Page 30 of Lilies in Autumn

I step into her space, daring her to continue with her bullshit tirade. “That beautiful, curvy fucking goddess is my girl. She has more fucking brains, more class in her goddamn pinky, than you have in your entire fucking body.” I seethe, gritting my teeth to keep from screaming at her like I want. “And if I ever, fucking ever, hear you speak about her like that again, I will fucking bury you. You will be blackballed from every fraternity house, every fucking sports house, if I hear so much as a fucking whisper against Ava. Do I make myself clear?” She glares at me, refusing to respond. “I said, do I make myself fucking clear?”

“Fuck you, Greyson. You’re going to regret this.”

“Stay the fuck away from me. Stay away from her.” Done with this conversation, I follow the path Ava took, desperate to have her next to me and help me forget about this fucking conversation.

Fucking Felicity.

_

Ava:

Seeing Felicity and being at the receiving end of her condescending tone, has me in a tailspin of self-loathing. I need to be alone; I need to get out of here, now.

I see CeCe and Serena in the far corner of the yard, talking to Dante and a few guys I don’t recognize. I love CeCe, and Serena seems like a great person from our fast friendship, but the last thing I need is to stand next to their near-flawless, size two bodies and compare every single thing about my own body. Felicity’s bitchy comment, “a girl like me,” hit its mark.

It’s been years since I felt this debilitating need to rid myself of everything I’ve eaten, and fucking Felicity sent me into a dark hole with an offhanded, shitty comment. I’m ashamed that I’m this weak, that a mean girl who never left high school can reduce me to the fifteen-year-old that took laxatives like candy and would try every diet pill to lose ten pounds.

I send a text to our group chat, letting them know I’m not feeling well, and that I’m getting an Uber home. I don’t even wait for their response before I break into a near-run toward the backyard gate. A single glance back tells me that no one’s watching me amid my mini breakdown, but when my eyes snag on Greyson stepping closer to Felicity, my heart drops.

The triumphant look on her face transforms into an ugly scowl, emphasizing her black heart. Grey turns away from her, walking toward CeCe and Serena and the group they’ve amassed. I should be relieved that he’s seemingly chasing after me, but the only thing I can think about is how he can’t see me right now, not when I feel like everything I am is not enough. I continue toward the exit, breathing easier as soon as I’m on the opposite side of the fence.

My phone vibrates and I look down, expecting a text from our group chat, but an unknown sender mars my screen. I open the text and my blood freezes.

Unknown: You’re pathetic if you think Greyson wants a slob like you. Ask him about his bet.

Ava

By the time I get home from Greyson’s house, I’m flustered, tired, and more than a little confused. Earlier tonight, I gave Greyson an intimate, private part of myself; I shared my body, and my inexperience, and put my stretch marks on display. His hands touched me in places that even my gynecologist hasn’t seen, and, my God, it felt so good. I rub my thighs together at the memory of him over me, spreading my folds with his thick fingers as he brought me to the highest point of pleasure. The warmth inside of me evaporates once I remember why I left his house alone. Between Felicity’s shitty comments, insinuating that I was less than her, and the text message I received hinting that Greyson paid attention to me because of a bet, my post-orgasmic bliss is nonexistent.

I’m trying not to be one of those girls that believe every rumor without a conversation, but that text seemed to confirm my deepest fear: that I was nothing more than a sure thing. I know that I need to confront Greyson about it. I owe it to myself, and to him, to talk to him about the alleged bet before writing him off entirely. I may be inexperienced, but I’m not a moron. Greyson made me feel safe, wanted, and respected throughout every conversation and interaction we’ve had. I would never have spread my legs solely because the guy was good-looking. Right?

