Page 133 of Collide
That’s what cracks the center of my chest and allows the river of warm honey to flow through. This fucking guy. He’s ridiculously attractive and sweet. I didn’t stand a chance.
45 | SUMMER
CLUBBING ON A Thursday isn’t usually my go-to form of self-pity, but here we are.
I probably should just head to the library and study for my upcoming exams, but reading anything psychology-related will set me over the edge. It also doesn’t help that I can’t find my student ID. Without it, I can’t access any of the private study pods. So, logically, clubbing it is.
Amara stares at me wide-eyed as I show her my outfit. It’s black, short and silky. The perfect combination for my newly adopted reckless persona.
A wary look crosses her face. “What’s wrong?”
“Does something have to be wrong for me to have fun?”
“Summer, the last time you had fun was sophomore year when we went to that frat kegger, and you played Scrabble with the pledges. So, yes, something had to have happened.”
She’s right. Something did happen. The moment I’ve been waiting for, for all these years was delivered to my inbox this morning, and I’ve been in denial ever since.
“I didn’t get in.”
The words slip out so fast Amara jerks like I slapped her. “How? You probably read it wrong.” She snatches my phone from my hand and opens my email app.
“I didn’t. I got waitlisted. I guess Donny didn’t even need to compete with me for co-op,” I say with a bitter laugh. Our plan to get Langston out hasn’t worked. The dean’s still on sabbatical, and although word is getting around through students, no one with authority has done anything. It’s maddening and has me jerking awake with anxiety in the middle of the night. It's getting worse because whenever there’s a knock at our front door, I expect it to be the police coming to arrest me for burglary. That’s why I’ve been spending most of my days at Aiden’s house.
Amara scrolls through the sugar-coated rejection. “You said Dr. Müller loved your report. This can’t be right.”
“He did, but he’s not my advisor, and he’s not the one on admissions.”
“But you can’t wait, that leaves you with no choice but to take a gap year.”
I swallow. “I know. That’s why I accepted my backup.”
The gasp that leaves her is a bit dramatic. “You’re leaving Dalton? You’ve been dreaming about this program for years. Your mom said you were eight when you decided you were attending this school or nothing at all. Honestly, I was surprised you didn’t have a shrine of Sir Davis Dalton in your closet.”
“That would be overkill.”
“Not for the girl who finished a degree in two years. You’re a go-getter, Sum. You don’t let anything stand in the way of your dreams. Especially not some terribly wrong decision.”
“I have no choice.” Tears prick my eyes. “Can we not talk about this tonight?”
Amara gives me a tight hug. “If you need me to ruin Langston’s life just say the word,” she says. I exhale a watery laugh because even though she says it like a joke, I know she’s serious. “Okay, now give me a few minutes to match your slutty vibe.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re outside a Hartford club. The line is longer than the ones leading to the bookstores during textbook season. “We’re going to freeze out here,” I say, my teeth chattering.
Amara flips her hair, takes my hand, and leads us directly to the front of the line. The bouncer's eyes land on her chest, then mine. “This is a private event. You need an invitation.”
“I see you staring at my two invitations right now, big guy,” she says, and I swear his cheeks tint pink. “Look, I just broke up with my boyfriend, and I want to have fun tonight. A lot of fun,” Amara emphasizes the lie with a finger trailing along his jaw.
He swallows but remains resolute. “You have to be on the list.”
“Is there a substitute for a name? Maybe anumber?” She waves her phone, and he perks up.
Before I know it, he has Amara’s number—a fake one—and we’re inside. A minute later, the bartender plops four shots of tequila in front of us. “From the guy at the end of the bar.”
A middle-aged man, who looks married with children, winks at us. Amara sends him a flirty wave and hands me a shot.
“Who is that?”
“Who cares?” We clink our glasses and throw back the shot. She hauls me to the dance floor, and for the first time since I submitted my application, I have fun. Unfortunately, most of that fun is found at the bottom of a tequila bottle. The music bumps through the club and although a few guys try to dance toward us, Amara’s sharp glare sends them away.
