Chase: A Devil & his Birdie: Havenwood University Book Two

Chapter 2

SATURDAYS ARE sacred and I spend mine following my routine to a tee. I like things in order and try to maintain a sense of control. I need it. I crave it like honey on a biscuit. It’s how I best function and after some personal ups and downs over the years, I know this about myself.

I’m a planner down to the last detail. I build in flexibility to my schedule for the, “just in case” moments, but try to avoid them if I can. I have trouble dealing with my feelings when I don’t see things coming. Best to keep things front and center where I can see ‘em.

When my alarm goes off, I sit up in my bed and grab my phone off my nightstand. I”ve been up for ages in anticipation of today and the weekend. I’ve got a busy day ahead of me starting with my rec kickboxing class, and ending with me going with Evie to this football house party.

I’ve also got to oversee my twin brother’s move later this morning. After that terrible NCAA recruiting scandal at Southern University last semester with their football coaching staff, Davis high-tailed it out of there. He’s an official Havenwood Devil now, although he’s never needed the label to play the part. He may have a heart the size of the moon but he’s always had a wild streak.

I’m happy he’s here. Truly, I am. When he called me up to tell me he had everything squared away to transfer to Havenwood, I was surprised at first. From what I gather, they have a good football program but I hadn’t heard Davis talk about becoming a Devil before. He shrugged it off when I asked him why he wasn’t signing on to play at some other big D1 school.

I’ve got a sneaky suspicion he chose Havenwood to keep an eye on me. I know he started to really worry after everything fell apart at UGA. At the time, he was insistent that I get my butt to Southern so we could sort it all out.

He knew I was hurting myself but couldn’t do much with us at different schools. He was cranky when I chose Havenwood without ever stepping foot on campus but it’s worked out okay so far. I’ve gotten Evie and a new group of friends.

“Aren’t ya happy I’m comin’ to Havenwood, Sloaney?” he had asked with so much care and affection in his voice, that it sent a big ball of fiery guilt straight to the pit of my belly.

I’m convinced that he’s really here to keep an eye on me and it makes me sick to think about him ruining some great big football opportunity somewhere else to be here instead. It’s eating away at me and I place a hand over my stomach to soothe the nausea that’s bubbling up in there.

Davis will do everything a loving big brother would do, and truth be told, it’s got my nerves frayed. I just know he’s going to start counting bandaids and asking questions. He’ll start snooping around for scissors and razors. He’ll make sure I’m eating more than lettuce leaves and cherry tomatoes, which I do now that I’m out from under Mama’s thumb and our chef’s ridiculously restrictive meal plan that she insisted I follow.

He’ll be on my case about guys even though I’ve dated zero men since coming here because the one I want hasn’t done a damn thing about it. He stares for long moments that stretch on until we’re pulled apart. He’s shameless as he watches me from either afar or up close. Like I’m some sort of crash he can’t stop looking at. It’s both infuriating and intoxicating. I can’t stand it and want it all the same.

I may need to double up on my rise-and-shine sun salutations after kickboxing this morning. I need to steady these pesky nerves and laying here trying to belly breathe isn’t helping. I try to fill my mind with other things when a handsome face pops into my head.

I drift off in a daydream featuring a certain hockey player when my second alarm goes off giving me a warning that I’m encroaching on being seriously late. It’s easy enough to get lost in my thoughts of him. This crush has become all-consuming.

It started last semester and just won’t quit. It grows and grows each and every time I see him. It’s more than that at this point. If I admit how much I like him, the butterflies in my belly will surely riot with excitement and I’ll end up with knots of anxiety instead. And when I get anxious, I can’t always control how I manage it.

Mama and Nana would not approve or appreciate if they found me lying in bed, lounging about as if my checklist of tasks were going to check themselves. There’s nothing more satisfying than that check marking an accomplishment. I have to get up and face today even if it”s going to be a different kind of Saturday.

It doesn’t matter if Mama and Nana are only in my head. The thought of disappointing them is enough to have my fingers twitching. No, I don’t need to do that right now.

I repeat that silently to myself over and over until the urge lets up. I take a deep breath to try to push my overbearing, judgmental, and ridiculing female family members out of my head and squeeze and release my balled-up hands to give my fingers something else to do.