The Uber ride home helped cool my anger and self-hatred. Can I say that I’m unaffected by Felicity and her obvious reference to my weight? No. But the urge to make myself sick to conform to her idea of beauty has subsided, as has the need to compare my physical attributes to those of my friends. Though I’m relieved the dark thoughts retreated, I’m terrified that they’ll come back, more present and insistent each time. It’s like I have these long stretches of being comfortable with myself and who I am, and then a setback hits me and I’m a young girl again, sneaking Hershey kisses in the bathroom at school because I don’t want the other kids to see the chubby girl eating chocolate. It’s a vicious cycle, one I thought I moved past.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to push Felicity, my weight, and my hookup with Greyson out of my head. Letting these things consume me will drive me crazy, and I can’t allow anything to derail me or my dreams. I grab my Tumi backpack off the back of my desk chair, empty the contents on my bed, and begin to repack for my first day of classes tomorrow. Though most of my classes are general education courses, I was able to sneak one elective into my schedule: Fundamentals of Baking and Pastry. Baking wasn’t necessarily my passion, but I appreciate the precision and attention to detail that it requires. Though our practical won’t happen at the start of class tomorrow, I am eager to make a good impression on the professor teaching the course.

I double-check that I have everything I’ll need for my classes tomorrow: a pair of notebooks, pens, highlighters, a calculator for my Algebra I course, and my recipe binder. Realistically, I won’t need my binder, but I can’t help but be over-prepared. The mundane tasks of packing my bag, picking out my clothes for tomorrow, and taking a long, hot shower, helped to keep my mind off of the events of the day, especially Greyson. That went to shit as soon as I got back to my dorm room.

Taking off my robe and hanging it on the hook by my closet, I reach into my dresser to grab my sleep set only to stop short at the marks all over my skin.

“What the fuck?” I whisper into the room, turning fully toward my mirror. Looking from my neck to my chest, I have hickeys everywhere. Surrounding my nipples, I look like I got into a fight with a fucking wildebeest. How did I miss these marks in the shower? They are, quite literally, everywhere. I groan, hanging my head. I’m going to sit in my classes tomorrow, meeting my professors and all these new people, with goddamn hickeys covering the upper half of my body. I am going to murder Greyson, fucking kill him. I take a picture of my neck, careful not to show any unnecessary skin, attach it to a text message and start to type out my annoyance with that Viking-looking asshole.

Ava: Greyson, I am going to fucking kill you. Look at my neck.

I throw my phone on my bed, not caring what he replies. Instead of the sleep set I initially planned, I grab a sweatshirt and sleep shorts, determined to sweat my annoyance out and hide these hickeys at the same time. The very last thing I need right now is for CeCe to look at me like a leper and start romanticizing whatever happened today.

My phone goes off on my bed, but instead of reaching for it and devouring his words, I push it aside, climbing into my bed and pulling the covers over my head.

It’s eighty degrees out and here I am in a damn parka, avoiding my roommate, my feelings, and the text message that just came through my phone. Thank God this dorm is air-conditioned.

—

CeCe wakes me when she comes in around eight. She eyes me, suspicion cast over her pretty features as she takes in my sweatshirt. After making sure I was okay and recovered from the mysterious illness that struck me—Felicity’s bullshit, though I won’t tell her about that interaction—she grabs her shower caddy and leaves for the communal bathroom down the hall.

I steel myself, get my mental shit together, and look at my phone. I have over ten missed calls and a collection of text messages from Greyson, CeCe, and my mom. Tapping on my mom’s contact information, I pray to God she’s already in bed for the night and left her phone downstairs. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with her questions, excitement, or gossip tonight. I love my mother and my entire family, but they are… a lot. All the time. Loud, boisterous, and obnoxious. They’re amazing but have a penchant for producing migraines. Luckily, the phone goes to voicemail; I do not doubt that she and my father are already in bed, snoring while pretending to watch the latest true-crime documentary, probably based on a case they worked on.

I click on my text messages and select Greyson’s text thread.

Greyson: Fuck, that’s so fucking hot. Are you going to show off that pretty neck around campus tomorrow, let everyone know you’re off-limits?

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