morning, she held her ground, saying, “I like being Nina—the girl who messes up but owns it. And I met you as Nina. Pininfarina’s tied to so much…stuff. So many bad memories.”
That girl should have a name as rare as she is, but I’d call her Fred to make her happy. In fact, I’d call her whatever she wants if only she’d tell me why the hell she ran off like she did, tears streaming down her face. Fuck.
I tap my phone aggressively, but it’s not Nina. It’s Xander, wondering if he can lend out my football gear.
At least seeing his name makes me laugh. While Nina was doing her girl thing this morning, taking her sweet-ass time in the bathroom, I went to the computers and scrolled through my Facebook page. Xander sent me some photos from rush week. They had one sucker in a bikini, his man-bush pushing out the bottoms, as he stood on campus handing out free condoms.
The sign by his feet read: This could be your child. Use protection.
I nearly busted my gut laughing.
Some douchebags were at the computer beside mine, one crazy tall dude with thick-framed glasses slapping his knee while watching a YouTube video, the group laughing their asses off.
That’s when I glanced up and saw Nina. Nina standing in the doorway, tears in her eyes and a look of devastation on her face. My laughter died. My heart pretty much died, too. She ran from the lounge, and I jumped out of my seat, forcing my leg to keep pace as I tore after her, but she disappeared into the girls’ dorm.
I clutch my phone and go back to beating a path on the pavement.
We were perfect this morning, the two of us naked in bed. I was perfect. Now I’m anything but. I can’t imagine what happened in those thirty minutes to put that look on her face. It doesn’t take much to induce one of her incidents. Something could’ve happened in the bathroom, but I don’t get why she’d run from me. I’ve replayed every fucking thing that happened this morning, our whispered words in bed, the feel of her legs around my waist, wondering if I did something wrong. Said something wrong.
Suddenly, I stop pacing. My jaw locks tight. My hand pulses at my side. If some asshole hurt her, cornered her in the bathroom or something, I swear to fucking God…
My mouth goes dry, dread settling in my gut.
As I drag my hands down my face, my phone buzzes again. This time it’s Leigh. Desperate for a clue as to what’s going on, I hold the phone inches from my face, but her text only messes with my already fucked-up head as she spouts some bullshit about Nina’s family dog. It gives me momentary relief. If some dude put his hands on Nina, I have no doubt Leigh would be as furious as me and all hell would break loose.
But this crap? A sick dog? Something’s not right.
I message Xander that he can do whatever he wants with the football stuff I’ll never use again, then I type my tenth text to Nina to find out what’s really going on, followed by another lengthy bout of pacing when I get no reply. Tired of waiting on answers, I barge into the hostel.
When I poke my head in the kitchen and see Nina standing at the counter buttering some toast, the muscles in my bunched shoulders uncoil. At least she’s not hiding out. Her back is stiff, though, her movements jerky.
I approach quietly and cage her between my arms, gripping the counter so she can’t run. “I was worried about you. You okay?”
Her answering silence has my fingers whitening as I clutch the counter tighter. “Sorry about your dog. I didn’t even know you had one.” My tone betrays my annoyance. I can’t believe she expected me to swallow that lie. Still, I don’t want to push her further away. I lean over her shoulder on the verge of apologizing, when my breath hitches. “Where’s your necklace?” I ask. She hasn’t taken it off since I gave it to her, but the freckled skin on her chest is bare. That dread from earlier bleeds into my chest.
Her knife clatters to the counter, her eyes dart nervously, and she chews on her lip something fierce. “We have a dog,” she says. “Three, actually. Fred, Barney, and Wilma. It was a bone, I think, lodged in Fred’s intestinal tract. There was