Chapter 7 Ava #2
My fingers continuously threaded through my hair as I wondered for the hundredth time how the hell I had met him on Friday.
I was at the party. He was not. I had too many drinks.
I knew that my stomach had been tender right into Sunday night.
Even drunk off my ass, I would know if Jett was at the party.
I would know if any of the football guys were there, but it was the night before a game.
They shouldn’t have been out. He shouldn’t have been out. I would remember if they were there.
Wouldn’t I?
“Ms. Bryant, are you listening?”
My head shot up, and my mouth dropped open. “Huh?”
“I’ll take the lack of articulation as a no, shall I?” Professor Windsor asked me with an easy grin.
“Sorry.” I knew I was turning red, but the professor was now openly laughing at me. “Didn’t sleep last night.” I immediately regretted my words, because the catcalls and whistles were expected, even if they were juvenile.
“What kept our Ava Bryant awake?” Professor Windsor asked me. His name was Joe, and he encouraged us to use it, but it felt odd, and I hadn’t managed it yet. Not even in my head.
“Generator broke, no AC.”
“Ouch, and we’re not even in the first week of September,” he said with a shake of his head. “Southern heat is a killer.”
“I did spend about three hours during the night going over the assignment,” I told him as I hoped that this would distract him from the fact that I hadn’t been paying attention.
“In the Southern heat, while overheating, you thought of Blanche?” The professor gave a cheerful laugh as he turned to the whiteboard. “Okay, Ava. Tell me how A Streetcar Named Desire reflects your inner turmoil in a hot room in the middle of the night, with no air.”
“Well,” I began, and I was off. It was one of my most favorite plays, and I had been thinking about her last night as I lay and thought about him.
A desperate woman confusing illusion with reality.
Was I confusing my fragmented memories of Friday with something they weren’t?
I was having flashbacks of a hot and heavy sex-a-thon, but what if it wasn’t?
What if I had simply passed out and all the sexcapades were in my head?
He didn’t even know who I was, for God’s sake.
Maybe some small — very small, possibly minute part of me — wanted it to have been a sex session, but in truth, my virgin, inexperienced self had actually been so bad in bed, and drunk, he had simply rolled over and gone to sleep?
Giving the class my attention, as I should have done, and talking about the play lessened my inner ramblings, and I became more focused.
Packing up my things afterwards, I was pleased that I had started a good discussion in the class, but like so many other times, my mind wandered back to him.
Realistically, I knew I had to take the hit.
My ego was bruised. I should have meant more than I did to him.
But then, truthfully, he should have probably meant more to me than he did.
So . . . was I any better than Jett? Really?
I didn’t remember the night much, and he didn’t seem to remember me . . . so . . . maybe he was just as drunk as me? And honestly, did I actually want him to remember? God no. I could quite happily live my life without him having that knowledge.
He had done a nice thing for me today.
In return, I’d been a bitch.
We would never be friends, but I should do the honorable thing and thank him properly. Civilly. I hadn’t been polite with him so far, but maybe me being purposefully nice to him would shock him so much that I could deliver my apology and get out of there before he could reply?
If unicorns were real, they’d fart rainbows.
I texted Mia after my third class when I received the email that the AC was fixed.
She sent me a trophy emoji for killing it in the admin building.
I would tell her later who we should actually be thanking.
Or to avoid the conversation, I could keep it to myself.
Mia wouldn’t care who really got it done, as long as it was done.
Heading to the cafeteria, I thought about lunch. I needed carbs and energy. Possibly an energy drink. And coffee. Maybe a burger. With fries. No, was that too heavy? But if I had a food coma happening in the afternoon, I could snooze through Leitch. No, that would never happen.
As I debated my food choices, I really should have paid more attention. A sudden whack to my head knocked me flying. My cry of alarm and my arms flailing like a windmill would have been comical if I hadn’t just landed on my ass.
“Ow! Sonofabitch!” Rubbing my head, I sat up as I realized my book bag was spilled all over the grass too.
“You okay?”
I looked up into familiar light blue eyes and a handsome face, only this time it wasn’t the Devil that I was used to. Gray Santo? Seriously? Was someone just fucking bored up above and trying to make me miserable?
“You hit me?” Shaking my head to clear it from the thumping, I refused his outstretched hand as I stood.
“Nah, not me, him,” Gray said as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
I half expected Jett, but it was the backup QB, and he was currently heading my way. “His aim’s shit,” I snapped as I rubbed my head again, not too sore. The ache would fade quickly.
“Yeah, we were trying a new play.”
“Try your new plays and routes in the stadium,” I growled as I bent down to pick up my belongings and put them back in my bag.
“Hey, you okay?” The backup quarterback had arrived. I knew him. I knew the whole team on paper, but I wasn’t in the mood to be nice.
“No, jackass. Be more careful.” With a glare, I stomped angrily away from them. Twice in one day, I had been the source of attention from a Santo brother.
“Yo, chick?”
I stopped dead and turned back to Gray, who was holding something out to me. “Chick?” I asked him incredulously. “Do I look like poultry?”
“Whatever, you dropped this.” He tossed it to me with casual indifference and had turned away before I had clumsily caught it, realizing it was my wallet.
“Thanks,” I called out after him, his back broad and straight as he walked away. He flicked his middle finger up at me, and despite myself, I grinned. That was how I expected a Santo to behave. Complete indifference to the lesser minions.
Maybe the knock on my head was my world shifting back onto its rightful axis.
“So, is it just any man that you’re rude to, or do you reserve your aggression just for us Santos?”
Fuck my life. I turned and met his cool, sardonic stare with trepidation. “Hi.”
Jett didn’t smile.
“You saw?”
“Hard to miss.”
“Apparently not for your backup,” I muttered as I rubbed my head again in remembrance. He said nothing. Okay then. “So, earlier,” I started and then faltered. His eyes were glacial, and I felt nervous. “I was rude.”
“You were.”
“Okay, well, thanks for that, anyway . . .” My sarcasm was hard to rein in, but I had to try. “Anyway, I should have said thank you. Properly.”
“Properly? So now you want to give me a blow job?”
“What?” My eyes were wide as I met his cool look. “What is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“You!” We stared at each other for a long moment. I in incredulity, he with apathy. This was getting me nowhere. “I just want to say thanks, it’s fixed. I appreciate your help.” I waited, and when he gave no response, I was content to tell myself I’d tried my best. “Now we’re even.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” I waited again. “Oh, fuck off, you know I’m trying to be nice. You didn’t have to help me, you did, I’ve said thanks, again, now please, we don’t ever need to speak again, okay?”
I hastily walked past him, and when I heard him say, “No problem,” I didn’t even falter. Now the last few days could finally be over.