The Singles (59 page)

I was wrong.

Now

––––––––

L
ast night, I dreamt of my sister. Lily. It was the second time she’s crept into my dreams since I lost her nearly two years ago.

She looked the same as she did the last time she talked to me, with her straight, golden-brown hair pulled into a taut ponytail at the nape of her neck, her red and white track windbreaker partially unzipped and exposing her plain white t-shirt, and the corners of her chocolate brown eyes crinkled because she was wearing a big, cheesy smile. Lily was always,
always
smiling. That single expression had been what everyone else loved about her the most, and yet it had frustrated the hell out of me while she was still here.

My sister was an eternal optimist.

I’d been too much of a bitch to appreciate that. Even after I realized just how much I lost the day she was ripped away from me, I was too selfish not to feel sorry for myself.

That was me.
Evie
. Always, always selfish.

But that messy and screwed-up part of me had never seemed to bother my older sister, and in my dream, she’d flung my tie-dyed bedspreads off of my body and onto the carpet before jumping on the bed next to me.

“Get up, and get it over with, Evie,” she sang, her typically quiet voice booming, strong.  Crossing her slim arms over her chest, she stared me down, her ponytail swishing as she twisted her face into a dramatic scowl.

“Look, I don’t care if you’re still mad at me.
Get up.
You’re gonna thank me when your lazy ass graduates. So, come on before you completely wreck your day.”

Before everything had changed, she said the same thing to me just about every morning—well, minus the part about me being mad at her, which was something that was sprinkled in whenever we had an argument.

So just like I did back then, I got out of bed. The only difference was that for once it wasn’t begrudgingly, and when I opened my eyes, my sister was gone. With reality now facing me, sleep was an option that could go screw itself.

Wiping cold beads of perspiration from my forehead with a towel I found balled up on the floor beside my bed, I slid my feet into a pair of worn flip-flops. I’d crept silently downstairs, taking care not to bump into any of the boxes and suitcases in the dark foyer waiting to be toted off to my new college in the morning—the second school in less than twelve months.

In the kitchen, I downed a glass of OJ, cringing at the citrusy burn in the back of my throat as I slid down on the floor beside the fridge. For the longest time I sat there, the hardware from one of the cabinets digging into my back, and the blinking light on the stove directly across from me causing the edges of my vision to blur. I sat there with my regrets and memories of my sister tumbling through my brain.

“Don’t worry,” I finally promised aloud, the sound of my voice in the empty kitchen slowly piercing my chest. “I won’t screw up this year. I won’t. I will not wreck things
this
time.”

Now, several hours and a lonely drive from Bristol to Richmond later, that mantra still pings sharply through my mind, a slight distraction to the task at hand—getting to my academic advisor’s office for our four o’clock meeting.

Telling myself that I wouldn’t screw up seemed to help during summer break. I hadn’t purposely gone out of my way to see how far I could push myself away from everyone I knew, everyone who was left. Of course, the fact I had exiled myself to my parents’ house all summer couldn’t exactly be described as progress.

Still ... this year
is
going to be different.

If I don’t tell myself that every single day, I’m just giving myself permission to mess it all up again, and with my track record, I need all the motivation I can get.

Shuffling across the grass and into the courtyard teeming with students back from summer break, I squint down at the campus map. I’d picked it up this morning during the mandatory student orientation I attended, along with the rest of the residents of Campbell dorm’s seventh floor. Once I attempt to commit the shortcut to the music department to my memory for the third time since leaving my room, I fold the map into an uneven square and shove it into the side pocket of my crossbody purse.

This campus is at least four times bigger than the one I attended last year and, to be honest, this morning was the first time I ever laid eyes on the place. It was also the first time I’ve
ever
stepped foot into Richmond. I’ll never tell anyone here that.

Especially not my new roommate Corinne, who spent most of the afternoon drilling me with question after question.

I’d applied to the school last minute without visiting, letting the photos on the website and my aunt’s enthusiastic claim that this was the best college in the history of all colleges act as my guide. The fact that I was accepted despite my awful grades from last year—well, that was a definite plus.

