Sighing, I look over at the documentary on the history of viaduct engineering that I had put on an hour ago but have barely watched. I glance at the book that Stella put on my desk. It’s a romance. I had to bite my tongue when she gave it to me because the only romance stories that I’ve ever read are Pride and Prejudice, Romeo and Juliet, and Wuthering Heights, and that’s only because I had to for school. I flip through the book and my eyes widen at some of the scenes. I quickly close it and look around like I’ve been caught doing something bad. Then, I look at it again. I read for the next twenty minutes until my ice cream starts to get soupy. Why can’t guys be like the hero in this book in real life?
I remember my older sister, Connie, once was watching a movie and the character said something about fairy tales not happening to women sitting alone in sweatpants at home. I glance down at my sweatpants. Yeah. That character was probably spot on with the assessment. I’m one hundred and ten percent sure that tonight every other woman in this house will either be sneaking a guy in here later, hooking up at the frat party, or making out in the bathroom of a club. Maybe if I’d tried to participate more last year, they would keep asking me to go out with them more often. But I think they all gave up on that after I turned them down daily for the first six months I lived here. Only Stella keeps asking me to go out with her.
I might lead the most boring life ever. I look over at my phone and pick it up. I do, contrary to popular belief, have several social media accounts. But I’ve never once interacted with anyone. I merely used them as a tool for getting accepted to college and now I use them as a tool to get a job. But the posts are lies. The photos with friends are just at sorority and club functions that I have to attend. The posts with my family are real, but only when I’m home for the holidays. I look at the most recent one. My mom, dad, and sister are all drinking margaritas, while I’m sitting with a glass of water, and that’s not because I couldn’t legally get one.
I’m lame.
Sighing again, I close my computer lid and head downstairs to put the ice cream back in the freezer. This pity party is gonna make me gain ten pounds if I don’t stop. I place the ice cream back in its spot, behind the three bags of frozen broccoli, because I know no one will find it there.
I walk into the front room and freeze. I hear a commotion outside just beyond the open windows. Two men, yelling at each other.
I crane my neck, but the curtains aren’t allowing me to see who it is.
“Fuck you! You don’t even know her!” one voice says.
“Oh, but I’m about to,” the other one says.
“Over my fucking dead body,” the first voice replies.
I hear what I assume are punches and then as I start to step back to let this little testosterone fest die on its own, a man flies through the screen of the giant window in the living room. Now, I’ve seen a lot of movies, and I know this sorority house is old as shit, but never in my wildest dreams did I think a man could actually break through the window and come crashing through it into this room. OK, it was just the screen, but still. I’m in shock as I quickly step toward the man on the floor who is groaning.
I look down as I kneel next to him, and I gasp, because lying on my floor with a giant splinter from the wooden screen frame in his right forearm is Clark Michael Moore.
“Clark!” I yell.
“Fuck, Megs. I’m literally right here. You don’t have to yell.”
“Sorry,” I whisper. “Are you OK?”
He slowly sits up and shakes his head, glancing down at the small piece of wood in his arm. He grabs a hold of the end of it and yanks it out. I grimace as blood starts to come out of the wound.
“I…let me get you something for that,” I stammer as I stand and run to the kitchen for the first aid kit. I’m back ten seconds later to find him sitting on an ottoman with a tissue pressed to the wound.
“Here,” I say, batting away his hand as I clean and dress the wound. I examine my work when I finish. “Good as new.”
“Thanks,” he says softly. His eyes never leaving me.
I set the first aid kit down on the sofa and look at the window. The screen is most definitely not reparable. I start to pick up the pieces.
“I’ll clean it up. It’s my fault. I can stop by tomorrow and put up a new screen,” he mutters as he stands and reaches over to grab a piece of trim.
“It’s OK.” I pick up the pile and carry it out to the dumpster outside of the kitchen. Once we have the living room cleaned up and the window closed. I turn to look at Clark.
“Care to tell me why you just busted through my window?”
“Your window?”
I give him a pointed look and cross my arms.
He holds up his hands in defeat. “I was at the frat party. I didn’t see you there, so I thought I’d stop by to make sure you were OK. I mean, you’ve been hanging out a lot lately and I was wondering why you weren’t at the party. Stella was there. Anyhow, I ran into an asshole out front and we had some words.”
I glance toward the front but whoever had been there earlier is very much gone now.
“Who?” I insist.
He looks away from me.
“Who?” I ask again in a louder voice.
“Anthony.”
“Fuck,” I mutter because that is not good. Why does Anthony even know where I live? I shudder.
Clark steps forward. “Hey. It’s OK. He’s gone now.”
Frowning, I glance down at my outfit and grimace. I look horrible. Then, I mentally chastise myself because who cares what I look like and Clark has definitely seen me looking way worse than this.
I look back up at him. His gaze is traveling around the room. “It’s a nice house,” he muses as he walks toward a picture on the wall. It’s my pledge class. I know when he sees me because he looks at it and back at me before stepping away.
“Where’s your room?” he asks.
“Upstairs.”
“Isn’t anyone else home?” he inquires.
I put my hands on my hips. “Why do you care?”
He mutters something to himself and turns to me, running his hand along the back of his neck. Shit. He’s being serious about something.
“Megs…I would feel better if I stayed here until someone else gets home.”
I cock my head to the side and study him. “What exactly did Anthony say?”
He sighs and takes a deep breath. “What happened between you and him?”
I know my face is red, but I don’t want to tell anyone about that, especially not Clark.
Clark steps forward. “Judgement-free zone. I promise.”
I fight the smile that threatens to spread across my face. He always used that line on me when he wanted me to tell him something.
“Come on, I don’t feel like explaining things if someone comes home early,” I say, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the stairs. He follows me. I shut the door behind us when we reach my room. Leaning against the door, I watch as he walks the perimeter and looks at everything. My posters, photos, awards, and a robot that I built with Brynn last semester.
He finally takes a seat at my desk and looks up at me.
He’s waiting.
I sit next to him on my bed and cross my legs. “Remember when I was doing the drama club play in high school?”