Page 19 of Brat Baby
“Yup,” I reply, a rush of relief flowing through me at not having to explain myself.
Tragic backstory is going to tragic backstory. Oakley seems to get that and doesn’t ask any additional questions. Maybe one day I’ll give her some details, but for now, she is just rolling with it, which I think I might love her for.
With my bag and laundry packed up, I heft both bags over one shoulder each. “Want to catch up for lunch?”
Oakley perks back up, a smile lighting up her entire face. “Yes! Do you eat sushi? I saw a bar on campus yesterday.”
I shrug and head to the front door. “Never had it, so no clue. Pick something for me and we’ll find out. Worst case, I have to hit a dining hall. Twelve in the main quad?”
“Perfect. Have a good morning!” she calls after me as I exit, her words cut off by the door shutting.
I head down the two flights of stairs and out into the brisk morning air. The mornings have been starting out cooler for the past week, but by midday, the sun is shining bright, so I fight off the chill and set a brisk pace to the laundromat.
Now, with literally nothing else to distract me, I can’t help but think about the rewards. And Xavier’s demand for pictures. And seeing Hudson and Derek yesterday.
The mixed signals are so fucking confusing.
The no-contact rule must only be for me. But if that’s the case, why did they ignore me in class yesterday?
I get it. Fraternizing with a student is definitely going to be a huge no-no. So, maybe that’s it? Did they ignore me in class just to ensure they don’t get called out? But that can’t be right. Derek said the arrangement was over, that he isn’t my daddy anymore.
The memory of him telling me not to call himDaddyis so sharp that I stumble over my feet, heart pounding painfully and throat locking up so tight that tears form.
I pause, right there on the sidewalk, surrounded by the hurt and anger of the memory, all the scabbed-over wounds tearing open and pouring out their pain all over again.
When is all this emotional shit going to be over with? It was a fucking weekend. Just one. I need to shove this into a box already, then shelve it deep in the very back of my memory bank, so it’s only a ghost of a bruise and not a piercing knife wound.
I force my feet to get moving again and change gears, thinking through my day.
Dry cleaning.
Statistics.
Lunch with Oakley.
Psych.
Then study back at the apartment.
Not too busy of a day, but enough to keep me distracted.
It only takes fifteen more minutes to get to the dry cleaners and even less time before I’m pocketing the slip they gave me and leaving their store. I want to swing by Grinder to get a hot chocolate before hitting up my stats class. I have a feeling I’ll need the sugar to not pass out from boredom.
And maybe, potentially, run into my daddi—the men, there. The mental stumble is awkward. I really don’t like the sound of that. The men. Like they are just four randoms who haven’t altered the chemistry of my brain.
Ding.
My phone chimes from my bag, causing my pulse to spike. Without stopping, I maneuver my bag to get my phone and force myself to re-shoulder the straps before opening the notification.
A message from Oakley.
I roll my eyes at this chick, but honestly? I kind of like it. She has zero chill about wanting to be friends, and if that’s just from morbid curiosity or pity, I don’t really give a fuck. I’m enjoying having someone in my life who doesn’t question every decision or thought that I have.
It’s like having my own personal cheerleader.
Oakley:Let me know if there is anything in particular you want from the grocery store for the week. I’m going to pick stuff up after class.
Me:Thanks. I’m mostly going to use my meal card. I want to stretch the money I have. But I’m happy to go halves on fruit, milk, bread, etc.