The biggest draw, however, is being four hours away from my former college, and nearly five hours away from Bristol, where most everyone I know lives.

Because
nobody
here knows me.

Smiling to myself and fussing with my hat and hair, I jog up the back steps to cut across the dining hall; only to jerk to a stop a moment later when I ricochet off a tall, incredibly toned, masculine body attempting to leave the building.

I know the collision is my fault. My thoughts and actions have been all over the place since last night, but that doesn’t stop me from hurling out the first thing that comes to mind as I try to regain my footing. “Holy shit, watch where the—”

The Body’s quick apology, murmured in a slight Southern accent, brings my angry words to a jolting halt. “You all right? Sorry ‘bout that.”

Oh.

Oh
.

Holy shit is right.

I haven’t seen his face, but there’s one thing for certain about this person who nearly knocked me on my ass: his voice is drop dead sexy—baritone and more than a little intoxicating.

A few years ago, I picked up my mom’s copy of
A Literate Passion
, her book club’s flavor of the month. I’d flipped through it, pausing briefly on the line about voices reverberating against bodies like a caress. I knew what it meant, but hearing
that
voice speaking to me now, asking me once again if I’m all right—I understand Anaïs Nin’s words so much more.

That voice is just enough to make me want more of him.

When I whip around to face him, his mouth is the first part of his body my gaze settles on—full lips framed by the faintest shadow of dark stubble along a strong, square jawline—followed by a straight nose, high cheekbones, and the faded remains of a rounded scar right beneath his right eye. The scar automatically yanks my attention to his eyes.

Set in a face that’s still a little tan from summer, those eyes are haunted, beautiful. They’re not quite green or blue but an unsettling place in between the two.

Come to think of it, everything about this boy, this
man
, is just a touch unsettling and without a doubt beautiful.

And also, oddly familiar.

His eyebrows, the same off-black as his messy, medium-length hair, arching together in genuine concern. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, I’m fine, I swear.” But I take a few steps back until my shoulder blades bump a wall covered in flyers and brochures. A few drift to the floor, but I don’t break eye contact with the man standing right in front of me. I know I’ve seen this guy before. The question is ... where?

When?

Oh,
great
. He’s not from Bristol, is he?

“You dropped your hat when you tripped over your own feet.” He gestures down on the floor between us but doesn’t budge move to pick it up.

I belatedly realize my wavy brown hair is
everywhere
, a frizzy mess obscuring parts of my face, and my hands fly up to smooth down the untamed locks. He’s watching me carefully, smiling like he knows a secret, which means I probably look like a certified dumbass. 

“I’m pretty sure your feet tripped me,” I argue, but he moves his head from side to side.

“
Right
. It’s not like you were staring down at the floor—” He cocks his head to the side, squinting at my student ID dangling from an orange and blue lanyard I’m wearing around my neck. “—Evelyn.” Very few people other than my dad and a few of my former teachers have ever called me that, but hearing him do so sends a shiver coursing through me, despite the stifling late summer heat inside the dining hall.

Before I can move, he kneels, keeping his eyes fastened on mine. I should look away, at anything and everything else besides him, but I can’t. Why should I when he won’t stop staring?

“So I guess I just won the graceful freshman award, huh?” I question nervously.

“I’d blame it on your shoes, but it looks like they’re innocent.” His words cause my toes to curl in my flat sandals. Standing, he places my floppy fedora in my outstretched fingers, his thumbs skimming along my palms as he pulls away. When I dust the brown felt material off, my hands are trembling.

“I like you better without it,” he admits the moment I start to pull the fedora over my hair. “Like seeing your eyes.”

For a moment, I freeze.

I’ve always been pretty happy with my features—I’m tall with long legs, a small C-cup that I’m incredibly proud of, and clear olive skin—but my eyes have always been my favorite thing about myself. They were the only similarity I shared with my sister. My mom always claimed that it was like Lily and I were from completely different families because we were so different, but when she looked into our eyes, it was impossible to deny we were blood.

