Page 5 of Unloved

I wait until we’re back safe in our little dorm, sitting on twin beds opposite each other, before I ask exactly how she does it—so brazenly goes after whatever she wants, especially with boys.

Sadie’s expression shifts, her perpetual frown sinking deeper before she puts her half-eaten food back into the bag and sets it aside.

“I mean…” I hurry to explain. “You seem so confident. You sleep with whoever you want.”

“It’s not a crime,” she snaps. “I enjoy sex, just like everyone else.”

My stomach sinks. “Right.” Somewhere in my head an alarm soundsvirginover and over. Can’t she hear it?

“Are you asking me for advice?” she says, but her tone has lost none of its heat. “Because if so, I’ve only got one thing I can give you. Don’t be like me. Don’t evenwantto be like me. Okay? You’re pretty and I’m sure you’re smart, and trust me, you can be whoever you want to be.”

“But I think you’re great.” The words come out unbidden and I blush, a little embarrassed. It’s like I’m wearing a sign that says I Want to be Your Friend So Badly.

“Well, don’t.”

Her voice cracks slightly and my brow furrows, wondering if she might cry. My arms tingle, ready to hold her, to hug her if she needs one. Like real friends do.

But instead, she straightens and slips off her bed, stepping over to the mini fridge to save her probably already stale food.

Our fragile camaraderie from the night disappears like smoke in the wind. She turns off the lamp and goes to sleep. There is so much anger in her small body; she carries herself like she’s always ready for a fight. It makes my chest hurt.

Trying to sleep, I close my eyes and picture Freddy-maybe-Matty, the happy smile across his face, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his skin. I touch my lips again, swearing they still feel swollen from his kiss.

CHAPTER 1Senior Year—End of July, Present DayRo

“Give it to Ro.”

I stop short, pausing to survey the open office space filled with the other teaching assistants and tutors for our department. The toe of my sneaker kicks against the moderately heavy door again, managing to hold it open long enough that I can slip through without dropping the giant stack of papers currently blanketing my arms.

Not one of the boys I work with offers to help. No one even bats an eye at my struggle as I plop the over-full folders onto my clean desk space.

It’s quiet, but it always is during summer semester—especially finals week—which is why I always opt to come back early. That and the desperate itching need to get back that seems to plague me beginning early July.

“Give me what?”

Rodger, one of the other tutors in our department, tosses me the folder in his hands while Tyler, my boyfriend of two years now, slinks behind me and rests his head on my shoulder, playing with the ends of my hair.

“Rodger doesn’t want his student.” Tyler laughs, pressing a kiss into my hair. I bristle and freeze, because the last time we spoke over the phone he told me we definitelyweren’ttogether.

Tyler and I met my sophomore year, my first year as a tutor inmy declared major. I’d come to Waterfell knowing I wanted to study biomedical sciences, but not sure of what track to follow. A year above me, Tyler was my mentor and guide for my first year of tutoring.

I looked up to him because he was successful and smart and well respected in our classes. And he relentlessly pursued me—extravagantly, publicly. Flowers before classes, surprising me with lunch at work, offering me rides to and from Brew Haven—and this was all before we ever started dating.

The romantic in me swooned, thrilled that I would finally have the affection I’d always dreamed of. But somewhere along the way, things changed.

“I think we should keep it casual. Keep our options open.”

His words from our phone call last weekend ring in my ears like a distant alarm I’m content to ignore.

“Good morning, babe. Welcome to the lair of complaining and being pussies.”

His hands stretch out, like he’s introducing our office to the HGTV at-home viewers.

“Shove it, Donaldson,” Rodger snaps, seemingly more agitated than usual.

Surprisingly, I like him most out of the group. Possibly because I live with someone who has a perpetual anger problem, and she’s my best friend.

“Morning,” I say, a little distracted as I flip open the file and look at the sample papers before me. My eyes scan the words quickly, brow furrowing. “These look copied. Like… word for word. Are they all plagiarized?”

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