Page 15 of Freshmeet
“Wow,” Britta deadpanned, drawing out the o. “A bathroom people can use without feeling wildly unsafe. Whoda thunk.” Rolling her eyes, she grabbed his hand. “You need a shower before you even dream of climbing into bed with me.”
He leaned in, trying to kiss her, but she blocked him with her palm. “Shower.”
We all laughed until we reached the wobbly backstairs. The whole place was in desperate need of renovation or maybe demolition, especially after Emma tumbled off the roof. Without my permission, my gaze fell on the exact spot where her head met gravel. In silence, we stomped up the safety hazard. No one ever mentioned the accident, but it was clear we were all still dealing with the aftermath.
Everyone peeled off toward their own rooms, or in Paul’s case, the bathroom, while I settled on the couch with my emotional support water bottle. I pulled up my checking account for the hundredth time today. The same $1,423.17 stared back at me. Luckily, my scholarships covered tuition and books, but this would not get me through an entire year of rent, utilities, food, and other nonsense.
Stress like I’d never felt squeezed my chest. I’d dealt with academic pressures, familial disappointment in my chosen career path, and social discomfort from being a bit boring, but this was next level. This was real-world stress, something my privileged upbringing had always shielded me from. I didn’t have the practical know-how to take care of myself, and it was downright embarrassing.
Lying in the dark, listening to my roommates settling in for the night, I felt alone. Every single one of them was closer to being an adult than I was. Every single one of them was capable of surviving in ways I was only just now figuring out. Tears welled in my eyes, but I refused to give in to the sadness, so I shut them and tried some of the breathing techniques Morgan had shown me for stress.
As my mind cleared, one thing remained. Connor. Stupid, beautiful, manly Connor, who obviously thought I wasn’t worth sticking around for.
Blowing out a breath, I sat up, instantly regretting the move because the room started to spin. Easing back down, I stayedfocused on Britta’s painting hanging on the wall. When you did turns in ballet, it was important to focus on an unmoving object to keep from getting dizzy. I hoped the same would be true for drunk eyes and a room determined to spin.
Maybe Dad was right. I was a fuckup. What did I do when faced with my new reality? Get tipsy, dry hump a stranger, proceed to get wasted, and then get no sleep before a full day in the sun mentoring middle schoolers. I wanted to have fun like everyone else, but apparently that wasn’t in the cards for me.
All that was left to do was pick myself up and be an adult.
Tomorrow.
I’ll be an adult tomorrow.
A door closing startled me awake. Peeking over at Rae’s bedroom, the door was wide open, and she wasn’t in bed. With one squinted eye, I checked my phone. It was only 6:30 am. The fact that Rae was up that early for a run boggled the mind.
Flopping back on the couch, I huffed and grumbled. My alarm wasn’t set to go off for another thirty minutes, but going back to sleep would be pointless, so I slowly sat up. That’s when the hangover to end all hangovers hit me.
I leapt up from the couch and rushed to the bathroom, puking up red jungle juice into my hand, but somehow missing my shirt and making it into the toilet.
The first bit of luck I’ve had in a while.
The porcelain of the bowl was cold against my arm as I propped up my face, ready to lose whatever was left in my stomach. I looked down to where my phone sat on the floor. I had twenty minutes to sit there like a sad sack before I needed to get my ass to Thousand Hills.
A few agonizing minutes passed, and the urge to vomit was gone.
Shuffling along the scuffed wooden floors, I refilled my water bottle and trudged back to the bathroom. I brushed my hair into a neat ponytail and scrubbed off the little bit of makeup left from the night before. I frowned at how red and shiny my skin was while I scoured the taste of death out of my mouth. Knowing there wasn’t time for makeup, I sighed and went to my bedroom.
I stripped off my dress, put on fresh deodorant, some lotion, and a little body spritz to mask the alcohol oozing out of my pores.
It didn’t work.
Defeated, I slipped on a pair of denim shorts and a Camp College Bound T-shirt. The motion made me pause before sitting on the floor to find my new sneakers. I laced them and took my sweet time putting them on.
I guess I should thank Rae for waking me up thirty minutes early. It’s taking me forever to get ready.
Dressed and feeling marginally better, I went back downstairs as my wake-up alarm went off. That meant I had fifteen minutes to slam a Gatorade.
Snagging my keys and phone, I took my drink outside to the car and made the quick drive to Thousand Hills State Park.
A Tilney is never late.
Despite the AC blasting, sweat beaded on my neck. Dehydrated as all get out, the humidity was even more unbearable. Summer had truly come early. I would need to chug a bottle of water to keep from passing out in front of the campers.
I inched past massive construction vehicles and parked near the visitor’s center. With a mere five minutes to spare, I rushed across the gravel, swallowing down bile. The front door stuck, soI put my shoulder into pushing it open. The door flew into the wall, and the bell attached chimed.
Christie, the director of the program, hollered from above, “We’re in here!”
Great. The second floor of an old building without the AC running.
