Page 24 of IOU

I check my watch and realize I don’t have enough time to check out the board outside of Morgan Hall. That one will have to wait until after I endure a two-hour Behavioral Psychology class where I can spend the whole time self-analyzing what happened between Tucker’s and my relationship. Then, once I realize it’s merely a case of it’s not me, it’s you, I can move onto self-discovery. Who am I without Tucker? What the hell am I going to do after I graduate? Clearly, I’m not buying a house with him and making wedding plans. Do I go home? Stay in Atlanta and find a job? Who knows? All I know is that I made the fatal mistake my mother always warned me about.

In loving Tucker, I lost sight of me.

Women should never lose sight of their hopes and dreams. They should be individuals that are amplified by their mates—she for real used the term mate. Women should always be independent because the older you get (her lecture, not mine), the more you forget who that woman is. I’m pretty sure she’s speaking from experience, and at the time she gave me that sound piece of advice, I was already in love with Tucker. My relationship was going to be different from hers and my dad’s. We were different.

Until we weren’t.

But I can’t change what happened.

People make their own choices. Tucker made his by slipping his dick into my roommate while I slept, and he supposedly couldn’t. It’s not my fault he’s a whore. It’s not Taylor’s fault that she’s a conniving little cunt.

We are who we are. Ugliness and all.

Hustling, I make it to the lecture with mere seconds to spare. This breakup has shaken me. I’ve neverjust made it. I’m always in my seat with at least ten minutes to spare. Tucker thought it was annoying that I was always on time, but I thought it was respectful. Why set a time if you don’t intend to be there at said time?

But we’ve already established Tucker is a dick, so I need to move on. He’s already invaded my thoughts for far too long this morning. I take a seat toward the back and pull out my laptop—thank you, Boss—and boot it up. I’m not a heavy note-taker, but occasionally Dr. Mathis will say something note-worthy.

And I’m in desperate need to play Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.

Don’t judge me. Since I’ve basically been a nomad, I haven’t had much time to dedicate to my quest of millionaire-dom. I know that’s not a word, but you knew exactly what I meant.

The game is my security blanket. My home away from home. And seeing how I no longer have a home, I’m more than a tad bit needy.

My finger hovers over the trackpad. Do I have enough time for one game? Eh—“No, dude. He’s never here. I heard he was locked up for the weekend.”

The male voice startles me, and I click open a new document instead of my game. Guess that’s a sign—no games until after class. Wait, no games until after I find a roommate.

“That’s why he’s looking for a roommate. The last one moved out. Rumor has it he couldn’t deal with the cops knocking on the door all the time.”

Great. Rumors. In my head, I clear my throat like I’m a WWE announcer. “This morning, wearing the distressed jeans, weighing in at 200 pounds of bullshit is Stan! His competitor and partner in the spread of inaccurate and stupid information, weighing in at 235 pounds of bullshit, is Booker! Hold your tits, ladies. You’ll be liable to lose your bras over this malarkey.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’d kill for a peek inside Maverick’s apartment.”

Stan, I think, makes this giddy noise. “I heard there is a plethora of women in and out of there at all times of the day. Can you imagine?”

I snort. I can imagine it being annoying that you’d never get any sleep with all that commotion. And cops? Yeah, I’ll pass. I’d like for my first background check to come back clean.

“Pussy would be aplenty. If I weren’t locked into my lease, I would gladly take his empty room.”

Booker scoffs. “No, you wouldn’t. Last time you saw Maverick Lexington, you ran, and all he did was shuffle the cards in his hands.”

“You know what those cards do!” Stan whisper hisses. “Paul in my Econ class won’t even speak to me since he took one of those cards.”

I don’t know who Paul is, and I’ve only ever heard of—well, I do know who Maverick is. I don’t know him, know him, but I’ve heard of him. Maverick Lexington is well-known around this campus for the deck of playing cards that he keeps tucked in his back pocket. Rumor is, if you need a favor, you can go to him, and he will grant it. On one condition. You will owe him a favor. He’s like our own magic genie. Or so I’ve heard. He could be some geek behind an iPad for all I know. I’m just saying, I’ve heard of him.

And, no. It’s a stupid idea.

I’m not that desperate.

Rumor has it she was caught stalking her ex.

Okay, I am that desperate.

One hundred and twenty-five percent that desperate.

After I endured the longest bitchfest ever, by two grown-ass men, I hightailed it out of class and across to the bulletin board outside of Morgan Hall.

If you need used sheets and cat toys, they have you covered.

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