Page 19 of Becoming Selfish

I wake up the next morning to a text from Marc, apologizing for having disappeared and asking me where I am. It’s a quarter to seven when I text him back to say I’m still at the house where the party was held. He offers to pick me up, so I quietly change out of Eli’s shirt and back into my clothes before I quickly make my way downstairs, ensuring that Marc won’t find me in his brother’s bed. I don’t know how Marc would feel knowing I spent the night with Eli, it’s not like anything happened, but it’s not worth adding that complication into our friendship.

Getting into Marc’s car at seven o’ clock on the dot, I notice that he’s still wearing the same clothes from the night before.

“Soooo,” I begin to tease him. “Where did you end up last night?” I question, even though I already know the answer.

“Yeah, I know I’m an idiot. But I’m too hungover to hear about it right now.”

“Okay, okay. I won’t say too much, but I will remind you that you deserve to be treated better than the way Lauren treated you.” I put my hands up in surrender as he shoots me a sideways glance. “Okay, that’s all. Promise.”

He chuckles. “Anyway, I am sorry for bailing on you last night. I shouldn’t have left you alone without a way to get home.”

I shake my head, casually brushing his comment away. I don’t want him to feel bad, and if I’m being honest, when I think about where I slept, I didn’t mind not being able to make it home last night.

“So, did you have to crash on one of those nasty couches?” he asks laughingly.

I chuckle awkwardly, not sure if I should tell him the truth. It’s going to sound worse than it actually was. Instead, I decide only to answer the question he asked me and not elaborate. “No way. Those things are disgusting.”

Thankfully, he seems too hungover to ask more probing questions about my night. The drive back to the dorms is quick, and we both stay silent for most of the ride.

When I get back to my room, I change into pajamas and climb into my bed, feeling the need for more than the few hours of sleep I got. Before I doze off, my mind drifts back to Eli and wonder if he woke up in time for his practice. He barely got any sleep. I hope he’s doing okay. I shake my head, annoyed at myself for worrying about a boy that I don’t even know. I need to focus on me, and school, and the sleep I need to catch up on before Monday. So, I turn off my brain and close my eyes.

The rest of the weekend goes by quickly. Ali is vague about her hookup with Cam but guarantees me it was a one-time thing and that next weekend it would be someone new. She asks if anything exciting happened to me that night, and I tell her no. She and Marc are awkward towards each other anytime they both end up in my room at the same time. Marc and I go over our class schedules, which line up perfectly with one another’s except for the creative writing elective I added, just for fun. Marc invites me to go back to Eli’s house to hang out, but I decline, knowing its safer to keep my distance. I just don’t think Marc would approve of the way I’ve been thinking about his brother.

Before I know it, it’s Monday afternoon and I’m almost finished with my first day of classes. The only one left is my creative writing elective, which I’ve been looking forward to all day. I walk in to find a large lecture hall that’s still mostly empty. Of the people here, I don’t recognize anyone from my other classes, which doesn’t surprise me. Not many grad students would elect to take an undergrad class just for fun.

I make my way towards the front and sit in the third row. I’m excited to be here, but not enough to sit in the very front and risk being called on to answer a question. After about fifteen minutes, a professor walks into a now mostly filled lecture hall. He looks to be in his mid-thirties and is dressed casually in a T-shirt and jeans. He places his backpack on the desk and bends down to re-tie his sneaker. I can already tell just from his demeanor, that this class will be laid back, which is a welcome change from my rigorous grad school schedule.

“Alright, everybody,” he booms from the front of the class. “Take a seat if you haven’t already. My name is Professor Kenneth Brown, but for the love of god, just call me Kenny.” A laugh erupts from the group of students.

“This is your creative writing elective. I’m assuming if you’re here, it’s because you didn’t get into any of the pottery-making classes or the ones where you get to take pictures all day.” He earns another small chuckle from the crowd. “I don’t believe in grading creative papers on a traditional scale. If you turn in your work on time, with the correct subject matter, and it’s grammatically legible, you’ll pass. If you don’t, you’ll fail. Pretty simple.”

He walks to the first row of students and hands one of them a piece of paper. “That’s it for today, but before you go, make sure you sign in next to your name on the log sheet. It’s in alphabetical order, so it should be easy to find your name. Grab a syllabus on your way out, and I’ll see you all next Monday.” He heads back to his desk and places a stack of syllabi on it. Kenny relaxes back in his chair, kicking his feet up on the desk as he waits for the class to sign in and leave.

I remember this about my undergrad classes. We usually got dismissed quickly on the first day. So far, grad school classes have been diving in right away, so I’m thankful for an early release after a long day.

Sitting up close to the front has its perks as the roll sheet reaches me reasonably quickly. I scan through the names until I find Leo. I grab my pen to sign, but before I can, my eyes wander to the name directly below mine.

Maddison.

Chapter 17

Eli

I make my way to my last class of the day, creative writing. I had to take one elective this semester to graduate next, and this was the only one that fit in with my practice schedule. I’m dreading it.

Walking in with only two minutes left until class starts, I spot an empty chair towards the back of the mostly full lecture hall and take a seat. The professor enters and looks to be about ten years older than me. He explains how the class is going to work, and thankfully it seems pretty easy to pass. I’m not one to be creative, and writing is not my specialty, so the easier it is to get through this class, the better.

Thankfully this week’s class only lasts for about five minutes. I just have to wait for the log sheet to make its way to the back row so I can get out of here. At least now I have about an hour to kill before training. It’s just a weight-lifting session, but still, it’s important. I need to build as much muscle as I can before the season starts, and I’ve been working towards it all summer.

Slumping back in my chair, my eyes wander the room until they land on a girl with dark red hair towards the front of the class. I perk up, recognizing her instantly. She signs the log and then begins to look around the room until her green eyes lock with mine, a sweet smile on her lips. She offers me a small wave, and I do the same in return. She must’ve seen my name on the sheet because I could tell she was looking for me. Suddenly this class just became a lot more interesting.

Logan stands and heads towards the exit after grabbing a syllabus from the professor’s desk. I’m still sitting here waiting for that damn log sheet to make its way back to me, and for the first time in my college career, I’m wishing I would’ve sat towards the front so I would’ve gotten out of here a lot sooner.

She’s almost to the exit. I say a quiet “fuck it” under my breath as I decide to get up and follow her out. Before I leave, I stop by the fourth row of seats where the log sheet currently is and snatch it from a kid that looks so small I’m assuming he’s a first-year. He seems scared as he offers me his pen to initial next to my name.

I swing by the desk where Professor Brown is chuckling and shaking his head at me as I give him a shrug and a sly smile, grabbing a syllabus from his desk. I rush out the door, spotting Logan ten yards away, about to cross the street.

“Logan!” I yell to stop her. God, do I sound desperate or what?

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