Page 28 of Little Etheldreda Riding Hood

Fuck, now I’m stuck…is six a bad number or a good number for a normal person? Dammit for being a homebody. Thankfully, he keeps talking.

“I broke up with my ex last summer and did some stupid shit because of it, but I haven’t been with anyone in three months. When I did, we always used condoms and I always get tested.”

He blinks back at me, his eyes searching my face. How is this the same person from earlier?

“It was one night, Zach. You don’t even know me,” I argue.

“Then let me get to know you.”

I bite my lip. “Fine. We can–”

He doesn’t wait for me to finish before he pulls me to him, burying his face into my neck until he reaches up and whispers, “Thank you, Red,” against my ear. His arms are strong and solid, and it feels so good to have them around me again.

I could get used to this. He smells so good, and it feels so right to lay my head on his shoulder.

Then, like the intrusive, cock-blocking bitch that she is, the logical part of my brain steps in with an iced water bucket of reality: What happens when he changes his mind?

I pull back.

“Give me a minute and I’ll follow you home,” he says, hand on the door.

I shake my head. “I’ve probably been driving as long as you have. I’ll text you when I make it to Darla’s.”

“Red, I don’t think you understand how crazy this makes me.”

I stare back. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

He sighs. “What time do you want to hit the lumberyard?”

“After lunch. I need to go and register for classes in the morning.”

He nods, “Okay, after lunch. I’ll be by at one p.m.”

He takes my hand, meets my eyes, and brushes his lips across the tops of my knuckles. “Be safe, Red.”

“Always,” I tell him as he steps out of my car.

Chapter Twelve

In Which College is Terrifying

Iwake up to the sound of an unfamiliar notification on my phone. I reach for it with blurry eyes, still half asleep. Morticia grunts and turns over, disturbing the joeys who grumble in their sleep. The cat on my pillow bats at my hair as I turn toward the nightstand, my stomach already starting to knot as I think about my first chore of the day–driving into the city and meeting my advisor.

It’s just a school. Millions of people go to university every year. There aren’t monsters patrolling the grounds. It’s going to be a great day, I try to convince myself until I see the home screen of my phone.

Morgan: I can’t stop thinking about you, Red, I…

“FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!” I curse loud enough that all the cats wake up and give me dirty looks. I can’t believe I forgot to delete that app the other day. I open the message. It’s paragraphs and paragraphs long. I don’t even read it, just screenshot it for proof should Willa ever come knocking down my door, block him, and delete the app entirely.

I try not to let it ruin my whole morning, but I still find myself stomping through my morning routine. My brain tries to be my cheerleader, but it fails miserably as I down a small bowl of cornflakes before heading out to the city. I spend the entire drive wishing I wasn’t alone. I may be twenty-five, but I’d really love to have someone hold my hand through all this.

Zach would have held your hand, and driven you, and probably paid for your semester as well…The evil voice in my brain teases. God, she is an asshole. She also brings up something that has worried me since I first applied…how the hell am I going to pay for this? I don’t know much about college, only that it’s expensive and sometimes you can get financial aid to help pay for it.

That thought rolls around my brain the entire forty-minute drive. The address I arrive at is a set of six large uninteresting buildings all grouped together and surrounded by dozens upon dozens of parking lots. I’m not sure what I pictured when I imagined college, but this wasn’t it. Good thing I’m too old for a “college experience”. Now I just need to get the degree. I desperately need to be someone other than a daughter, a girlfriend, a future mother, a Luna.

To my surprise, my college advisor is an actual professor in the department. I’m seeking my degree in–history–which is what I’ll need if I’m going to teach high school. I’ve always imagined college professors would be old and gray-haired, dressed in cardigans and wearing glasses. So I’m not feeling overly confident I’ve got the right person when a beautiful Mexican woman, maybe a few years older than me, opens the door of the office I find myself outside of.

This woman has on tailored khaki slacks, a t-shirt, and a black blazer. She smiles and steps back to let me in. “Are you my ten o’clock?” she asks.

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