They would lose their pretty little heads if they knew I’ve gained five pounds since returning from Europe. After being near starved on vacation by my Mama and Auntie, I have indulged every chance I could since returning to school.

Cafeteria paninis for lunch, pasta dinners with Evie, and dessert three times this past week have gone straight to my thighs. I think they look good like this but Mama would surely have an aneurysm. I can hear her loud and clear, “Honestly, Sloane, for being such a smart girl, it’s clear ya still can’t figure out how to keep Jason interested. You need to be watchin’ your figure, men like him expect perfection and ya have to work harder if he’s gonna keep you at his side.”

It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve told her and how many years have passed, my mother has taken my high school ex-boyfriend Jason dumping me harder than I ever did. He broke up with me the weekend he went to Vanderbilt for his freshman orientation. It took him twenty-four hours at college to realize he could do better than me.

She’s never forgiven me for our breakup and I doubt she ever will. Her and Daddy don’t let me forget that he’s the son of a very wealthy businessman and well-to-do family in Georgia, and all-out insisted that I try to win him back. They blame me hand over fist for our breakup and there’s no telling ‘em different. I’ll always serve as a constant source of disappointment for my parents. I’m often reminded that I didn’t hold up my side of the bargain and have yet to meet their standards.

The intrusive thoughts in my head sound a heck of a lot like my Mama’s voice. I try to sing a song to myself to drown her out but she’s loud, berating me for all my past transgressions.

Singing runs deep in my veins and being up on a stage is where I’ve spent a good chunk of my childhood. Mama sang her way to a Miss USA crown and had me taking voice lessons as far back as I can remember.

My Daddy, a retired army man who now serves as the Governor of Georgia with high political aspirations, had me performing at campaign dinners, and town fairs throughout elementary, middle, and high school.

Garnering positive attention for our family was my job. I was expected to keep up appearances, to act and look like the quintessential southern belle. I was raised to always use my manners, bake an award-winning cobbler, maintain a perfect size two figure, never have a hair out of place, and marry the right man straight outta college.

She had me in pageants early on and it was her dream for me to take the Miss Georgia crown and sing my way to the top. Davis played ball and wowed Friday night crowds while I wore glamorous evening gowns and sang for judges. The standards have always been high and success has always been the way to our parents” hearts. Their love is conditional and I’ve yet to earn it.

It all came crashing down for me a handful of years ago. Within a span of a few months, I was rejected from Vanderbilt and I’d lost Mama the coveted sparkly crown at the Miss Georgia competition. The rejection from Vandy was life-changing and the sting of being knocked out in the first round for the crown sent me spiraling.

My parent”s disappointment was soul-crushing. That’s when my ex, Jason, started to pull away and my so-called friends vanished. I felt alone regardless of how much time Davis spent with me.

I was forced to attend the University of Georgia and left after being dismissed by Mama’s sorority. I kept failing at every turn, I somehow screwed up the only card I had left to play. I was naive to think I was a shoo-in and that I could somehow get back into her good graces if I became a sister. I had no idea how to tell her I was dropped on the last night.

When I worked up the courage, she wailed louder and cried harder than when her own Daddy died. My father blamed me for the bender she went on. He was convinced that my disappointment as a daughter caused her pill and vodka habit to ramp up. I had brought shame to their gubernatorial mansion doorstep.

That was the last straw. I was humiliated and a complete failure. I had tarnished Mama’s legacy and dragged the Higgins name through the mud. I was an embarrassment. I made the decision to choose a different path.

One of Nana’s neighbors had a daughter I was friendly with when we were younger. She was two years older than me and a senior at Havenwood at the time. She looked so happy in all her social media posts. Havenwood looked so beautiful; a picture-perfect, private, and prestigious university tucked away in Virginia.

I remember when she won a local pageant. I wanted to be her. She looked like she had it all with that crown on her head. Scrolling through her Instagram account, I wanted to be her again, but this time it wasn’t because of a sash and a tiara, it was because she looked the happiest I’d ever seen her.

She was another Georgia high society girl with standards stacked against her. She looked different like she left all the expectations behind and was embracing who she really was. She had pastel pink hair now and wore edgy eyeliner that framed her eyes when she smiled. Real smiles, not the plastic grins that we were taught and perfected in vanity mirrors in our bedrooms.

