Chapter Eleven Evan #2
“They’re all on the same floor. It can’t be that far.”
“It’s room 275,” she whispers, groaning.
“Oh shit. Yeah, that is far.”
Scarlett groans even louder, propping herself up against the nearest wall and sliding down it dramatically.
She pulls her knees to her chest, dropping her face between them and I stifle a laugh.
“I feel like my guts are quite literally being rearranged right now. I’m never going to make it that far. ”
I sigh, stepping in front of her. “Hey, look, my room’s right there,” I say, pointing down the hall. “You can sober up there, so Biggins doesn’t kill you and then I’ll walk you back to your room later.”
She peers up at me with teary, tired eyes. “You’d do that?”
“Yeah, it’s really not a big deal,” I say, even though it absolutely feels like it is. “Are you gonna get up?”
“Maybe,” she mumbles.
I hold out a hand to her, shaking it until she eventually takes it, and I help her to her feet. It takes her a minute to get used to being upright again before we start to walk in the direction of my room.
The second we’re inside she’s rushing to the bathroom.
I don’t get to process much before I’m behind her as she kneels by the toilet bowl, gagging and throwing up into it.
I take a breath, trying to remember that this is about her, and I gather the hair that’s falling into her face and push it behind her ears.
I use one hand to rub smooth circles on her back and the other to hold her hair back out of her face. “Are you okay?” I ask softly.
As if she’s just registered where she is, her pale face turns to me and she yells, “Oh my God! You’re still in here? Get out!”
“Gladly,” I mutter, stepping back from her and slipping out of the bathroom.
When I’m alone again, I don’t know what to do with myself. I know I need to shower. To get clean. But Scarlett’s probably going to be occupying the bathroom for a while. I crack open the window instead, desperate to get some air on my skin.
“Evan?”
I walk toward the bathroom door at the sound of Scarlett’s voice. “Yeah?”
“Do you have a spare shirt or something? My dress is ruined,” she says weakly.
I nod, even though she can’t see me, and I go to look through the clothes I packed, picking up the first clean shirt I can find. I knock on the door, and she opens it just enough to grab the shirt from my hand and shut it again.
“You’re welcome,” I shout back, but all I hear in response is the sound of the shower running. I pace the room again, counting each step as I go. What am I going to do when she leaves? Sleep? I don’t think I can anymore.
This is what I wanted, right? The real college experience. It seems like I’m getting it.
I make myself useful while she showers and I boil the small kettle in the room, sifting through the packets of tea. I know she must like herbal tea with how much she drinks in class, but I’m not sure what flavor she likes. I get them all out anyway, lying them beside a mug.
The door creaks and I turn to find it open only a couple centimeters. “Scarlett . . . ?”
“I swear to God, if you laugh at me, Branson, I’m going to pull you apart limb from limb,” she threatens from behind the door.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She pushes the door open a little more until she steps through with her dress in one hand and her other hand clutching her stomach. It’s only when she drops her hand that I realize which shirt I gave her.
I press my lips together as I read the words ‘Suck My Pianist’ printed across the white T-shirt. The shirt falls halfway down her thighs, her dark hair slightly damp and slicked behind her ears. I want to take a picture of her. Memorize this sight in front of me. Burn it behind my eyelids.
Scarlett tugs at the hem of the shirt. “Why do you even own this?”
I smile. “Miles got it me for Christmas last year.”
“Should’ve figured,” she mutters.
I nod toward the dresser by the bed. “There’s tea and water there.
You should have some,” I say, and she nods, walking over to it.
She pours herself a mug of tea carefully and sits on the edge of my bed.
I know this is a bad idea—having her in my room, sitting on my bed in nothing but her underwear and my shirt—but I also want this moment to last forever.
Scarlett brings the steaming mug to her nose, sniffing a few times. “What flavor is this?” she asks, still smelling it.
“Chamomile and honey.”
Her eyes narrow and she pins me with a look. “You brought your own teabags here?”
I shrug. “Yeah, of course I did.”
“Of course you did,” she mutters, checking the label that hangs off the teabag. She looks at the label, then at me. Back to the label. Back to me. “This is from The Grand Brew.”
“It is.”
“That’s my favorite café,” she whispers, so quietly like it’s a secret.
“Huh. What are the chances? I love that place too.”
