later because apparently once wasn't enough anymore. And every time I came home and saw anything unfamiliar sitting outside my apartment, my heart would immediately start pounding before I even knew what it was.

Living like that was getting fucking exhausting.

I tried getting into the campus dorms first. Between the security desk, keycard access, and campus police regularly patrolling around the residence halls, I probably would've slept a hell of a lot better at night. Unfortunately, there wasn't a single vacancy left, and even if there had been, university housing isn't exactly cheap. My scholarship covers tuition, not the luxury of having Ridgewater provide me with four walls and twenty-four-hour security.

So this place became Plan B.

It's a ground-floor studio a few miles from campus. Nothing glamorous, but there are a few twenty-four-hour businesses nearby, so there's usually someone around no matter how late it gets, which makes me feel a hell of a lot better.

If some creep ever shows up at my door, at least I can scream bloody murder and somebody will probably hear me.

Not exactly something I thought I'd ever consider a selling point, but here we fucking are.

Hopefully, it never comes to that.

New apartment. New address. New start.

And hopefully the creep who's been sending me dead flowers and stuffed cats can go fuck himself somewhere far, far away from all three.

And if I'm serious about nobody finding me here, that also means my self-imposed celibacy isn't ending anytime soon.

Fuck my life.

I can't exactly go through all this trouble to disappear and then hand my new address to the next hot guy who makes my hormones forget we have survival instincts.

So until further notice, my vagina is officially closed for business.

I swear it just whimpered.

But considering my recent track record with men includes an obsessive creep who sends me dead flowers and stuffed cats, maybe my libido shouldn't be trusted with executive decisions for a while.

Fine.

Celibacy stays.

God help us all.

I look around the studio and sigh.

Calling one part of it the living room would be generous because technically the entire apartment is one big rectangular room with a tiny kitchen carved into one corner and a bathroom tucked behind the only actual interior door. The carpet is cheap, the walls are bare, and most of my belongings are still stacked near the entrance in boxes labeled CLOTHES, BATH, ART CRAP, and SCHOOL in thick black marker.

My mattress is currently sitting directly on the floor near the far wall because the bed frame is still in pieces beside it. Eventually, I'm going to put up some kind of divider there—maybe one of those folding screens or a cheap curtain—to create the illusion that I have an actual bedroom instead of simply sleeping twelve feet away from my refrigerator.

Across from it, my pink Craigslist couch is shoved beneath the only decent-sized window, surrounded by boxes I haven't opened yet. My little coffee table sits crooked in front of it because one leg apparently loosened during the move, and the kitchen consists of two counters, a narrow stove, a refrigerator that's older than I am, and enough cabinet space for approximately four plates and a dream.

It's not much.

But it's mine.

And right now, standing in the middle of this half-unpacked mess with my shoulders aching and my hair stuck to the back of my neck, I feel more relieved than I have in weeks.

I grab the box marked CLOTHES and drag it toward the mattress.

"Happy fucking Thanksgiving to me."