Page 4 of Limbo

Right, because not once in the past five months of sharing a dorm suite have I given off the impression of being a morning person. She, however, can roll out of bed at the crack of dawn and perform a musical number, surrounded by birds and singing mice.

“Maybe once a week,” I tell her. “If you’re lucky. And I’ll need a cup of coffee before we leave.”

She laughs, but it cuts off, her hazel eyes bulging at something behind me. “No way,” she whispers.

I don’t have time to ask before someone slides into the chair between us, his green eyes meeting mine.

“The craziest thing happened to me this morning, let me tell you.”

No fucking waymore accurately sums up Towel Boy—now fully clothed—sipping his coffee, all nonchalant, next to me. He knows how to make an entrance; I’ll give him that. I look away from him as I fight off a smile. This guy does not need any encouragement.

“So, as I was saying…” Jordan shifts his attention to Felicia. “My temper got the best of me over the weekend, and I broke something that wasn’t mine. Even though I replaced the drum, my buddy chose to punish me. Consequently, I ended up running around campus, wearing nothing but a towel, trying to find someone to kiss me in under five minutes.”

His eyes dart to the side and meet mine, checking for a reaction. One I have no intention of giving him.

Luckily, Felicia’s bubbly personality requires her to respond, and she giggles. “See, Callie? I told you there was a good reason.”

I disagree a temper tantrum counts as agoodreason, but it’s a reason nonetheless.

His gaze slides back to Felicia. “Officially, I’m Jordan Waters. And you are?”

“Felicia. Felicia Gibson.” She glances over to me. “This is Callie Henders.”

The second my name leaves her mouth, he’s back to me, drawing my hat and scarf from his pocket. “I believe these belong to you.”

“Thank you,” I say. My hand brushes his when I take them. The warm skin is quite the contrast from the last time. I shove them in my coat, his eyes waiting when I look back.

“Thank you for not letting me die of hypothermia,” he replies with that cocky grin.

I give him a small smile, not swooning like Felicia on the other side of the table. Girls probably don’t resist him often, but I have a rule about cocky assholes. Stay away. While he hasn’t proven an asshole yet, it usually follows close behind the first part.

Once he realizes he won’t get anywhere with me, he pushes his chair back to leave. The feet scrape over the floor, and everyone around us stops talking, their faces twisting at the awful screech of wood dragging on linoleum. Even with the terrible sound, I can’t help but smile. After the entrance, I should have known his exit would be equally dramatic.

“Ladies.” He stops next to me, waiting for me to glance up at him before he continues, “I want you to know, I plan on being fully clothed for all future encounters.”

As he walks off behind me, someone catcalls him. I’m about to look back when a dangerous gleam enters Felicia’s eyes across the table.

“What?” I ask, her phone emerging from under the table.

“He said Waters, right?”

Let her fact-finding mission begin.

In the hopes of drowning out the persistent redhead on the other side of the curtain, I place my head directly under the showerhead. Nope, it doesn’t work.

On my way to the shower, Felicia asked if I wanted to go to a party later. And not just any party—thebestparty of the year. She then followed me into the bathrooms and launched into a full account of the festivities. Never mind the details she’s listing sound exactly the same as the ones from the best party of the year we went to two weeks ago. Actually, it sounds just like every party at Easton. Which makes sense, considering the limited number of ways for drunk college students to socialize.

Red cups, kegs, a beer pong table, loud music, a few variants of strange but recognizable smells, plastic vodka bottles, an overabundance of polo shirts, and during the winter, whatever brand of black coat is on trend—that describes every one. Even a theme creates minimal distinction. Luau, toga, black light, or anything but clothes, it doesn’t matter. Drunk girls cry in the bathroom or a corner. People do keg stands and play flip cup. A girl hooks up with a guy, and everyone knows about it, except for the girl’s guy and the guy’s girl.

Really, I should be grateful she’s talking about anything other than Jordan Waters. Ever since he walked out of the coffee shop yesterday, every one of her conversation topics has centered on him. All the information she learned via social media, she desperately wants to share, but each time she asks what I want to know, I answer with one word: nothing. It’s driving her nuts.

“Callie, are you even listening to me?” she asks.

I shut off the water and snag my towel off the hook. “Were you estimating the expected ratio of frat boy to female undergrad?”

An over-the-top sigh answers me.

I squeeze the excess water from my hair and secure my towel before ripping back the curtain. “I’m sorry. You were saying?”

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