Page 32 of Regressive

Rex is inside there. I know it. Sense it, but another awareness comes slamming home; this is not my world. What was I thinking coming down here? I wasn’t. I was being Indulgent. Lapsing. Everything I’ve strived not to be.

“I’m not sure what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, but it must be intense.”

It takes me a moment to realize those words were meant for me.

“Excuse me?” I ask, taking a look at the man in front of me. He’s tall. Lanky but broad. Shoulders wide and powerful. He’s wearing a hoodie with a ‘W’ on the chest. An X underneath it made out of two oars. ‘Wittmore Rowing’ is embordered in white thread.

“You just look a little lost and confused, although I don’t know why,” he grins. “You’re exactly the kind of girl we love to see at our parties.” He offers me his hand. “I’m Knox.”

I stare at his hand. I’ve never touched a man outside of Serendee. Never had a conversation this long. He tilts his head, line creasing his forehead and I snap out of it, thrusting my hand into his. “I’m Imogene. I’m uh, new here.”

“Imogene.” He rolls the word on his tongue. “Unique, but I like it.” He looks over my shoulder. “Hey Miller,” he calls. I turn and see another man. This one is also tall, blue-eyed with a devilish-purely Indulgent glint in his eye. “Meet Imogene. She’s new.”

His smirk spreads into a wide grin. “Well, then, we need to give Imogene the Zeta Sigma new student treatment, don’t you think?”

Knox nods, winking over my head. He throws his arm over my shoulder, and the two of them usher me past the guy standing at the door, through a crowd of mostly women, toward the kitchen. I search the house for Rex, but it’s too thick with students and an ever-present cloud of smoke, that I don’t see him. Maybe he’s not even here? Miller grabs me one of the red cups and hands it to me.

“Welcome to Wittmore and Zeta Sig.” Miller holds his own cup to mine, except his is black, not red. “May tonight be a night you won’t soon forget.”

I sniff the drink. It smells fruity, not sour like the heavy wine Elon forced me to drink a few weeks ago. I’m trying to think of a nice way to decline, when I spot a familiar blond head across the room. His jawline is unmistakable, as is his smile.

I rarely see it, but he’s not holding back here, gracing some girl in short shorts and a tank top with its full intensity. Jealousy, dark and angry flares in the pit of my stomach and I tip the cup to my lips and swallow. The sweetness is followed by a burn. I cough and feel a warm hand on my shoulder.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.” I smile and take another, smaller sip. “Thank you.”

“No, sweetheart,” Miller says, “thank you for gracing us with your beauty tonight. We like to have the most beautiful girls on campus at our party. You just notched it up to a ten.”

After weeks of battling the men in my life, of living on the edge of pain and humiliation, Corrections and Lapses and Regression, his words untangle something in my chest. Just hearing kind words, not laced inside twisted manipulations… I feel a rush of relief.

“Drink up,” Knox says, “and let us show you a good time and forget about whatever put that frown on your face.”

“Okay,” I say, eyeing Rex and his plaything across the room. “Yes. Please show me a good time.”

His fingers link with mine, warm and firm. Miller’s hand lands on my lower back, guiding me to follow. Soon we’re in the middle of the room, dancing in a throng of people. The music is loud, my blood hums. It’s weird and wild and kind of reminds me of the late-night celebrations back at Serendee, except here there’s no watchful eye following and judging our moves. No Anex pulling the strings.

“God you’re beautiful,” Knox says, running his fingers through my hair.

“You’re pretty, too,” I say back. The room grows a little fuzzy. I laugh and both boys laugh with me. I lift my cup and take another sip of my drink. Someone bumps into me and the liquid sloshes, sending a wave cascading down my chin.

“Oh,” I say, trying to catch it. Miller steps forward and lifts the hem of his shirt, using it to wipe off the mess. I eye his abdomen, ripped with a ladder of hard muscle. “Thank you.”

“Come on,” he says, taking my hand. “Let’s go clean you up.”

Again, I’m led through the party, passing people that no longer take full shape. Miller pulls me into a room. It’s a pantry of sorts, with a counter and small sink. He shuts the door behind us and turns on the faucet, then grabs a cloth out of a cabinet. He wets the cloth and wipes my chin and neck, smiling as he does it. I sigh and lean against the counter. “That feels good,” I say, as he gently wipes my chest. “It was hot in there.”

“No baby, that’s all you.” His fingers graze my neck. “Smokin’. I can’t believe you just wandered in here off the street. Like a goddamn vision.” I reach for the cup to take another sip. He grabs it from me and sets it on the counter. “You may want to slow down on that.”

I look up at his chiseled jaw and say, “I wish I grew up in a world like this, with boys like you.”

His forehead creases. “What kind of boy am I?”

“Sweet,” she says, “Nice.”

He chuckles and pushes the hair off my neck. “Exactly what world did you grow up in?”

“Serendee,” I say, the word sliding off my tongue. “I’m from Serendee.”

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