Page 9 of The Off-Limits Play

I stare after her, more confused than ever as I drop my fork back onto the plate and rest my elbows on the table.

Well, this is just awesome. I begged my parents to let me move into a dorm because I was going to lose my mind if I didn’t get out of the house, and now I’m living with a girl I can’t figure out. I don’t know where I stand with her at all. And she obviously doesn’t want to let me in or be my friend.

Dammit. It makes me miss my brothers and sister, which I so don’t want to do, because I’m an independent woman who can make the most of college life!

With an irritated huff, I stand up and take my tray of half-eaten food with me, quickly dumping it. I’m not that hungry anyway. Shuffling out of the dining hall, I step aside to let a group of girls pass. They’re talking over one another, laughing and animated, and I think back to high school, when I would have been in the middle of a pack like that.

I had Hayley and Bex and Letitia. And then I had Nick—the hottest guy in school. His best friend was dating Bex, and his other buddies would always hang out with us. We ran track together, drank beers together, sang stupid songs during class to piss off the teachers. We were fun and happy—the life of any party.

Until the night that changed everything.

Rubbing my aching leg, I ease out of the dining hall and head up to the second floor to collect my stuff. My room is in between the elevator and stairwell, which is great when my leg is hurting this way but kind of sucky at night, because there’s constant noise as people come and go, walking right past my room all the time.

It’s going to take me more than just a couple weeks to adjust.

Before this school year, I’d spent the better part of twelve months trapped inside a quiet house as I recovered from my injuries and learned to walk again.

I eye up the cane resting at the end of my bed and shake my head.

No. I don’t care what my parents say. I’m sick of using it, and I’m not going to draw attention to myself.

Hitching my bag onto my shoulder, I close the door behind me and head to my first class of the day. It doesn’t start for another forty-five minutes, so I have plenty of time to get to the Humanities building for my Anthropology 101 class.

Thank God my classes are interesting. I didn’t want to contradict Jolie when she said school was boring, because out of everything in my life right now, the classes are the most enjoyable. I’m studying psychology, along with a bunch of other stuff, and I’m loving it all. I have no idea what I want to major in. I was thinking psych initially, but anthropology is turning out to be fun as well.

I snicker at myself as I walk out into the sunshine. The air is a little cooler today, but I love these fall leaves. I watch them float to the ground and think about how much I’ve changed. Although I was always studious at school and did well enough to get accepted to Stanford, I was still a party girl. I complained about studying but did it because I knew I had to.

Now I can’t remember the last time I went to a party, and I’m happily heading to class because that’s the highlight of my day.

Is that sad?

I grip my bag strap a little tighter, trying to convince myself that learning is cool and being a nearly twenty-year-old who never goes out for some fun isn’t a bad thing.

But it totally is! You need to get your life back, girl!

The wind catches my hair, and I smooth it back over my shoulder. It always takes forever to straighten it, and thank God I live in Colorado and not Florida. As long as it doesn’t rain, my hair will be easy enough to manage for a week or so before I have to wash it.

Turning the corner, I try to keep my limp to a minimum. The PT has spent hours working on my gait, and I do my best to walk the way I used to. I don’t want to need that fucking cane!

I don’t care what my parents say or that it causes a “discussion” (argument) every Wednesday night when I’m there for dinner. They can’t keep controlling me this way. I know they do it out of love, but?—

My phone dings and I pull it out of my pocket, my shoulders deflating when I check the screen.

Mom: Morning, sugar. How are you today? Just checking in to make sure my baby’s doing well.

Every day.

Every fucking day.

I should be grateful that I have a mother who cares so much, but I find it suffocating. I get that she nearly lost me. I get that I scared the hell out of her, which is why she couldn’t leave my bedside the entire time I was in the hospital.

But I’m fine now!

Poising my thumbs over the screen, I pull in a breath and dutifully respond. If I don’t, she’ll just worry.

Me: Morning. All good. Breakfast was yum, and I’m walking to class now.

Mom: That’s great! Hope you’re remembering your cane.

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