Little Lies(60)

“Okay, well, I’m in room 420 if you need anything. Good luck.” And with that, she spins on her heel and busts it down the hall.

I awkwardly prop my box on my hip so I can unlock my room. The door swings open with a creak. I feel around for the light switch and flick it on. Then I drop my box on the desk with a groan. Lacey and Lovey do the same, and we stand there for a few long, quiet seconds, taking in my new bedroom.

“It’s . . .” Lovey doesn’t seem to be able to find words to finish that statement.

“It looks like a glorified prison cell,” Lacey says.

She’s not wrong. The walls are cinderblock, painted off-white. There’s a basic wardrobe, a dresser, and a single bed, plus a desk and a computer chair that looks far from ergonomic.

“It’s cozy.” My closet in Lake Geneva is probably the same size as this entire room.

“That’s one way to describe it,” Lacey mutters.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Lovey asks.

The answer is no. I’m not sure at all. As I stand here, staring at this tiny, ugly room, I come to the conclusion that I’m ridiculously pampered. Growing up with a dad who makes ridiculous amounts of money means we’ve lived in nice houses and had nicer-than-average things.

I still had a part-time job as soon as I turned fifteen, because my parents wanted me to have the responsibility and to learn how to save money. They also wanted me to be able to handle social situations without having an anxiety attack. Granted, I’ve always worked in libraries, where quiet is key, and most of the time I’m either shelving or checking out books, but it was still a job and still some forced, controlled social interaction.

“Once I put some of my stuff on the walls, it’ll feel homier.” It also has a slightly funky smell I can’t quite put my finger on.

We spend the next hour unpacking. Even with my comforter and my personal effects, the room is still small and shitty, but it’s also away from Kodiak and my brothers, so that’s a win.

Lacey and Lovey have some project they need to finish, and I have a freaking economics assignment I need to work on before class tonight, so they take off, promising to check in on me later, and I pop in my earbuds and try to tackle the questions. I get through most of them before I have to leave for class, but I don’t even have time to stop and grab dinner so I settle for a handful of Lucky Charms before I’m out the door.

By the time class is over, my head feels like it’s going to explode, and also, I’m starving. In addition, I have seven hundred messages from River that I’m not interested in answering. I return to my dorm, expecting that I might meet my roommate, but our common room is still an empty sty.

I toss my bag on the floor, grab my box of Lucky Charms since the cafeteria is closed, and flop down on my bed with my psych text. I must pass out at some point while reading, because I wake up with a jolt.

It’s dark in my room, and the clock reads after midnight. It’s not uncommon for me to sleep for twelve hours after I’ve dealt with some huge emotional thing, so my passing out almost as soon as I got home from class isn’t much of a surprise. The whole conversation with my mom about Kodiak and moving out of the house definitely qualifies as emotional.

A high-pitched, feminine voice filters through my door, followed by the low tones of a male voice, giggling and something falling on the floor. Soon the laughing becomes sighs and groans. Awesome. My new roommate is having sex in the filthy living room.

I pop my earbuds back in and crank the volume to drown them out. Every time a song ends, I get a snippet of their sexy times. It goes on for a good half hour before it finally ends. My dorm experience is starting off with a bang.


____________________

In the morning, my anxiety is at a nice, ridiculously high level. At five thirty, the need to pee overrides my desire to never come out of this room in hopes of avoiding a dreaded run-in with my roommate and her boyfriend/fuck buddy. I have to bring my room key with me to our bathroom because my door automatically locks behind me. This isn’t super convenient, but I can see why it’s necessary.

In addition to the old-food smell, the common room now boasts the horrible odor of used latex and vagina.

I take care of business as quickly as I can and nearly slam into a bare chest on my way out of the bathroom.

“Lavender?”

I lift my gaze from the man nipples to a familiar face. As far as signs go, this isn’t a great one. “Oh, hey, Clarke.”

He looks super confused. “I didn’t know you lived in the dorms.” He runs his hand through his hair, eyes moving over me in a way that makes my skin crawl.

I’m wearing one of those bra tank things and a pair of sleep shorts. My nipples are most definitely saluting him. I cross my arms over my chest to hide them. “I guess now you do,” is my highly intellectual response.

His eyes flare, as though he’s connecting the dots. “Sorry about the noise last night.”

“Nothing a nice hard-rock playlist won’t drown out.” Now would’ve been an awesome time for my words not to work. “Anyway, bathroom’s all yours.” I slip past him, desperate to disappear before my roommate wakes up and this gets even more awkward. Clarke is a hockey player, and I’m now concerned my roommate may be one of the bunnies I’ve had the misfortune of meeting before.

By the time I’m dressed and ready to leave, it’s quarter to seven.