She looked healthy. Like her spirit was allowed to breathe. Like she wasn’t afraid to be who she wanted to be instead of who everyone else wanted. I felt more inspired and empowered than I had ever felt before.

I applied and made plans to transfer. I needed to leave UGA before the pressure of failing swallowed me whole. I couldn’t measure up and be who I was told I had to be while I was there. I got my butt to Havenwood this past fall after a miserable second year at UGA.

I might as well have crossed out every expectation my parents have ever had for me. Instead of using a red pen to X out their dreams, I used my own blood. I had started scratching myself and digging my nails into my skin when I didn’t make the cheerleading squad freshman year of high school.

It didn’t stop and I started to manage my feelings with little bites of pain. It became second-nature for me to pull on my hair and pick my skin raw.

It wasn’t until the day Vandy flat out rejected me that I sliced my skin open for the first time. Ten two inch cuts lined my upper inner thigh. A cut for every letter of Vanderbilt. It felt so good, I silently wished the name of the school was longer.

The second time I cut myself like that was when I lost Miss Georgia. I had turned eighteen on News Year’s Eve and was eligible to compete. I was in way over my head and couldn’t get anything right. Mama and Nana had lost all hope when I lost.

Losing out on my top college choice was bad enough, but the day I lost that crown was the saddest day of my life. I sent Mama right to the bar and after a bender, Daddy sent her away to a country estate for a few weeks to recover.

Gliding the razor across my skin, feeling the sharp edge slice into my flesh, and then watching my devastation bleed outta me, numbed the loss. The loss of how my parents looked at me before the pageant versus after the lost crown. I wasn’t good enough for their love.

I couldn’t seem to change the downcast look in their eyes no matter how often I tried to rise to their standards. So I kept cutting. I kept carving out my feelings and the scars became reminders of my past mistakes. I needed it like no other. It started to keep me balanced and everytime I started to feel bad, I’d try to slice it out and watch it bleed away.

My cycle of cutting hasn’t stopped, even now when I feel a twinge of discomfort or anxiety, the only cure, the only thing that numbs my nerves, sadness, or anger is the slice of my skin and watching the bad drip down. It’s so satisfying when I blot it away and bandage the cut up. It’s like a fresh start.

The worst cuts happened while I was at UGA. I went too deep while using a pair of super sharp scissors when I cut open my inner thighs. I had been dropped on last night during rush and was beside myself. I couldn’t keep the big feelings inside. They hurt too much. I had to get them out and scared myself half to death with how deep I went.

I left my leg a gory mess and I swear it took hours for it to stop bleeding. At one point, my anxiety about it got so bad, I thought I was gonna bleed out. My cutting has never been about ending my life. It’s to make me better. This time, I had gone too far. I knew in my heart that I had to do something about it.

I saw a flyer tacked up on a resource board in the hallway and snatched it up. I stuffed it in my bag before I could chicken out and went to talk to a professional. I had already been shunned from the girls I rushed with and my new roommate was so enamored with her new sisters, she never spent another minute with me. There wasn’t anyone for me to be embarrassed in front of about getting help. No one at home knew and hardly anyone at UGA paid me any mind after rush.

I really clicked with my therapist and stuck with therapy. I gained some insight into my anxiety and self-injurious behavior. The cut represents the circumstance that caused the emotions, the blood represents the feelings, and the healing of the cut represents my ability to move on. To try again. I have trouble tolerating uncertainty, can’t stomach losing control, have intrusive and unwanted thoughts, and I self-harm to get them out.

By the time my last session rolled around, I was feeling better. I promised my counselor that I’d get set up with someone here and continue what I started. She wanted me to keep at it and to continue to explore my feelings.

When I came to Havenwood I was running away, fleeing every expectation placed on me. It felt like I was kicking the heavy weighted blankets of assumptions off of me. I instantly felt lighter.

I’ve been raised o act and be a certain way, fit into a mold, and to smile for everyone else but myself. I decided to shed that skin. It never felt right anyway. Never felt like me.

