Chapter One – Georgia
I am a murderer.
I mean, as far as murderers go, I’m actually pretty tame. At least the murder wasn’t brutal and bloody. It was slow, executed over three months’ time, and certainly accidental.
That is . . . probably worse.
I wince, holding the glass mason jar in my hand as I narrow my eyes. I sincerely hope the dry and crumbling parade roses can feel my judgment. It was kind of rude to go and die on me.
Granted, I didn’t water them the way I should have. My grip tightens on the cool class as the wilted flowers mock me. It’s definitely my fault, but the drooping flowers are a good metaphor for my life, anyway.
I’m either spending too much time in the classroom trying to piece together this entire student-teacher gig, or I’m home, watching Netflix, eating copious amounts of kettle corn, and avoiding doing literally anything for as long as humanly possible.
It’s a delicate balance between too much and too little.
No wonder my soul is dead.
Like the plant.
I dump the rest of the water into the dirt and hope it does something. It is entirely possible that I’ve discovered the fountain of youth here in my apartment, and my poor plant child will magically be cured in a matter of moments.
Besides, drinking more water is the cure for most things.
Constipated? Drink water. Acne? Drink water.
Slowly dying because your student teaching placement is in a high school, and your students think you’re so pitiful that they put together a GoFundMe to help you replace your stupid shoes?
Grab that emotional support water bottle, and—you guessed it—drink water.
I look back at the plant, now drenched and still very much dead. “You’ll be just fine,” I mutter.
The door bursts open, startling me as I spin to see my roommate, Emerson, plow into the room.
Grocery bags filled with pipe cleaners, dried macaroni noodles, and other miscellaneous craft supplies spill onto the couch like she’s just in the beginnings of her brand-new hoarding disorder.
When her brown eyes hit me, I can already tell she has come with bad news.
Hopefully, it has little to do with hoarding. “Don’t kill me.”
I look back at the plant—my first victim. “Sorry, I was actually just practicing.” A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
Emerson untangles her beige backpack strap from her long, black hair, looking at my crime scene. “Right,” she says. “So, anyway.” She’s dragging her words out like she knows I will not be okay with whatever comes next.
Emerson and I have roomed together since freshman year. I’ve spent holidays with her family, and she’s spent holidays with mine. After four years of solid friendship, I can typically tell when she’s about to say something I won’t like, and this is one of those moments.
“Spit it out,” I say.
“You know how much I love my job performing at the bar, right? It’s almost as much as I love having you there. Which you’re going to be—there, I mean.”
“Of course.” I chuckle, folding my arms across my chest and waiting for her to continue.
“Sawyer is going to be there, too.”
I blink—loudly. If you can even do that.
Silence stretches between us as I stare at her and wait for the punch line, but it doesn’t come. I swear I hear a car swerve outside, birds dropping dead, babies crying, a sinkhole forming in the street.
“When you say Sawyer,” I question.
“Yes.” Her smile isn’t exactly happy. Her teeth are showing, but she kind of looks like she’s cringing. “My brother.”
I literally don’t respond. If there is one thing more abusive than a classroom full of high school students learning about Environmental Science, it’s Sawyer Owens.
I first met Emerson’s family during Thanksgiving, our freshman year.
Since Emerson’s family lives locally, and my family lives halfway across the country, I skipped paying for a second ticket when I would be home at Christmas, anyway.
The Owens family is made of some of the nicest people on the planet—minus one—and when I mentioned I was in school to study secondary education, Sawyer chimed in.
I don’t know if it was the, you realize education is a shitshow right now, or the, well, those who can’t, teach. Whatever it was, somewhere between his infuriatingly handsome smile and his stunningly poor social awareness, I made my decision.
I hate him.
No. Scratch that. I loathe him.
And he has confirmed those feelings every single day since the moment I met him.
Now he’s some hot sous chef at one of the restaurants in town, and something about that infuriates me even more.
Emerson walks forward, her eyes pleading in a way that reminds me I cannot say no. I’ve skipped out on watching her perform too many times since student teaching started. I can’t do it again. She loves this job. She’s proud of it. I can’t not go.
She places her hands on my shoulders. “Oh, come on, Georgia! It’ll be fun.”
I scoff. “I may just stay home.”
“Look,” Emerson glances behind me, smirking when she sees my withering roses. “I know you feel bad about the plant, but he isn’t coming back. You don’t need to stay home because he is long gone.”
I keep my face blank, my tone dry. I am obviously going to be spending my Friday night torturing myself by hanging out with her brother, but she doesn’t need to know that yet.
“Jesus rose from the dead,” I say.
She tries not to laugh, nodding her head to all the death behind me. “That is not Jesus.”
“Jesus also raised other people from the dead.” I blink again, keeping my features schooled even though I’m dying to laugh at her confused expression. “Your mom’s a Catholic,” I add. “She gets it.”
“You said you’d be at this show, so we could hang out afterward.” Her hands fall away from my shoulders. “You’re practically working a full-time job now, and you’re working on your final project.” She’s not convinced. “I know you’d never miss an opportunity to hang out with the one, the only—”
She’s gesturing to herself. Her megawatt smile would put a car salesman to shame.
“Stop while you’re ahead.” My smile cracks the facade, and I laugh. “Fine,” I say, but she already knew that was the answer. “But one, I am not straightening my hair for this.”
She practically skips to the couch to gather up whatever craft supplies she purchased. “I don’t know why you’d disrespect your curls like that, anyway.”
I glance down at the blonde rat’s nest hanging below my shoulders and shrug. When I look at her again, her arms are full, and she’s slowly making her way toward the hallway and to her room.
“And two,” I say. “If he says one thing about my clothes, or my major, or anything negative whatsoever—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she shouts, and I hear her kicking her door open. “If he comments on your outfit, you can come back and play Easter with your sad excuse for a plant.”
I chuckle, making my way to the kitchen so I can finally eat something.
During my lunch, I usually scarf down fruit snacks and pretzels because twenty minutes is never enough, especially when five of those minutes are used up peeing for the first time all day.
I pull out the bread, peanut butter, and jelly, setting them on the counter and crafting a dinner of champions.
“Sous chef,” I mutter. “I hope he’d take one look at this meal and be horrified.”