Page 2 of Our Ruined Beginnings

Thecartakesasharp turn, veering to the side, and I hiss under my breath as my already tense muscles coil even tighter. The driver mumbles an apology as he rights us, though my reaction isn’t his fault.

Since sliding into the back seat of the black sedan at the airport, my nerves have been frayed. With every rumble of the engine, my hands shake. Each corner we take, my eyes clench shut. My heart races, and my skin grows clammier the longer I’m trapped inside.

Driving used to be one of my favorite things to do. If I’d had a bad day, I’d take my Audi R8 for a spin, rolling the windows down and letting the fog of the day disappear as I flew down the streets.

But now, it’s different.

Instead of freedom, fear lives in its space, weighing my body down until the numbness takes over, locking me in a bubble of darkness.

The radio blares through the speakers, hiding my labored breathing and the squeak of leather as my fingers dig into the seats.

Finally, the car rolls to a stop, screeching as the tires halt on the tarmac, and I force my eyes open. Flicking my gaze out the window, I feel a million different emotions as I look out at Davis University.

As expected, it’s immaculate in its architecture, even outside of the glossy brochures and expensive adverts. Sitting on a large stone foundation, red bricks climb into the sky. High windows welcome the beaming sun, overlooking the sweeping lake that flows along the edges of the grounds. Similar buildings sit grandly amongst the green trees and sprawling floral bushes, the whole campus drawing you in with its beauty.

In another time—another life—I would have found unimaginable joy in being here. As it is, when I step out of the car, that happiness is nowhere to be found. I feel only pain as I stare at my new home for the next four years.

Nothing is what I imagined it would be.

Giving myself a brief reprieve, I close my eyes and rub at the sharp ache spreading over my chest, pulling in a deep breath before the what-ifs can assault my thoughts.

“Miss?” I snap my gaze to where the driver stands. He stares at me expectantly, the trunk popped open. “Where did you want these?”

“Shit, sorry,” I breathe, rushing over to him. Grabbing the duffel, I shove it over one shoulder before struggling to pull the rolling case along the cobbled ground. Thank God the rest of my stuff should have already been delivered to my dorm.

“Fancy place,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” I agree, turning back to the building as he rounds the vehicle. “I guess so.”

I’ve known I’d be attending Davis, my family’s alma mater, for years. Both my father and mother attended, and that’s how they met, though I doubt it was ever a love match between them. Then my best friend, Caleb, and his twin started here last year, so I had not a single doubt I’d follow them.

Even if the choice was mine to make without my parents’ say-so, I’d still have wound up here.

Maine is somewhere I’ve always adored, and getting to live here for four years seemed like a dream. It was exciting having our lives mapped out, knowing what to look forward to, our future plans bright and expectant … but that was before.

Over the last few days, I’ve tried to argue with my father over my attendance here, feeling more like my future was looming threateningly. I tried to plead with him, beg he let me go anywhere else—a place Caleb never attended. But all he did was send Gregor up to my room to help me pack, shoving my belongings into huge suitcases and shipping me off on the next available flight out of Arizona.

For him, it was the easiest way to get rid of his embarrassment of a daughter. For me, it feels like the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do.

Thanks, Daddy dearest. Greatly appreciated.

The driver peels away from the curb before I can thank him for his time. Letting out a sigh, I grip the leather strap of my duffle and hold it tight as I start toward the dorms.

A few people mill around, moving away as I pass, but for the most part, it’s quiet. Peaceful, even, thanks to the late hour. With classes starting Monday, most students have likely moved in already. They’ll now be settling into their dorms and preparing for the first week, which gives me a little breathing space to sneak inside without fanfare or attention.

By the time I’ve made my way up the six flights of stairs to my new room, exhaustion swamps me. There is an elevator somewhere, but after this summer, small, cramped places terrify me. I’ve never really struggled with claustrophobia before, but now, all I can think about is the grinding shriek of metal on metal as it closes in on me, heat blistering every inch of my skin as I try to escape. It’s unbearable.

Noise filters through the long hallway, the telltale signs of a gathering happening in the distance—people reconnecting after the summer or hanging out with new friends. I rush past the doors, find mine in the middle, and thumb through my purse until my fingers curl around the new key ring my father dropped in my palm before I left the house this morning. As I twist the lock, a door opens to my right, and laughter echoes through the hall.

As I flick my gaze to the interruption, that familiar, unwelcome ache begins in my chest. A few girls and guys leave the room, their expressions bright with joy, their eyes alight with humor. God, I miss that. In my stupor, I don’t realize I’ve fully twisted the lock until my door slams open, startling me and the group.

“Sorry,” I mumble, quickly averting my stare and forcing my feet to move over the threshold. I nearly trip straight over the suitcases waiting for me just inside the door. The group says nothing to me directly, but I can feel their eyes following my every step, hushed whispers leaving their mouths.

“Is that—” a deep voice questions, but someone shushes him, and they rush past, light giggles falling from the lips of one of the girls. I move to close the door, but before I can, my eyes lock on one of the group, standing and watching me. She’s stopped just beyond my doorway, a hand propped on her hip. Her pale blonde hair falls over one shoulder in loose waves, and she’s wearing a pair of high-waisted jeans and a floral crop.

I don’t know her—have never seen her before—but something about her smirk and the way her eyes drag over me sends a vicious chill down my spine.

She’s a mean girl, of that I’m sure, and in another life, she’d have had no effect on me whatsoever. But I’m not the girl ready to stand up for herself with the backing of ride-or-die friends anymore. I’m not sure who I am now, butthat girlseems long gone.

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