I tremble slightly because I can’t think of a moment since Lily’s death that my mother has looked at me, really looked into my eyes, for longer than a few seconds.

“And I like to hide my shitty hair days,” I finally tell him, dragging the hat over my head, and lowering my gaze so I won’t have to directly face his penetrating stare any longer. “And, you know, my clumsy shame face.”

He steps away from me, drawing his bottom lip between his straight white teeth like he’s fighting the urge to smile. Or laugh in my face. “If it makes you feel any better, I can name about ten people right off the top of my head that I’ve seen here over the last few years who’ve got you beat.”

The last few years.
So what does that make him? A junior? Senior? Better yet, why do I care and where the
hell
have we met before? I cross my arms over my chest, and tilt my head to the side, sizing him up.

“It doesn’t help,” I let him know. “Not even a little.”

At last, he smiles—a crooked, sexy turn of his lips that probably draws this campus’ female population to him in droves—before taking another step away from me. “Try not to attack anyone else, Evelyn.”

“I’ll do my best.” I only make it a few feet before I turn back around, determined to ask him where we’ve met before. If I don’t, it’ll drive me up the wall trying to figure it out. “Hey, do you—.”

But I’m too late. He’s already ducking through the double doors and heading outside. All I see is the back of the plain gray t-shirt expertly hugging his ripped shoulders and biceps.

“Who
are
you?” I murmur.

At the bottom of the brick steps, a beautiful brunette girl flags him down, and he stops to talk to her in the courtyard. They go back and forth a few times before she says something to make him laugh and shake his head. He does that thing with his mouth—that smile that’s bound to screw with her breathing—and then he looks down at his watch. I watch as he sprints across the courtyard. Like me, the other girl doesn’t move until he’s out of sight.

Obviously I’m not the only one affected by him.

I inhale harshly, wait a few seconds, then exhale, irritated with myself. The first hot guy I run into, literally, and I fall all over the place thinking I somehow know him. I’m probably getting him confused with some actor I saw during one of my Netflix binges this summer—he
did
have that look. The only thing I know for sure is I can’t afford falling for anything this year.

“I can’t screw up. I won’t,” I mutter in a fierce voice. “I will not wreck things this time.”

I turn away from the doors before the brunette girl comes inside the D-hall, and finish cutting through the cafeteria and out the front of the building. Pulling my map out of my purse once again, I hurry to the music building, which ends up being a five-minute walk away. I’m sweaty and out-of-breath when I reach the third floor, but I have two minutes to spare. There’s an
Advising
-
Please Sign In & Have a Seat
sign hanging on Professor Cameron’s door, so I write my name on the clipboard and sit in the seat provided.

Whatever’s going on inside that office doesn’t sound good. I can hear raised voices, but I try to tune it out. After ten minutes of waiting, though, I fish my phone out of my purse and check my messages.

There’s one from my dad that, in less than a hundred characters, tells me that A) I shouldn’t avoid his calls because B) I’m at school on his dime this year, which really serves to remind me that C) he’s still livid that I blew the whistle on his affair five months ago, he doesn’t think I deserve shit, and I need to call and let him know that I made it to school in one piece.

I’m fine
, I message to him.

“And you can wait until tonight for a phone call,” I say as I open my other text. A picture from my closest friend. With her nose wrinkled and her lips twisted down in a dramatic pout, I almost miss that Kendra’s holding up a flash card. The message she’s written on it is short, simple, but it makes my chest clench.

Miss you. Be good.

We hadn’t become close until our senior year of high school. Before then, she was my sister’s best friend, and we’d tolerated each other for Lily’s sake. But here’s the thing: Loss does one of two things to those it leaves behind—it meshes us together, forcing us to let go of every feel we know so we can try to form some semblance of existence again, or it tears open the wounds, widening the divide so much that we’ll do whatever it takes to try and pretend the pain’s not real.