Chapter 4 #2
If I thought the sound system was loud in the kitchen, it’s earsplitting in the basement. Lights pulse, bodies gyrate, and the floor reeks of stale beer. The air is damp and humid, and I start to sweat beneath my parka, suddenly understanding how most girls get away with wearing so little clothing.
I have no idea how I’ll find my roommates in this dank, dark mess, but Wes doesn’t seem concerned.
Instead of entering the mass of students, he shimmies his way around the edge of the room toward the student DJ in the back.
Before I can overthink, I latch onto the sleeve of his sweatshirt, so we don’t get separated.
When we make it to the back of the room, he turns to me. I quickly drop his shirt as his head bends to my ear, and he shouts to be heard over the music. “What’s Ava’s last name?”
“Matthews,” I call back. He nods once, and then I watch in absolute horror as he climbs onto the makeshift stage and says something I can’t make out to the fraternity-appointed DJ, who looks thrilled to be talking to Stratus’s apparent football star.
He passes Wes the mic, and the electronic beats cut. Before anyone can complain, Wes booms into the microphone, “What’s up, everyone?”
“What’s up, Doc?” calls some guy in the back.
“Doc! Doc! Doc!”
“Get it, Tuckerrrrr!”
He grins before motioning for the chanting to stop. “Sorry to interrupt the party, but I’m looking for Ava. Ava Matthews!”
“Lucky bitch,” a girl behind me says to her friend.
“Tell me about it.”
“Ava Matthews?” Wes calls. “Do we have an Ava Matthews in here? Anyone seen her? You? You? No?”
“She left a while ago!” calls a girl in the middle of the room.
Wes squints into the crowd. “Any idea where she went?”
“No, but I’m available!”
The room erupts in whoops, but Wes shakes his head. “Appreciate it, but I’m a man on a mission tonight. Happy drinking, everyone!” he calls, then turns the mic back over.
“Give it up one more time for the man, the myth, the legend who scored the winning touchdown against Ridgeview fucking State! The fucking doctor, Wes Tucker!”
The room cheers again, but the sound is drowned out by blaring electronic beats.
Somehow, I’m pushed farther away from the stage, forcing Wes to shimmy through the mass of people to reach me.
He doesn’t make it far before a couple sorority girls block his path, and I watch in disgust as they touch him, running their hands up his arms and chest and back.
Sweating in my winter gear, I decide I need out of this basement asap. So, I leave Wes with his groupies, duck my head, and ascend the creaky staircase back up to the main floor of the house.
“Hey, babe. Can I help you out of that jacket?” asks a guy lingering in the hallway. I ignore him, walking straight past, and wince at the muttered, “bitch,” he throws at my back. Goosebumps raise across my skin because that’s the kind of unchecked, male aggression that scares me the most.
Outside the house, I suck in air. The cold feels incredible now, and I unzip my coat, trying not to suffocate beneath the dense fur and fabric.
Then, I head in the direction we came from, not expecting Wes to extract himself from those girls anytime soon.
I check my phone again, distraught to find the screen blank, and begin the trek back to the dorm.
What else can I do at this point but wait outside the door?
“Ivy! Wait up!” My footsteps slow to a stop, and I turn, brow scrunching as I spot Wes jogging toward me down the sidewalk. His face is flushed, dark curls sticking to his forehead from the humidity. “Sorry about that. Couldn’t shake them off.”
I blink, confused. Aren’t guys like him supposed to love that kind of female attention? “It’s okay.”
“So, no sign of your roommate, then?” I shake my head, and his brows draw together. “Damn. I thought that would work.”
I shrug and sigh down at my phone, still hoping for a message from Quinn. “Thanks for trying.”
“We can try a few other frats, if you want.”
I stare at the line of houses before telling him honestly, “I don’t think I’m up for that.” That was one frat party too many, and I might pass out if forced to endure another hot, sticky basement.
Wes shoves his hands into his pockets and glances around the street with a thoughtful expression. He bites the inside of his cheek with narrowed eyes, like he’s trying to think up a solution to my problem. Suddenly, his eyes light up. “Hey, I know! Why don’t you come back to my place?”
It takes a moment for me to process his question, but once I do, my insides go cold.
“You want me to go back to your place?” I repeat, my voice quiet.
He nods with too much enthusiasm. “Sure! You can spend the night. I’ve got a Tempur-Pedic that’ll knock your fucking socks off.”
His words are the harsh reality check I needed, and I take a step away from him, my stomach flipping over. “T-that’s—” I break off. Take a breath. Try again. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Are you sure?” He takes a step in my direction, but I back up further, regarding him with unease.
His brows pull together for a moment before shooting up, eyes widening in alarm as he understands my sudden hesitation.
“Oh, Ivy. Shit, I wasn’t saying—I didn’t mean to suggest—not spend the night like spend the night. I’d sleep on the couch, obviously.”
I have no idea if I’m thinking clearly (my racing thoughts say otherwise), but I react on instinct. “Thank you for your help,” I mumble, “but I should go. See you in class.”
His face falls, dejected. “Ivy, wait—”
“Hey, Doc!” interjects one of the drunk guys on the lawn. “Come play pong!”
Distracted, Wes glances over at the guy, and I take that as my opportunity to turn and speed walk away. I don’t look back, but he calls my name again when I’m halfway down the block. I ignore it, and this time, he doesn’t follow me.
I’m almost back to the dorm when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I hastily glance at the screen.
Kinsley: We’re back. Ava’s sick.
I breathe a long sigh of relief, and when I make it to the apartment, the door’s unlocked. I hear the muffled sound of water running and Ava’s retching as I slip inside.
Shutting myself in my room, I strip off my winter clothes and crawl into bed. For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about Wes’s face before I turned away, guilt eating at my insides.
Why should you feel guilty? He wanted you to sleep in his bed. He was trying to take advantage of the situation.
Was he? Or was he just being…nice?
Once my brain thaws out, I go back and forth in my head for hours, deliberating whether I was justified in my response, debating the nuance of our conversation. The sad thing is, by three in the morning I still can’t come to a conclusion, and the guilt fisting my heart in an iron grip won’t loosen.
Why can’t I tell the difference between a threat and a genuine offer to help?
I think some part of me is broken.