I look around for my clothes from last night. Everything is littered on the floor where I tossed it as I came in and crashed. My eyes flare. There’s only one thing missing: my coat. I let out a cry of frustration and tears well when I picture it on the floor at the Kappa house getting trampled by stilettos and sneakers, or even worse, picked up and put on by someone. That coat cost me over a hundred dollars on sale. I blow out a breath and plop on my bed, staring up at the yellow-stained ceiling and the chipped paint on the walls. Not only did I lose my coat, I’m living in dormitory hell while Bennett is basking in an apartment with a fresh coat of paint—that I helped with—and a nice, toasty heating system. There’s probably a groupie curled up next to him right now.
I’m still muttering to myself when I put my hair up in a high ponytail a few minutes later. I pull on a bright pink knitted cap with a hole at the top that lets my hair hang out. After my tortoiseshell glasses are on, I throw on leggings and a Dunder Mifflin sweatshirt. On my way out the door, I walk past my desk, see the waitlist letter from Vanderbilt Law, and grimace.
I replay an old childhood fantasy where I’m driving down to Davenport, Alabama, in my super expensive white Mercedes, dressed in a slick business lady pantsuit with a huge I told you so smile on my face. I pull up the mossy tree-lined drive, get out of my beautiful car, and approach the big plantation-style house.
I knock, and someone comes to the door.
Maybe it’s one of my half-siblings. Maybe it’s his wife. Maybe it’s him, my father.
Regardless, the person is blown away by my stylish self and invites me in.
But I don’t take one step into that big shiny house with the Southern Living front porch.
No sir.
I just smile and tell them how great my life is. I show them my fancy law degree and tell them how wonderful I turned out despite the gutter I dragged myself out of.
My hands clench.
“You are enough just the way you are,” I mutter, repeating my mama’s words, but today it rings untrue and I exhale.
Torturing myself, I pick up the letter to put it away, but before I tuck it between my textbooks on the bookshelf, I unfold the paper and skim over it.
After careful consideration, the selection committee is unable to offer you admission at this time, but we would like to offer you a spot on our waitlist. We realize this is a disappointment, but there were many students with promise who we were unable to admit. It is important you know we do not rank students on our waitlist, and we strongly encourage you to apply to other institutions…
Warmest Regards, William R. Fitzgerald, Dean of Admissions
“Blah, blah, blah,” I say bitterly to no one, and instead of putting the letter away, I wad it up in a tight ball and throw it in the trash. I have a copy of it in an email anyway. Ugh.
I take another look in the mirror and blanch at my paleness. I need more sleep. With a groan, I pilfer through my makeup bag and swipe on my favorite lipstick, Cabernet Crisis. Seems fitting.
I did have crazy sex with a hockey player last night…
“That was a complete lapse in judgment, and I’m going to pretend it never happened,” I say to my reflection. I blot my lips. “And you really need to stop talking to yourself. People are going to think you’re crazy.”
There’s a small bruise on the right side of my neck, and my heart pounds, going back to last night and how…spectacular it was.
“Forget him. Trouble all day long, Sugar. His nickname is the Heartbreaker—don’t forget that.” I dab concealer on the hickey and brush powder on top.
Slinging my crossbody on, I open the dorm room door, and a Hawthorne duffle bag that was hanging on the outside of the doorknob falls to the floor.
My first thought is Julia somehow left some clothes out and forgot to bring them in, but then I remember it wasn’t here last night and she isn’t home yet.
Squatting down, I unzip the bag and gasp when I see my black North Face. I hold it up like a dance partner and do a twirl. “Coat, who brought you home?”