my room, into the shared living area of the “officers’ suite.” It’s empty except for our leather couch and chair, the fluffy rug, the round coffee table. Because everyone else is already downstairs at chapter.
Oops.
I amble down the rubber-lined, hardwood stairs, moving from the top story of our four-columned antebellum house to the large parlor on the first story. I know it’s weird, but I’ve found that when I’m late, moving fast makes me feel more stressed out. So I pretend I’m right on time and focus on the motion of my feet.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear Milasy’s drawl from around the corner and confirm that the meeting has already started. I move through the foyer, through the small, square doorway, built at a time when no one gave a damn about an open floor plan, and get a straight-line view of Milasy and Steph, sitting on one of the antique sofas in the parlor. Their backs are pencil-straight, their ankles crossed. I stand behind the crowd of perfume-sprayed, lotion-slathered Tri Gams and try to paste an interested—or at least neutral—expression on my face. Milasy talks about our grades. Steph remind us (as she does every week) that ladies drink alcohol from plastic Solo cups instead of beer bottles or cans. Cassie tells us to prepare to vote on our Thanksgiving and Christmas charity events next week, and then she stands on her tiptoes and looks around the room for me.
Her brown eyes meet mine, and we share a conspiratory smile. Cassie is Type-B, and more like me than Steph and Milasy. She’s the officer most likely to be late at any given time.
I square my shoulders and project my voice, and tell the room full of Tri Gams that they only have another week to pay first semester dues. After that, I sink back into myself and allow my mind to wander. Which it does, right back to my current read: a novella called The Private Club, by one of my favorite romance authors, J.S. Cooper. Mmmmm.
I remain in la-la land until my good friend Lora elbows me. I jump and apparently gasp, too, because a few girls in front of us turn around to see what’s up. When everyone has settled down again and I’ve had a few seconds to get over my embarrassing outburst, Lora leans over and whispers, “What’s in your bag, lady? Cake?” She wiggles her brows and grins.
She knows what’s in the bag, but her comment reminds me: We’ve got a cakewalk right after this in the student center. Shit!
How am I supposed to hand out my bud at an organized event—one where I’ll need to oversee the three girls who’ll be handling the cash boxes?
That’s really annoying. I can’t believe I forgot. I rub my head. I didn’t even bring a freakin’ cake.
After the meeting winds down—all the low-fat snacks have been eaten, all the lemonade lite sipped—I chat with Milasy, Steph, and Cassie. Nothing interesting. Just the usual business stuff that sometimes makes me wonder why I even joined a sorority. I’m reminded almost instantly, when I walk with some of my pot posse across campus, toward the William Harrison Memorial Student Center.
On the long trek there, as we migrate across brick walkways and under giant, moss-strewn oaks, I manage to drop three Mason jars into three oversized purses, and receive three cash payments. In the chaos of everybody trying to fit through the glass doors on the front of the student center, a two-story brick eyesore from the seventies, I dole out two more jars and get two more wads of cash.
I’m trying to strategize how to get the rest of my illicit goods where they need to go when I step into the carpeted common room and stop in my tracks.
There are guys here. Like... a lot of guys.
I glance at Lora, and she arches her brows. “You don’t remember we’re doing this with Sig Alpha?”
I chew my lower lip. “No, I did.”
She elbows me. “Pants on fire. I can tell you’re surprised. Don’t worry, though. Harrison said Brennan was skipping.”
I let a slow breath out and nod.
Harrison is Lora’s boyfriend, and until the end of June, Brennan was mine. Both guys are Sig Alphas, but Harrison is the president. Meaning he’ll definitely be here.
I’m glad Brennan won’t. Our breakup... sucked. So yeah.
I give Lora a paste-on smile. “That’s good.”
“The best,” she says, bumping my shoulder.
Despite this first-floor common area being the most logical place