Page 27 of Hate to Love You

I can’t help but stare. I don’t think she’s wearing a drop of makeup and her hair has been thrown up in a messy bun. Her outfit consists of leggings and a boxy sweatshirt. Not even a cute midriff-baring top.

Is that…a stain on her chest?

In the three years I’ve known Kimmie, I’ve never seen her dressed like this.

Since she’s a finance major like me, I usually end up having at least one class with her a semester. That being said, we’re more acquaintances than friends. Kimmie is all about the Delta Zetas, and I have zero interest in Greek life. But still, this departure from the norm has me concerned.

When she plops down at the desk behind me, I turn in my seat. “Kimmie? Are you okay?”

Maybe she’s not feeling well. Although I’m not sure why she would bother showing up if that were the case. All she does is yap at Brody during class. Academics have never been her top priority.

As soon as her baby blues focus on me, her entire body deflates and tears fill her wide eyes.

Jeez.

Whatever is going on is much worse than I originally suspected.

“What’s wrong?” I ask gently. I’m always willing to help a sister out. Pussy power and all that, right? “You seem upset.”

She blinks. Her normally pretty face takes on a pinched quality as she glares at me.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice rises with each syllable. A few students swivel on their chairs to see what’s going on. “How can you ask me something like that?”

“What?” My spine stiffens in confusion. Clearly, I should have kept my big mouth shut.

Lesson learned.

Today has been weird enough without adding a Kimmie Sanders meltdown to the list. But it’s too late to backtrack. I see the impending storm brewing in her eyes. Any moment it’s going to rain down on me.

An innocent bystander.

A concerned acquaintance.

Kimmie leans toward me. Her hands have balled into fists on the desk. If she tries to crawl over it, I’m out of here.

“I really can’t believe you, Natalie!” she snaps, her voice shaking with unspent emotion.

My eyes widen, and my hand flies to my chest in shock. “Me? What did I do?”

I think this chick has lost her mind. Maybe she’s inhaled too many hairspray fumes. I’m no psych major, but this isn’t normal behavior. Not even for Kimmie Sanders.

Her eyes narrow. If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of ash. “I’ll tell you what you did! You stole the man I love right out from beneath my nose!” She wails the last part, and I cringe as more classmates turn in their seats, craning their necks to stare at the unnecessary drama she’s creating. “How could you?”

The accusation has my jaw falling open and hitting the desk.

Stole the man she loves?

What is she talking about?

Before I’m able to wrap my brain around words and even try to sort out this mess, she continues. “I thought we were friends! Well, not anymore! Friends don’t steal each other’s men.”

Oh my God, she’s totally delusional. That’s the only rational explanation for her unhinged behavior. I’ve heard about young adults in college having nervous breakdowns. I’ve just never witnessed it for myself. Poor Kimmie. I hope she finds the necessary help she needs to get better.

“Kimmie,” I say carefully. “We’ve never been friends.” Why would she think that? I can’t think of one time she’s even acknowledged me outside of class.

She folds her arms over her ample chest. “Well, we certainly aren’t anymore!”

I’m afraid of what she’ll do if I try rationalizing with her. It might make the situation worse. And I don’t need that. Not on top of everything else going on this morning. Maybe I should just play along. “Who exactly did I steal from you again?”

---