Page 47 of Becoming Selfish

Marc slowly pulls his eyes off of her and turns his attention to me. “Logan, I’m heading out. You sure you don’t wanna come?”

“Nope, I’m happy here. I’m looking forward to watching TV and going to bed early,” I inform him from my bed, which I’m sure has an indent from my body at this point. I haven’t gotten up from this spot in hours.

“Alright. Sounds good. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I won’t,” I add playfully, trying to remind Marc of my independence.

“Ali.” He bids her farewell.

“Marcus,” she responds flatly while continuing to work on her mascara in the mirror.

As soon as I know that Marc is far enough down the hall that he is out of earshot from me, I ask, “Why are you guys so weird around each other?”

Ali pulls her focus from the mirror and turns to face me. “What are you talking about?” she questions. “We’re not...we aren’t weird at all.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I hum, unconvinced, but she expertly changes the subject.

“Okay, final look. What do you think?” She stands and twirls in a circle to give the full effect.

“I think that Dylan is a very lucky guy.”

“Damn right, he is,” she states confidently. “Okay, I gotta go meet him downstairs. I’ll see you tonight when I’m back.” Grabbing her purse, she swings it over her arm. “Actually, you know what, let’s just assume I won’t see you until tomorrow,” she gives me a suggestive wink.

I laugh and shout, “Have fun!” as she hurries out the door.

And with that, I’m left alone. I assume most people my age wouldn’t be caught dead in their room alone on a Saturday night, but I welcome the solitude. There was a time in my life that I didn’t get much of it. All I want to do is get take-out for dinner and eat it in my bed while finding something binge-worthy to watch on Netflix. That is what I like to call a wild Saturday night.

Hours pass, and I’m stuffed full from eating an entire half of an extra-large pizza. I was sure to get a bigger size than I needed, knowing that Marc will enjoy it as a hangover cure tomorrow. The halls have been pretty quiet for most of the night, and I haven’t heard a single voice in the dorms for a while now. I’m sure everyone is out having fun, celebrating the completion of the first week of grad school. Personally, I consider being lazy and watching TV just as fun, if not more, which is why I’m currently on my fourth episode of New Girl tonight.

I peel myself off the bed, needing to fill up my water bottle. I throw on my slippers to head down to the common area, bottle in hand. No one is around, but the halls are still fully lit, causing my eyes to painfully adjust to the fluorescent lighting.

I fill up my bottle with the filtered water, and as soon as I turn the corner to head up the stairs, I spot Eli coming through the lobby doors.

My body is frozen in place. Part of me wants to believe he’s here to see his brother, but Marc is at the hockey house right now, and I know in my gut that he’s here to see me.

After a bit of fumbling through the entryway, he pauses, and Eli’s bloodshot eyes meet mine.

“Hi,” he says, seeming surprised I’m downstairs right now. Or here in front of him. I’m not sure.

“Eli.” My statement comes out in almost a whisper as my voice is a bit hoarse from not speaking for so long. “What are you doing here? Marc is at your house.”

“What are you doing here?” he slurs, trying to sound charming with his rhetorical question, but he just comes off like a mess.

“I live here,” I reply sarcastically. “Are you drunk?” I scrunch my face and squint my eyes, trying to get a better look at his face from across the lobby.

“No,” he scoffs as he scratches at his brow with his thumb.

I roll my eyes at his response. He’s definitely drunk. “I’m going to bed,” I tell him as I beeline it for the elevator.

As I step inside, I spot the sadness on Eli’s face, standing in the middle of the lobby. I try to ignore the ache in my chest as I press the button for my floor.

Before the doors can fully close, Eli rushes over and stops them with his hand.

“Can I come up?” His question is full of desperation as he holds the doors open with his hands on either side.

The light hits him just right as he stands in the threshold. God, he looks good. Of course, he does. He always does. And the fact that he looks so good when I’m supposed to be upset with him just annoys me even more.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I tell him, trying to hold my ground.

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