ONE OF THE benefits of being a senior in college is first dibs on the dorms, which is how Laura and I got this awesome two-bedroom suite. Kitchenette, living area, private bathroom, bedrooms that aren’t closets… it’s almost enough to make a girl forget that when this year is over, she’ll be back to living over the family diner and spending her days wading through small business hell.
It’s me. I’m the girl.
But currently I’m on the couch, arm dangling almost to the floor, sandals precariously close to falling off. My shift at The Purple Kettle, the on-campus coffee shop, ended a little while ago, and after being on my feet for the stampede of students back for the semester and ready to arm themselves with lattes and cold brew, I’m beat. I’d prefer to be in bed, but Laura insisted on a fashion show. Apparently, the lighting is better in the living room.
“Oh, and I got this cute mini dress,” she calls from her bedroom. “I was thinking about it for tonight.”
“What’s tonight?” I say. I already sort-of know the answer, because it has to be a party, but the question is where. A frat? Sorority? Frat-slash-sorority? An off-campus house that’s full of frat bros anyway?
“A party!” Laura crows as she comes out of her room. She’s in high heels that show off her tanned legs to perfection, and her little black dress clings to her curves like tape. For some reason, she has on devil ears and is carrying a little pitchfork. “And before you say you’re not coming, you’re coming.”
Sometimes I think about the fact we’re best friends, and… it doesn’t stun me, exactly, but it does leave me wondering. Laura is smart as hell, don’t get me wrong, but college has been a series of social functions for her, and as for me, when I’m not working on school or at The Purple Kettle, I’m at Abby’s Place, putting out fires and generally trying to contain the chaos. Laura’s father is a fancy lawyer, and her mom is an equally fancy doctor, and she spent half the summer in Italy and the other half in St. Barts. I spent it nursing a broken heart, arguing with suppliers, and slinging hash browns for locals.
I love her, but our lives are totally different. She’s been at McKee since freshman year, and this is only my second since I transferred in as a junior. Two years at McKee instead of the local community college is the absolute maximum amount of time I can be away from the business, sort of, and the money is the amount of loans, while still astronomical, that I feel comfortable taking out. Maybe one day I’ll do something with this business degree and the portfolio of photography that quietly keeps growing, but for now, the plan is the same as ever. Home. Diner. Take over the business so my mother can quit pretending she’s well enough to do it herself.
She hasn’t been anywhere near that since the moment Dad walked out of our lives.
“Earth to Bex,” Laura says. “Do you like it?”
She’s holding out a dress, a shimmery white thing with a thigh slit and a plunging neckline.
“For me?”
“Yeah!” she says. “And don’t worry, I got you angel wings and a halo.”
“Um… why?”
“Because the party theme is Angels and Demons,” she says. “Were you even listening?”
I scrub at my face with my palm. “No,” I admit. “Sorry. I’m exhausted.”
Her shoulders droop. “You told me you wanted to have more of a social life this year.”
“A social life, not a spin as a Victoria’s Secret model.”
She rolls her eyes. “Just try it on. It’ll look gorgeous on you and make your tits look fabulous. All the boys will drool over you.”
I take the dress, knowing from experience that she won’t drop it until I at least try it on. I have a different white dress in my closet that will have to do for this party. “And why do I want that?”
“Because you need to show everyone you’ve moved on from Darryl! It’s perfect. Find some sexy guy to grind up against! Get drunk! Just try and enjoy yourself, Bex, please.”
I did tell her, during one of our many FaceTime sessions over the summer, that I wanted to try having a social life before I effectively shut that down by moving back home. I don’t think I’m capable of having a boyfriend again, but she’s right, I could try to hook up with someone. It’s been a long, lonely summer. I got plenty sweaty, but never for fun reasons.
I’ve never been a hookup sort of person, but there’s a first time for everything, right?
“I’ll try it on,” I say as I stand.
She squeals, clapping her hands together.
“But I’m not promising I’m wearing it. Or that I’m going to the party.”
She just smiles serenely. “Don’t forget the halo.”
As I shimmy into the dress in my room—and Laura was totally right, my boobs look amazing—I can’t push away the part of me, however petty, that hopes Darryl is there tonight. Maybe Laura’s right. If he sees me dancing with someone else, he’ll get the message that we’re over. It’s not like anything else I’ve done has worked, even though he’s the one who cheated.
As if on cue, my phone screen lights up. Darryl again. I can’t believe that at one point in time I thought this was sweet. Supportive.
Now he makes me want to claw my hair out.
You’re coming tonight, right? I miss my angel.
For some reason, the most annoying part about the message is the way he knows I’m dressing up as an angel. I’ll never be the devil, and maybe that’s part of the problem. He doesn’t believe we’re truly over because he’s used to getting exactly what he wants and I’m not forceful enough to get it through his thick skull that we’re not a couple anymore. Just because he’s an arrogant football player who believes he’s going to marry his college girlfriend and have her follow him around his whole career like half the men in the NFL…
I put on the wings, looking at myself in the mirror over my bedroom door with a frown. They look ridiculous, big and fluffy and not something I’d normally want to wear in front of other people. I grab the halo and put it on too. Somehow, it ties everything together. With some winged eyeliner and matte lipstick for edge?
Darryl will be drawn to me like a moth to a lantern. But hopefully other guys will too.
