CLUBBING ON A Thursday isn’t usually my go-to form of self-pity, but here we are.
I probably should just head to the library and study for my upcoming exams, but reading anything psychology-related will set me over the edge. It also doesn’t help that I can’t find my student ID. Without it, I can’t access any of the private study pods. So, logically, clubbing it is.
Amara stares at me wide-eyed as I show her my outfit. It’s black, short and silky. The perfect combination for my newly adopted reckless persona.
A wary look crosses her face. “What’s wrong?”
“Does something have to be wrong for me to have fun?”
“Summer, the last time you had fun was sophomore year when we went to that frat kegger, and you played Scrabble with the pledges. So, yes, something had to have happened.”
She’s right. Something did happen. The moment I’ve been waiting for, for all these years was delivered to my inbox this morning, and I’ve been in denial ever since.
“I didn’t get in.”
The words slip out so fast Amara jerks like I slapped her. “How? You probably read it wrong.” She snatches my phone from my hand and opens my email app.
“I didn’t. I got waitlisted. I guess Donny didn’t even need to compete with me for co-op,” I say with a bitter laugh. Our plan to get Langston out hasn’t worked. The dean’s still on sabbatical, and although word is getting around through students, no one with authority has done anything. It’s maddening and has me jerking awake with anxiety in the middle of the night. It’s getting worse because whenever there’s a knock at our front door, I expect it to be the police coming to arrest me for burglary. That’s why I’ve been spending most of my days at Aiden’s house.
Amara scrolls through the sugar-coated rejection. “You said Dr. Müller loved your report. This can’t be right.”
“He did, but he’s not my advisor, and he’s not the one on admissions.” “But you can’t wait, that leaves you with no choice but to take a gap
year.”
I swallow. “I know. That’s why I accepted my backup.”
The gasp that leaves her is a bit dramatic. “You’re leaving Dalton? You’ve been dreaming about this program for years. Your mom said you were eight when you decided you were attending this school or nothing at all. Honestly, I was surprised you didn’t have a shrine of Sir Davis Dalton in your closet.”
“That would be overkill.”
“Not for the girl who finished a degree in two years. You’re a go-getter, Sum. You don’t let anything stand in the way of your dreams. Especially not some terribly wrong decision.”
“I have no choice.” Tears prick my eyes. “Can we not talk about this tonight?”
Amara gives me a tight hug. “If you need me to ruin Langston’s life just say the word,” she says. I exhale a watery laugh because even though she says it like a joke, I know she’s serious. “Okay, now give me a few minutes to match your slutty vibe.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re outside a Hartford club. The line is longer than the ones leading to the bookstores during textbook season. “We’re going to freeze out here,” I say, my teeth chattering.
Amara flips her hair, takes my hand, and leads us directly to the front of the line. The bouncer’s eyes land on her chest, then mine. “This is a private event. You need an invitation.”
“I see you staring at my two invitations right now, big guy,” she says, and I swear his cheeks tint pink. “Look, I just broke up with my boyfriend, and I want to have fun tonight. A lot of fun,” Amara emphasizes the lie with a finger trailing along his jaw.
He swallows but remains resolute. “You have to be on the list.”
“Is there a substitute for a name? Maybe a number?” She waves her phone, and he perks up.
Before I know it, he has Amara’s number—a fake one—and we’re inside. A minute later, the bartender plops four shots of tequila in front of us. “From the guy at the end of the bar.”
A middle-aged man, who looks married with children, winks at us.
Amara sends him a flirty wave and hands me a shot.
“Who is that?”
“Who cares?” We clink our glasses and throw back the shot. She hauls me to the dance floor, and for the first time since I submitted my application, I have fun. Unfortunately, most of that fun is found at the bottom of a tequila bottle. The music bumps through the club and although a few guys try to dance toward us, Amara’s sharp glare sends them away.
I’m parched when we move off the dance floor, and when I order water, it’s accompanied by another shot. I’m about to decline but decide to down it anyway. I’m not in the mood for self-preservation tonight.
“I gotta go to the restroom,” Amara says. “Come with me?”
Inside, the bright fluorescents attack my vision as I stumble into one of the stalls. I’m sure I fall asleep on the toilet for a split second because when Amara calls my name, I jolt.
“Didn’t you tell Aiden about your plans tonight?” Amara asks. “No, he had a game,” I say, reaching for the tap.
“You didn’t tell him you were going to the club?”
I focus hard on scrubbing my hands. “My phone died before we got here.
It’s not a big deal.”
She jumps off the counter, heels clicking against the tiles. She shows me the six missed calls and four texts, all from Aiden.
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” When she brings the phone to call him, I stop her. “What are you doing? He’s worried.”
“I haven’t told him about the application.”
Her face drops in disappointment. “Summer…”
“I swear I will, but it just happened today. I didn’t want to get in his head before the game.” The team was gone for an away game, so I haven’t seen him since yesterday.
“He’s worried.”
I shake my head, eyes stinging. Aiden is my comfort through everything, but I don’t want this news to feel like reality. “I can’t talk to him without crying.”
She nods and texts him instead.
Before I know it, we’re too many tequila shots deep, and my feet ache so bad I have to remove my heels.
“Ready to go?” asks Amara, finally peeling off her dance partner. She was adamant that there would be no men tonight, but when an attractive
guy approached her, I urged her to him.
“My livers broken,” I groan, recalling why I don’t go out. I nod to the guy staring at her. “Are you taking him home?”
“I don’t know. He has to earn it.”
Judging by his expression, he’ll do anything to earn it.
Heels in hand and arms linked, we wobble out of the club. Looking past the UHart students, I spot a black truck and a very familiar hockey player leaning against it. My heart stops.
My backstabbing friend wears a sheepish smile. “He insisted.”
A few people recognize him, but he focuses on me. I swallow because although he looks serious, he also looks hot as hell. His black shirt accentuates every mountain of muscle, and his weighted look doesn’t help the rising temperature in my body.
“You’re not wearing shoes,” he says.
I look at the pink polish on my toenails. “My feet hurt.”
He hums and turns to Amara. “Thanks for texting me.” From his neutral tone, I can’t tell if he’s mad. It’s all mixed up in my dizzy head. The dead phone in my purse feels like a heavy brick. “You two need a ride?” he asks Amara and the guy.
When he whispers something to her, she immediately nods.
It’s when Aiden starts walking closer, almost right into me, that I stumble back. “What are you doing?”
“Carrying you.”
I shake my head. “I can walk.”
“I know you can.” He lifts me anyway. I make a squeaky sound that isn’t much of a protest as I anchor my arms around his neck. His tight hold is warm, coaxing me to lay my head on his chest and breathe in his clean scent. The truck flashes when he unlocks it, and it feels criminal to leave his warm cocoon.
“I missed you,” I whisper.
He plants a kiss in my hair. “Missed you too, baby.”
