games comes from a family who rivals the Kennedys.
Unfortunately, that is no longer the case. The drama in my life has spilled over into Em’s, making her, and our other roommates, collateral damage.
“What did she have to say?” I straighten up and link my arm with hers after she pulls her cross-body bag over her head.
“Oh you know…” Em waves a hand in the air dismissively. “She just wanted to remind me to be conscious of my image and stuff.” She clutches at her metaphorical pearls and mock gasps. “God forbid I actually act like a college student and go to class in yoga pants and a hoodie.”
One would think her father, the senator, would be the parent worried about his daughter’s image, but no, that honor goes firmly to Mrs. Logan.
“I’m sorry.”
“Pfft.” She waves me off, and if the arch of her eyebrow is anything to go by, she thinks I’m being ridiculous. So what if I am? I can’t help that the guilt is enough to keep me up some nights. “I promised to help ‘press the flesh’”—my arm gets tugged up as she makes exaggerated air quotes—“next time I’m home, but remind me to give JT major shit next time you two video-chat. It would have gone a long way for me if I could claim being a national champ again had the Blue Squad not beat us out two weeks ago.”
And that right there is why Em has become my best girlfriend. She makes it easy to let us just be us and lets any other bullshit go.
“Q, you ready?” I call out.
“Yup.” She comes bouncing out of her room and into the doorway next to hers. “What about you, Bailey?”
I’m still nowhere near as close with my third roommate, but I’ve been trying to make an effort when I can. Inviting her to join us for taco night at one of the dining halls on campus was an easy ask.
“Yeah.” Bailey is typing something on her phone as she joins us as well, completing our roommate foursome. Whereas the rest of us—Em included, much to what will be Mrs. Logan’s dismay—are dressed for comfort in leggings, Uggs, and loose sweaters, mine reading If you don’t like tacos, I’m nacho type, Bailey is rocking a pair of painted-on jeans and a skin-tight, low-cut, long-sleeved shirt.
We’re discussing our plans for attending G’s upcoming basketball game as we exit our dorm to flashbulbs and shouts from two paparazzi.
“Ouch,” Em shouts as she stumbles back from one of the overzealous photogs, taking me with her since we are still linked.
Once we right ourselves, I gasp at the blood pouring from a gash on her forehead. Q jumps between us and the photographers who shouldn’t have been able to get into the building, but who am I kidding? Mase gets in all the time no problem; why wouldn’t they?
We shuffle backward as a unit until we are once again behind the safety of our dorm’s door. Em has a hand pressed to her forehead to stanch the blood flow, but when she removes it to let me inspect the damage, it’s worse than I first thought.
“I think you’re gonna need stitches.” I gently prod at the line of broken skin, using the sleeve of my shirt to clean the blood away from her eyes.
“Son of a bitch this hurts,” Em curses.
I lift her hand back to her face and press it over the wound before moving to grab the first aid kit from our bathroom. I doubt I’ll be able to fully stop the blood since head wounds bleed a lot, but I can help clean her up, and one of the instant cold packs can help keep the swelling from getting too bad before the doctors at U Gen can take a look.
“How are we supposed to get out of here with them out there?” Q throws an arm at the closed door, the commotion of those who don’t belong clearly audible through the wood.
“Call campus security,” I suggest.
“Call G too and tell him we’ll be missing dinner,” Em adds, frowning because we’re going to miss out on taco night.
It doesn’t take long for campus security to arrive and clear out the paps. Q waits until the three of us—Bailey having stayed behind after all the drama—are in Pinky before calling G. None of us wanted to risk him showing up while the paps were still around and getting himself in trouble because he Hulked out. Our friend may