She shakes her head with a disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, I used to go there all the time with my mom. This is one of my favorite flavors.”
“Maybe we have a lot more in common than you think,” I suggest.
She’s too busy looking at the tea in front of her to give me much of an answer, and I smile to myself.
I lean against the wall opposite her, eventually sliding down to sit on the floor.
“Why’d you come to the party tonight?” Scarlett asks, tilting forward to look down at me.
I shrug. “I already told you. Tiffany called me.” She narrows her eyes like she doesn’t believe me. “I should’ve said no.”
“Wow, thanks.”
I smirk. “But I didn’t.” That sort of gets a smile out of her, so I continue and give her a little more. “I also went because my dad’s been getting in my head about not embracing my college life. He thinks I’m some sort of recluse.”
She shuffles back on the bed slightly, crossing her legs and pulling down the shirt slightly.
I can still see so much of her like this—her tanned legs, the slightly chipped red nail polish on her toes, the way the shirt sticks to her in places that haven’t dried properly.
I can’t tell if it irritates me or if it just makes me want to be closer to her.
She sighs deeply. “Well, your dad’s not . . . wrong. You hardly ever leave your house unless you’re going to campus.”
“I don’t really have a reason to,” I say back. I know it’s a pathetic excuse but it’s something. Scarlett doesn’t let up though.
“You share a house with two hockey players, there’s a million reasons to go out.”
“Maybe.”
“But hey, at least your dad actually trusts you. He wants you to have a good time and to make bad decisions. My parents would have a heart attack if they found out what I did tonight,” Scarlett says, taking a sip of her tea.
I can see the sadness in her eyes, the way her lips turn just slightly downward at the mention of her parents.
“They’re probably just trying to protect you in their own way,” I tell her, and she shrugs. My dad and I haven’t always been this close. It took a bit of time for us to get to where we are now, but I’m grateful for it.
“I guess,” Scarlett mumbles. She takes a deep breath, tilting her head back, before her eyes land on mine again. “They want me to complete a list of things before I can have a job at Voss,” she admits quietly.
I sit up a little straighter against the wall. “A list?”
“Yeah. They’re stupid, random things that don’t even make much sense. But I have to do it because I want it so badly.”
I nod in understanding. “I had to do something similar when I was a teenager. It wasn’t too bad. Just attending meetings and proving that I actually understood how the business works before I could get an official job.”
Her head tilts to the side. “So, it’s a universal thing?”
I shrug. “It’s probably tailored to you as a person, but yeah, it might be.” Scarlett’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, and she takes a gulp of her tea. “What have you done so far?”
“Burnt a batch of cannolis and given a speech.”
“How do you burn cannolis?”
“Trust me, I found a way.”
I laugh, and I laugh even harder when Scarlett frowns at me. “So . . . that’s why you freaked out on me the other night at the gala.”
“It might have had something to do with it.”
I know how much effort she must’ve put into working for her parents.
I see how much she cares about her grades and doing well in class.
If her parents can’t see that now, it’s going to be their loss.
But I can tell how much her family mean to her.
How badly she wants to impress them and make them proud. I know that feeling all too well.
“I can help you with the list if you want. You know, give you some direction,” I suggest. “It’s hard to see the wood for the trees when you’re that close to something.”
Her mouth pops open in surprise. “Oh, um, no, thanks. I need to complete it myself.”
“Okay, but for what it’s worth, I think you’ll be able to do it. You’re one of the smartest people I know.”
She grins. “I know.” She places the mug back down on the bedside table and yawns so big that her entire body shakes with it. “I’m just—” Another yawn. “Resting my eyes for a second.”
She shuffles on the bed, resting her head against the headboard, and the second her eyes close she slips further down until she’s on her back. I don’t even try to disturb her as she makes herself comfortable in her sleep, stretching and turning until she stops fidgeting.
The shirt rides up her thighs again and I fetch the blanket from the end of the bed and wrap it over her. I can’t help but smile at the way her face is smushed into the pillow, long, perfect eyelashes resting against her cheeks.
She looks so peaceful—not angry or upset or drunk. Just tired, and finally resting.
When I find myself yawning, I’m grateful that my body has remembered that I need to sleep. I shower as quietly as I can, feeling more settled than I had earlier, before I take a seat on the chair by the window and close my eyes.