Last August when I walked up the welcome table in the dorm lobby and stretched out my hand to introduce myself to the Residence Director, I felt it. I could be whoever I wanted to be. No one knew me here; they didn’t blink an eye when I mentioned my last name. I had a fresh start.

When I first met Evie, I was reluctant to share some of who I was. When I heard myself talking, I could’ve sworn it was about someone else. Like I was sharing secrets when I told her how much I love reading and that I wanted to be an editor. Pieces of me that Mama thought were downright silly. “You’ll be busier than popcorn on a skillet. You won’t have time for a job or to read your silly books, you’ll be runnin’ your household, hostin’ parties, and charity events. Raisin’ my grandchildren.” She couldn’t fathom me wanting anything more than that. She thought my dreams were full of fluff and firmly believed that my going to college was strictly for majoring in MRS.

Since I had outright refused to rekindle things with Jason and made it clear I’d never set foot on a pageant stage again, she became focused on my dating life. If I tried to talk about my classes, she’d be quick to belittle my academic efforts.

It’s absolutely absurd that her biggest fear is that I’ll end up picking a career over a man after school. She honest to God thinks I’m in college to solely focus on finding a husband. Her voice is loud and smells like chardonnay even in my head, “You must keep yourself available to support your husband”s career and his goals, his dreams will become yours, you’ll see.”

She always made it sound like that kinda life should be enough for me, that I wasn’t worthy of wanting more than that. That I was selfish for wanting more for myself than what everyone expected.

Davis always had big football dreams and was encouraged to reach for the stars as soon as our parents saw him throw his first touchdown. He was groomed at a young age to be a star quarterback and Daddy allowed him to pursue his own path as long as it led to the NFL.

If he wasn’t drafted right outta college, he’d have to join the Army. Davis went to quarterback camps, had elite private coaches and trainers, and was scouted early on. Mama hushed me up whenever I told her I wanted to try something else. “Honestly Sloane, you’re such a pretty girl, isn’t that enough?” To me it never is.

I maintained my English degree when classes started last semester and joined the Havenwood Harold to get my feet wet with editing. I also joined clubs in the Performing Arts Program. I decided to sing for fun instead of for competition. I didn’t tell either of my parents that I had a role in the Winter Showcase. They wouldn’t dream of coming to support me anyway.

Mama was so embarrassed by my fall from grace she brought me to our family pastor to set me straight when I came home after my first semester at UGA.

She had no idea about my cutting and about me pursuing my own therapy. She didn’t know anything about my racing thoughts and feelings that plagued me. She was convinced something was wrong with me, that a part of me was broken and needed fixing from God above. And because I was too ashamed to share the depths of my despair but also desperate for her empathy, I went with her.

I remember her telling the pastor, “I’ve tried my best with her but she’s a lost cause. We’ve given her all the tools to succeed and she just can’t seem to properly apply herself.”

After Mama left his office, I spoke to Pastor Bill about some things. I knew he had a few degrees, one of them being in psychology and counseling so I figured I might as well make the most of my time if I had to sit with him for the next hour.

I also knew he wouldn’t be able to talk to Mama or Daddy about what I said and maybe part of me wanted them to be told no if they asked for details.

I gave him the cliff notes version of some major things that had happened and how it all impacted me. I by no means mentioned my cutting, but I did mention how upset I get over things. He listened and made me feel heard.

He talked to me about anxiety and it was pretty much in line with what my counselor at UGA had said. By the time Mama picked me up she thought I was cured for good.

On the drive home, she made me swear on a stack of family bibles that I wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone about having some issues that needed “professional attention.”

She mentioned several times on that drive that I needed to pull myself up and get my head on straight because I was stressing her and my father out. It was another reason for her to chastise me. She left for a cocktail party that night and I couldn’t help but think she was going to drink away the disappointment I’d caused her.

It hasn’t been brought up since. Like it’s some dirty little secret. Davis is the only one who checks to make sure I’m okay and always knows when I’m not.

I shake my head and the intrusive thoughts tighten their grip as I recall parts of my past. I give myself a once over before grabbing my water bottle and bag. I don’t love who I see staring back at me in the mirror we have on the wall by our front door. I’m trying but it’s hard. I haven’t liked me in a long while.

There’s this vision, this persona everyone creates about me that I feel like I have to maintain. It’s ingrained into me to be prim, proper, sweet, and Southern.

