Page 6 of Our Ruined Beginnings

The rest of the weekend flew by without incident, but now the semester is officially started, drama seems to follow me everywhere.

Everyone looks at me, and I meaneveryone.

At first, I think it’s paranoia. For the past nearly three months, I’ve barely seen another person that doesn’t live or work in my childhood home, so of course a big setting like DU is overwhelming. I’ve even tried to convince myself I’m overthinking it—that nobody is actually looking at me, just looking over me as they get used to their new environment or the new students they haven’t seen before.

I give myself a strong talking to, remind myself nobody cares who I am, but before I can tell myself to stop being so self-obsessed and indulgent, someone knocks into my shoulder. It knocks me from my spot, and the books in my arms tumble to the floor in a heap, spreading messily over the linoleum.

While it could have been an accident, my gaze snaps to the gaggle of laughter that comes from the opposite end of the hallway, and the gestures toward me tell me it wasn’t.

The bell rings, and I hurriedly gather my scattered books, ignoring the hushed whispers and glances that follow as I make my way toward my next class. It’s only when the bell rings for a second time that I flick my gaze up, my eyes widening as I realize I am most definitely lost.

For fuck’s sake.

I heave out a breath, lean against the nearest wall, and tug my phone from my pocket to load up the campus map I dutifully downloaded this morning. Maybe instead of hiding away like a terrified little girl this weekend, I should have taken better care to get to know my surroundings.

With a groan, I start toward the other side of campus, ignoring the bluster of heat that washes over me as I pass the commons and find my classics lecture with Professor Johnson.

I gently push the bright green door, hoping to sneak into the back of the lecture hall, but the heavy wood creaks obnoxiously as I open it, and by the time I step through, the whole class is looking at me.

“How nice of you to join us, Miss…” the lecturer drawls, raising a brow as he waits for me to finish the sentence.

“Delaney, sir.”

“Harper Delaney?” he asks, glancing down at what I’m assuming is a class roster on his desk.

I nod, smiling wryly as heat floods my cheeks. The room seems to come alive with the mention of my name, and I brace myself against the whispers.

“She has to wait until others aren’t around, sir,” someone calls, and I close my eyes, steeling myself for what I instinctively know is a dig coming before I can even see who it’s coming from. “There’s no end to the damage she can do otherwise.”

“Thank you for your enlightening input as always, Matthews. You can find a seat, Delaney,” the professor says, his face a blank mask. “And in future, try not to be late.”

“Thank you, sir.”

With an awkward wave, I pick the first empty seat I see, scurrying over and practically throwing myself into it. The professor waits for me to settle myself down, and I can feel the fifteen or so sets of eyes drilling into the back of my head.

My hands are clammy, and it takes me far longer than it should to set myself up for the lecture. Pens roll onto the floor, and my laptop lands on the small table with a thud. My cheeks grow hotter, and sweat begins to bead at my hairline, no doubt frizzing the baby hairs there.

I try to focus on the subject matter, taking notes and giving all my attention to the lecturer, but after only fifteen minutes or so, my body jolts as my chair is rocked forward. I can’t help the squeak of surprise that erupts from me as my fingers grip onto the sides of my desk. The lecturer’s questioning gaze over his shoulder is accompanied by muffled sniggers from behind me.

“Sorry,” I mouth, and he continues, but he no sooner has when my chair moves again. I twist my neck, bringing my gaze over my shoulder until it lands on a guy with the most bored expression on his face, his brow cocked in question as I take in the way his feet are propped against the back of my seat. I’m not at all surprised to see he’s wearing one of the school’s soccer shirts.

“Do you mind?” I hiss back at him, but a cough from the front draws my attention.

“Are you planning to disrupt us for the whole hour, Miss Delaney?” Professor Johnson asks.

I shake my head, fighting back the mortification rolling through me in waves. The last thing I want to do is remain here, but I swallow my pride and tuck myself into the chair. My fingers cramp and my muscles tense as I anticipate the next time my chair will move. It’s such a childish tactic, and anticlimactic when nothing happens, but the effect is powerful.

I can’t relax for even a second, and I barely register more than five words spoken by the man at the front, too busy wondering if I’m about to be tipped onto my face or knocked sprawling from my chair.

It’s exhausting in a way I would never have guessed, and I’m coiled like a spring by the end of the hour. As soon as the bell rings, I jump up and pack my things while standing.

I rush out of the room without looking back and head straight for my locker, wanting to unload some of these books before my next class seeing as I didn’t have time this morning. I manage to find it pretty quickly while ignoring the stares, so I’m calling that a win, until every hair on my body stands to attention.

It’s like my body starts to buzz; like the air is full of the static that comes before a huge storm. Like my gut is warning me about something. I approach my locker with trepidation, but I’m not really sure why. I’m hardly psychic, so I don’t know what I’m so worried about, but my subconscious is screaming at me … warning me. About what?

Bracing myself as I slowly open the locker, I half expect something to jump out at me or splash in my face, but nothing happens. In fact, as I pull the door open and let the light flood in, it looks harmless, and nearly empty.Nearly.

As I relax at the immediate threat of attack being gone, my mind registers whatisin there: a toy car, small enough to sit on the palm of my hand, I’m sure, if I dared to pick it up. But I don’t.

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