Chapter 24
CHAPTER 24
T he screech of the fire alarm and white smoke filled my apartment. Who let me have a stove? Anything I have attempted to cook this year has been a borderline fire hazard. I pulled a smoking casserole dish from the oven with disdain. There was no way this lasagna was edible. I threw the casserole, glass dish and all, into the trash can. Fuck this, it was dining center food from here on out.
Quickly, I pulled out my phone and asked Kennedy if she wanted to meet up for dinner. On top of my destroyed food, I couldn’t keep all that happened between Hunter and me to myself. I was on the verge of exploding with information. According to Hunter, I belonged to him—what does that even mean? Was he just being kinky at the moment? Exploring some free use games? Are we exclusive? Ugh, why didn’t I ask for clarification?
Kennedy responded in approval about dinner. We planned to meet up at one of the on-campus dining halls. My favorite perk about living off campus was the meal plan subsidy they gave us. The university condemned one of the dorm buildings at the end of freshman year. To compensate for the lack of on campus housing, the university opted to give a ll upperclassmen who lived off campus a 45 meal block for each semester. On nights when I Didn’t feel like cooking or didn’t have time to run home between classes. It was a lifesaver.
I trekked across campus to Patterson's dining hall. It was the most central of the three dining centers on campus. Kennedy waited for me inside in the small area where the student workers swiped our I.D. cards for access. We hugged before making our way through the entrance line.
Patterson was a typical dining hall filled with different serving stations of various cuisines. There was a salad and sandwich bar, a pasta bar, a section for Chinese and Indian cuisine, home-style meals, and a dessert station. Eying my choices, Kennedy made herself a panini at the sandwich bar. Wandering to a different section, I grabbed myself a chicken sandwich and fries. I was such a sucker for a good French fry, but you have to have the superior dipping sauce—barbecue.
I filled up my condiments and made my way to a booth Kennedy snagged for us.
“I would starve to death if it wasn’t for dining centers,” Kennedy declared.
I laughed, “I’d survive on ramen, but I definitely enjoy having the option of someone else cooking for me.”
Dipping one of my fries in barbecue sauce, Kennedy scrunched up her nose. “What the hell are you doing to that fry? That’s sacrilege!”
“Wait until you see what I do to steak,” I pointed a fry at her.
“Please do not tell me you put ketchup on your steak like some heathen.”
“Worse, I put ranch on it,” I chuckled at Kennedy’s disgusted look.
“You’re a lost cause. I don’t think we can be friends anymore,” she stated, pretending to get up from her seat.
I threw a fry at her that bounced off the side of her face. Kenned y snickered at me, sitting back down. We continued eating and bantering about classes and upcoming parties Kennedy wanted to attend.
“So, any plans for Thanksgiving?”
I shrugged my shoulders. I hadn’t thought about Thanksgiving, but it was coming up next week. Before my dad died, Thanksgiving was one of my favorite holidays. Dad purposely didn’t schedule practice on Black Friday so he could take me shopping. It started when I was a little girl and he couldn’t figure out what “Santa” brought girls. He had schemed an idea to have me walk around and pick out what I would put on my list to Santa. Little did my 5-year-old self realize, Dad was jotting down whatever I picked up in the store. From then on out, we’d venture to the stores together while Jackson stayed home with a babysitter.
As I got older, we shopped for Jackson and I’d point out what cosmetics or clothes interested me. My Dad would visibly sag in relief when I pretended to make a comment like: ‘Oh my God! I’ve been wanting to try this makeup palette!’ or, ‘Look at these UGGs! Aren’t they cute?!’ Without fail, whatever I had mentioned would show up under the Christmas tree. The only thing I never had to point out for my dad? Hockey gear. He was a sucker for outfitting us in the latest gear and using Christmas as his excuse to splurge on it.
This was the first year we’d be celebrating without him. Last year, the news had been too fresh for us to even realize Thanksgiving came and went. Jackson and I were numb. We sat on the couch watching bad reruns on T.V. and a neighbor knocked on our door with sympathy leftovers. It was when they wished us a ‘Happy Thanksgiving’ with that sad, resigned look in their eyes that I realized what day it was.
I started drinking that night.
“Honestly? I’ll probably stay here in my apartment and binge-watch The Vampire Diaries ,” I said lamely.
With the state of our relationship, I didn’t predict us trying to do anything together. We could go back to our house in town and attempt to cook or order in. Dad left the house for us when he died. He paid it off the summer before, with a bonus he received for the hockey championship, the team won. Jackson and I never thought about selling it. It was an unspoken agreement. It was our home and Dad would want us to always have somewhere to land. Especially when we graduate and adventure out into the world. The life insurance and retirement Dad accrued would cover taxes on the house for the next couple of years until Jackson and I established ourselves in our careers. Everything taken care of, just how Dad would’ve liked it.
Kennedy gave me a look of sympathy that I instantly hated. It was the same look that the neighbor gave me last year when she handed me that sad Pyrex dish of crappy leftovers.
I spoke before she could offer her sympathies or a solution. “What about you?”
A weird look flitted across her face before her eyes shuttered. “Dad will want me to come home. I’ll help Mom cook and wrangle my younger brothers. It’ll be quiet,”
I didn’t pry, but the response felt wooden and rehearsed. Despite not having been in my life for long, Kennedy was becoming my closest friend, so I made a mental note of it. I would hate to know that something bad was happening to her behind closed doors.
I attempted to shift the somber mood that had descended over us. “Hunter St. James finger banged me on the ice the other night,” I blurted out.
Kennedy’s jaw dropped. “Shut the fuck up, no, he didn’t!” She screeched. A few other students looked our way, and I quickly shushed her.
“I need details. Please tell me he knew how to use his hands, please,” she whined.
Covering my mouth with my hand to contain my laughter, my che eks warmed with the memory of Hunter’s hands scissoring my cunt. There was no need to respond. My facial expression gave everything away.
“Oh, my god. He is!”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I mean, it was alright.”
Kennedy snorted, laughing at me. She threw one of her french fries at my face. “Shut up, ugh, what I wouldn’t give to have another hockey player’s hands down my pants. They stick handle. All. Damn. Day.” She rolled her eyes back while moaning.
Her mention of 'another' caught my attention. What hockey player had Kennedy hooked up with before? Before we met, she had zero hockey knowledge. I raised my eyebrow. “Another?” I asked innocently.
Kennedy’s face quickly flashed with horror at her words. She recovered quickly and quipped at me.
“Another, as in, not your man.” She waggled her eyebrows as she spoke.
It was my turn to snort. “One finger bang does not commit him to being my ‘man’,” My fingers curled into air quotes around the word, ‘man’.
“Of course. You, you go to pound town as much as you want, no slut shaming here.” She crossed her arms in an ‘x’ motion, causing me to laugh.
“Good lord, I swear you were some sex-crazed hippie in a past life.”
Kennedy made a ‘pfft,’ noise. “How do you know I am not currently a sex-crazed hippie?”
“Touche.” I countered.