I’m out the door and breathe in the cooler air and breathe out the expectations placed on me. I haven’t had a therapy session since coming to Havenwood, and exercise is an outlet that I can count on to fix me right up. It’s not about losing weight or staying fit, although I appreciate that it’s good for my health, for me it’s more of a positive outlet.

It keeps my cutting at bay. It keeps me in check. It’s one of the healthy coping strategies my previous therapist introduced me to and I’ve made this rec kickboxing class a priority since the beginning of last semester to help settle my anxiety.

I’m chomping at the bit to get back to it. It always sets me straight and after last night, that’s exactly what I need. The drama at supper left me all tied up. Monroe Esposito’s crude comment insinuating I give Chase sex eyes was uncalled for.

Joking around or not, I wasn’t going to stand for it. I tried taking in gulps of air to settle my racing heart and to settle my nerves. It wasn’t until I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands that I felt the embarrassment and anger bubbling and boiling in my stomach start to settle. I kept my clenched fists tucked away in my lap underneath the table and away from prying eyes.

The bite of instant pain is grounding and always within reach. My nails are always available, my razor and scissors aren”t. It took every ounce of strength I had to keep myself from slicing into my skin for being so stupid. So obvious with my desires.

It’s not that I’m ashamed of having feelings for him. What has me feeling so silly is how I keep looking up at twinkling stars in the night sky and wishing for him to do something about it. I believe with my whole heart and soul there’s something between us. I feel it in his stare. It erupts over my skin when he looks at me. It keeps me searching and seeking him out. I know he’s there. He always is.

I’m walking along the paths towards the Athletic Center where my class is held when I see him. If I could design the perfect male specimen it would be Chase Wilton. He’s an absolute daydream.

Standing six feet tall, he’s long and muscular. His chestnut colored hair is longer on the top of his head and curls at the ends right above his ears. If a man could be described as beautiful it would be him. His angular jaw, square chin, and full lips make my knees weak. When his cocoa-colored eyes land on me, they warm me right up much like the winter drink they remind me of.

He’s standing on the crest of a hilled path that overlooks campus. He has his hands on top of his head and I swear his eyes are like laser beams as he lights me up from the inside out. We always collide like this.

We find each other from opposite sides of rooms, supper tables, open spaces, rinks, wherever. We stay on the edge, never venturing further than the space between us. It always feels vast, no matter if it’s three feet like last night in the caf or right now with the whole of the university, this is as far as we get. He might as well be standing on the infamous Monopoly board square. Do not pass go.

I’ve subtly tried to let him know I’m open to whatever this could be. I’ve reached out to snag his attention and spur him on. I’ve shown up to his games and waved like a fool, I’ve stood in his bedroom doorway in nothing but a silk pajama set, and I held his hand in mine trying like hell to soothe his pain.

These little clues and pushes are all I do. I won’t be any more aggressive than that. He has to come to me. I may not agree with most of the lessons Mama hammered into my head, but this is one of them that I hold true. Plus, in every book Evie and I read, the male character always goes after what he wants. Call me ol’-fashioned, but I want to be pursued. By him. You would think I would’ve learned my lesson with this man but, no, the heart wants what it wants. And it’s this good lookin’ and equally infuriatin’ man up on that hill.

Before I realize it, I’m lifting my gloved hand to give him a slight wave. My lungs seize up as I hold my breath, waiting to see what he’ll do. Truth be told, I’m not expecting much and just my luck he probably won’t think twice about a silly wave and here I am stressing about it.

He drives me crazy. These feelings I have for him can’t be unrequited. They just can’t be. I outright refuse to believe that.

I see the flames when our eyes collide. I see the spark inside of him that glows just for me. But even with a electric current running between us, he’s still crazy cautious. It’s like he’s afraid he’ll get electrocuted if he gives in. It’s downright ridiculous. He can’t be that dense can he? Although, Nana did always say boys could be dumber than dirt.

I want someone to want me so badly, they are burning up inside to get to me. That no space is too uncharted, too hard to navigate, and too mountainous to conquer.

I want a man who wants me for me. Not for my father’s professional position, my family’s money, or for what they can gain. Just me. The guys I’ve dated were picked out and plucked from prestigious southern families with either military, political, or business ties.

