Chapter One
It’s what every girl like me dreams of. The warm summer air, students passing by with smiles on their faces as I twirl around in the grass, taking in my first day at West University.
Scratch—
Alright, you caught me. I’m not twirling around. Students aren’t smiling at me. In reality, I’m sitting on a bench, people-watching, as 99% of the student population is texting and walking. Shouldn’t there be some school-wide ban on that? I’ve witnessed five head-on crashes.
Get it? ’Cause their heads crash. I know, I know, it’s never as funny when you have to explain the punch line.
Anyway, today has been pretty uneventful. Unless you think the old man sitting next to me, throwing back a stinky egg salad sandwich, is eventful.
I check my watch. Almost time for that last class. Of course, it’s Business 101. My mom forced me into taking this course. Said it would make me more marketable for med school.
Who doesn’t love thinking about their post-grad education three months before their freshman year?
“You a freshie?” Old Man asks, some egg crumbs sticking to his chin.
I give him a polite smile. “Sure am.” Grabbing my book, I stuff it into my backpack and ready myself to leave.
He takes another bite and smacks his lips. “This year will be life-changing for you. I just know it.”
“Thanks. I guess we’ll see, huh?” I sling my backpack onto my shoulder and walk away with a beaming show of teeth. If anything, I’m always nice. Probably a little too nice. At least, that’s how I see things.
Like when I caught my best friend in middle school stealing my purse, I smiled and told her, “This won’t define your life. You’re bound for greatness.”
Sure, a few hours later I thought of about a thousand different comebacks that didn’t brand me as a grade-A doormat, but alas, I never did figure out how to build a time machine. As far as I know, she’s not in prison for grand larceny, so maybe my pep talk worked.
Gah, West’s campus is way too big.
I stare at my phone, trying to decipher this ancient photo of the university map. I enter what I’m pretty sure is the business building. Zooming in to get a closer look, I open the glass door and squint at the pink-colored illustration on my screen. I glance up and…
Smack!
Make that six head-on crashes. My phone slides a few feet away and some pencils roll out of the unzipped front pocket of my backpack.
The offender, a large, hot, muscly guy, is in front of me.
“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” he asks.
My gaze meets some sexy blue eyes. Little speckles of green sparkle in the irises, and he hands me my phone and discarded pencils.
He’s gorgeous.
Shut up. Egg Salad Guy was right. This is so cliché. It’ll be the cutest meet-cute you ever did see. I can picture it now: Me and him dating through all four years of school, engaged at graduation, marriage, babies, the whole perfect portrait.
I brush a chunk of hair behind my ear and quirk my lips. “Yes. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
He grasps my hand, and electricity shoots up my arm. He helps me up, and I stand in front of him, too far away. A gentle pull begs me to close the gap. His gaze travels up and down my body, and I’m stuck in place. My mind scatters, and I don’t know what to say.
“Hey, babe,” another man says. “You ready?” He leans in and kisses my rescuer on the cheek.
Everything in me deflates like a balloon. Of course he’s gay.
Rescuer looks at me again, and what I thought was a smolder is actually just an embarrassed grin. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” I mumble. Only my ego and pride are hurt, thank you very much. Egg Salad Sandwich dude was wrong. If anything, this year is going to be exactly like every past year of my life—boring.
My feet drag on the way toward my next class. I’d question which room is mine, but I’m able to recognize it as soon as I see the Peanut Free Zone sign that’s posted on the door.
Now let’s just hope people actually follow it so I don’t have to make a grand performance with my EpiPen.
I trudge down the stairs and find a seat right in the middle. Not too close, not too far. Like Goldilocks, it’s just right. Ugh, I’d rather do anything than sit through a business class that’s going to drone on and on about nonsense. Like I’ll need that in the real world.
Fine, I know I’ll need it in the real world. I’m not an idiot. It’s just not what I’m interested in.
Maybe I can close my eyes for a minute. Catch a few Zs. I stayed up way too late watching Netflix’s new murder documentary.
A loud bubble pops near my ear. A woman sits next to me, smacking gum that’s literally the same color as her hair—bright freaking pink.
She holds out a hand. “Hola. ¿Cómo estás? ¿Hablas español?”
I point at myself. “Oh, um, I don’t really speak Spanish.” I clear my throat and run through my four years of high school Spanish. “Good, I’m good. You?”
“Sólo estoy bromeando contigo.”
I shake my head ’cause I got no clue what she just said.
She winks, and her eyeshadow looks like it came from an Instagram video. “What’s your name?”
Isn’t the other person supposed to introduce themselves first? I grin. “So, you do speak English. I’m Les.”
Her hand is thrust out, so I shake it.
“Mhmm. Cool name, is that short for something?” She sticks her tongue through the gum and blows another bubble.
And this is what always happens. Which is why I hate telling anyone my name. Yes, Les is my name. Nothing more, nothing less. And yes, I’ve heard that joke way too many times to count. My dad’s favorite thing to say was, “Just because you have half a name doesn’t mean you should think any Les of yourself.”
Hardy har har. So funny, Dad. That joke got old sixty seconds after I exited the womb. Although now, I guess it’d be nice to hear that joke again. I shake my head. “Nope, it’s just Les. And yourself?”
She blows another bubble and pops it with a loud boom that I swear echoes across the lecture hall. “I’m Candy.”
I giggle like a schoolgirl (no pun intended). “For real?”
Her face grows serious, and she pinches her brows together. “Something wrong with that?”
My face goes long. “Me? What? Pftt. No. Just the name…and…the gum.” I clear my throat. “Beautiful. Beautiful name.” Is it hot in here?
She gazes at me with a cocked brow before cackling. “Totally kidding! I got where you were coming from.” She nods and it bounces her hair.
I get mesmerized by the perfectly curled, pink strands and drop my pen. The lecture hall angles down like a stadium, and the pen rolls and clunks down the steps.
Roll.
Clunk.
Roll.
Clunk.
Roll-clunk. Until a brown-haired dude reaches down and picks it up. He holds it in the air without looking back, and I groan the second I see his hand. I’d recognize that heart-shaped birthmark in between his thumb and pointer finger anywhere.
Meet Ben. Future star of the West baseball team. A doctor in the making. Rich boy who everyone loves. And my ex-boyfriend who dumped me six months ago on senior prom night. He told me that he thought we should take a break to “explore other options.” I told him that if he thought I’d wait around for him, then he could stick his pompous head right up his—