Summer matches Natalie’s pose, chin dipping in bold defiance. But then her eyes shift to Kennedy, still breathing deeply, and she thinks better of it. She shoves the second auto-injector into Natalie’s hand, and says, “Make sure she lays down.”
She leaves the way she came, returning to the fundraiser. Not a second later, the doors open again, and Keeland strolls into the hall. Hart follows after with an annoyed look on his face.
“Sorry, Spence, fucking weasel slipped past,” my roommate says. I nod to him, then stop Keeland halfway.
“I told you to leave,” I say to Kennedy’s ex.
“Just try to stop me, Ar—”
I throw my fist into his face. It’s barely a hard hit. More a warning shot, really. But the motherfucker drops like I’d taken a crowbar to him instead of pure, heavy muscle.
“Stop,” comes the hoarse demand. Kennedy shakes her head when I look at her, and she mouths the word again on another gasp.
I whisper her name. But when I look at her, I see nothing. No ice princess, ready to dismiss me. No heat, no longing. Not even the steady admiration I’d grown so used to. Or the tender affection from back in that supply room, when she’d said—she told me—
She looks away from me. I barely hear her whisper for me to leave.
I fucked up. I ruined whatever amazing thing had developed between us. And it’s too late to take back what I said. I know it’s done. She’s ended it. Kennedy Walsh, the girl who thinks I’m going places… wants nothing more than for me to go far, far away from her.
39
Kennedy
Rylie asks what I want to watch, and her eyes bug out when I name a recent movie. With a group of teens venturing to an abandoned cabin in some backwoods and a serial killer that chops them to itty bitty pieces for daring to have sexual relations with each other.
After exhausting every rom-com known to women, I’ve discovered a fondness for the common tropes of horror. Love doesn’t exist in this genre. Or, if it does, it’s only twisted, demented versions of it. Whether it’s axe murderers chasing down coeds, ghosts haunting depressed housewives, or mummies trying to summon dead girlfriends, I am infinitely safe from love scenes. Although, I do stay away from vampires. Those stray dangerously on the side of too much sexy pining for my current mood.
I don’t want meet-cutes. Or grand gestures. No sweet kisses or declarations of undying devotion. Just blood and guts and excessive gore and final girls who get shit done without the help of a big, dumb, strong man. Everything to make me scream in terror, and nothing to make me wallow in heartbreak.
It almost works.
“Tissue?” Rylie holds up the box to me. I shake my head, then take one to wipe away my stubborn tears. Then I grab another and blow my nose.
Rylie saw me through my breakup with Ashton last semester. Now’s no different. After riding with me in the ambulance last weekend, and arranging with Natalie to bring me home after I got my dose of antihistamines, she’s been by my side all week. Making me stay home all day Sunday to rest after my ordeal at the fundraiser. Taking over my Busy Beans shifts and collecting homework assignments from my professors—not that I didn’t feel well enough to go to class. She’s just really good at convincing me to skip when all I want to do is lay on the couch and cry.
And this—her handing me tissues when a ginger-haired teen takes a machete through the heart—makes me cry harder. Because I don’t want to be like this again. I don’t want to need her to help me through another breakup.
I love Spencer. And he threw that love back in my face.
“Cheesecake’s ready!” Natalie calls from the kitchen. She broke out the big guns tonight. Every night, really, this week. Our fridge is packed with cookies and cakes and pastries and donuts. More than I can possibly ever want or need, but it’s how she’s contributed to my crying jags. That, and alcohol. Spiked mugs of juice, soda, hot chocolate, whatever she can mix, because even coffee makes me think of Spencer. My caffeine intake this week has dropped to zero, and I’m irritable and moody from withdrawals.
Rylie perks up at ‘cheesecake’, then hops off the couch to get us slices. She stalls, then squeezes my shoulder with a soft, “You’ll be okay, Kennedy. You’ll get over him.”
She leaves. I pause the movie, not ready to face any jump scares alone, and grab my laptop from the coffee table. It opens to the page I last viewed, an application form I’d half filled.
Rylie’s right. I got over Ashton, didn’t I? I can do the same for Spencer. But this time, I won’t use blind dates or rebounds. I only need myself. Time and space and to be alone with my own thoughts and feelings, unencumbered by memories of every sweet gesture and word Spencer shared with me.
So, without debate—no pros, no cons, no lists, absolutely no plan whatsoever—I complete the form and email it. All before my housemates come back with their plates of dessert and we press play on the movie.
Just as the psycho killer’s stalking down the last plucky teen in a nail-biting, breath-holding scene of anticipation, someone knocks on the door. We scream.
Natalie rushes to the door, swinging it open with a, “What are you thinking, scaring us like—Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”
Rylie and I glance over the back of the couch. Rylie drops her bite of cheesecake on my blanket. I sigh, setting my plate on the table.
I’m not surprised that Summer Prescott knows where I live. The girl knows everyone on campus. Why wouldn’t she know their home addresses, too?
“It’s fine, Natalie, let her in.”
Natalie looks like she might refuse, then steps aside to let Summer pass. The sorority girl crosses her arms, glancing around our living room, to