I’ve been groomed to play a part and to continue a legacy. None of these boys actually cared. None of them stared at me like I was the sun. Not like Chase Wilton looks at me. Like he watches me.

He raises his hand over his head and slowly waves back, sending a surge of hopeful butterflies into action inside my already anxious stomach. Hope’s a funny thing, it can make anything seem possible. Like a healing tonic for an achy heart.

His wave and the small amount of extra attention is unexpected and having more than just those deep brown eyes on me, makes me dizzy. This is all it ever takes to keep me on the hook. He’s right there, stringing me along and keeping me on the line. Pulling at whatever this is between us. It’s the most he’s given me and even the small gesture seems big.

He stays firmly in place as his hand comes down to his side. He’s bouncing on the heels of his feet, waiting for me to continue on my way before he can run along. He always waits for me to disconnect us, like he just can’t stand the idea of breaking our contact.

My phone starts ringing and I pull it from my coat pocket. I swipe to answer my brother’s call. He must have just gotten to the football house.

“Hey Sloaney, how ya doin’?” He chirps from his side of the phone.

“Mornin’ Davis, you just gettin’ in?” I ask while I walk towards the athletic buildings. I pick up the pace, power walking the rest of the way. I’m running late after getting caught up in Chase and his wave.

“I did, but I’ll wait for ya here to get sorted. Shouldn’t take long and then you can cross me off your list,” he chuckles and I roll my eyes. Lists make me feel better and if I’m being honest, Saturday mornings aren’t the only day of the week that I need this level of order. It’s every day. Saturdays just feel more like mine than the others.

I hang up with him and walk into a packed class. I stow my bag and bottle and take my place for warm-ups. There are a few new faces and I smile as two girls with Greek letters displayed on their sports bras give me a once-over.

I redo my ponytail, flipping my head over to gather all the loose strands. The anxiety is still churning in my belly as I start to stretch. It’s always there but today it’s ramped up tenfold. I need to calm down and rub the two band-aids that cover the entirety of the underside of my thumb together. They’re a few days old and I don’t want Davis seeing them, he’ll know right away what’s been going on if he does. I walk over to a garbage can by the door and toss them in.

It’s going to be alright, he won’t notice, he’ll be too busy gettin’ situated. I tell myself and take a deep breath. I don’t want to disappoint him. He’d be another person I let down. I study my thumb, remembering how upset I was.

The unstoppable bouts of crying, the tremors, and trembling fingers as I wiped away rivers of tears before reaching for a sharp pair of scissors I keep in my desk drawer. The pain turned into panic that I wouldn’t be able to stop feeling like this. That I wasn’t strong enough on my own to squash the terrible thoughts from burying me alive. It felt good to cut into my skin. I felt all fixed up watching the blood pool at the surface, like I was finally able to breathe when I wiped it away along with my feelings. I grip the silver feather pendant around my neck to remind myself why I wear it, why my brother gave it to me, and why I’m standing in this room.

I hold my breath when the instructor comes over to help me with my gloves. Sometimes I feel like everyone who looks at me knows. It’s like they can see the dark parts of me. I swear on the only crown I have that they know about my scars and the deep cuts I’ve left behind all over my body. I exhale when she moves on and I focus on my bag. I go at it hard; beating away my insecurities, anxiety, fears, and feelings.

When I walk out of class the knots in my stomach feel looser. I open up my notes app and check off kickboxing and the yoga routine I did afterward. Those check marks always make me feel better, like I was able to do something right even if it’s just for this moment. That I didn’t disappoint anyone. Or myself.

I feel Chase’s eyes on me again and scan campus, seeking him out. Not one part of me questions it, I know it’s him. I always do. I knew every time last semester when this started and knew he’d find me again now that we’re both back on campus. I feel those chocolate flames lick at my skin as I walk down the path towards my apartment. He doesn’t make himself known to me like he did earlier.

I know he’s there when I swipe my keycard to get into my building. I feel the burn from his gaze cool as we separate, our link to each other severed for the time being. Now that we’re both back on campus, I know he’ll be back. He always is. He’s right on the edge, keeping the space between us warm and waiting.