Chapter 2
two
Georgia
“Yes.” Maisy stands behind me, her reflection nodding in the oval mirror. “That’s the exact lip color that’s gonna get you laid tonight, my friend. You’ve got fresh meat written all over you, and it’s never looked better.”
I laugh and lower my pink lip pencil. “Getting laid is the last thing on my mind. I told you you don’t have to take me out to a bar. Why don’t we walk around campus and check out the buildings?”
“Walk around campus and check out the buildings at ten p.m. on a Thursday?” Her hazel eyes widen. “Georgia, sweetie, you have the rest of your life to be bored to tears. You get one semester at Shafer, and I’m going to make sure you do it right.”
Shrugging, I return to my lips. I didn’t come here to party, but if my oldest friend in the world wants to show me a good time, who am I to argue? “Where are we going again?”
Maisy busies herself straightening the yellowing lampshade on my nightstand, which I pretend doesn’t melt my heart.
My new bedroom is tiny, with sloped ceilings, sparse pine furniture, and a single window, but it’s obvious Maisy spent hours setting it up, spacing the little nightstands perfectly on either side of the bed and arranging an odd but adorable collection of glass animal figurines on the dresser just so.
“The Phantom. It’s pretty much the bar. Cheap drinks, sticky floors, low lighting, good music. ”
“People looking to get laid?”
Maisy makes a face. “When I want to get laid, I go to the lesbian bar, but the Phantom has more hot people. Don’t worry, you’ll fit in beautifully.” She fingers a lock of my hair with a dreamy look. “What’s it like to never have a bad hair day?”
“I’d happily go to the lesbian bar with you tonight. I’m not trying to meet boys.”
“No! You need to see what Shafer is all about, and there’s no better place than the Phantom on the first Thursday of the new semester.
If you hate it, you’re in excellent company, and I’ll never drag you there again.
Now, finish getting ready and then come to my room and work your makeup magic on me, please?
Seriously, you should be a makeup artist.”
“I can’t imagine a worse job than being literally face-to-face with strangers all day.”
After she leaves, I blend my lip liner with a little brush, coat my lips in a matching lavender-pink lipstick, and dab a dot of frosty silver gloss in the center of the lower lip.
I nod at the final look, though with only the warm light from two bedside lamps to guide me, any mistakes are invisible.
I’ve loved makeup since I discovered online tutorials in middle school, and while most of the “it girls” now gravitate toward minimal makeup, I’m still holding tight to my dozen or more lipsticks, my stack of eyeshadow palettes that cover the rainbow and beyond, and my contouring products in powder, cream, and liquid forms. It’s about the ritual as much as the final product.
Choosing colors and combinations, drawing and blending, transforming my look to match any mood.
The only drawback is how it conflicts with my desire to remain invisible. Some men are put off by a full face of makeup, while others read it as an open invitation. I can only hope the men of Shafer are the former.
Makeup done, I rifle through the dresser I hastily sorted my clothes into this morning while settling in.
I’m still not sure how long I’ll be calling this room home.
Technically, I own a five-bedroom Victorian house on the other side of town—a fact I only learned a few weeks ago—but whether I ever inhabit the place is another question.
If I get my wish, the house will sell soon, and once the spring semester ends, I can get back to my life in New Jersey and everything I left there.
Not finding the jeans I want, I move to the half-unpacked suitcase shoved under the bed.
But when I pull it out, something soft and bulky comes with it, caught under the corner.
An XL black hoodie. A faint but delicious masculine scent clings to the wrinkled fabric, and I bring it to my nose and inhale despite feeling like a total weirdo for sniffing a stranger’s clothing.
Then I come to my senses, set the hoodie aside to give to Maisy, and find an outfit that’ll fool my roommate into thinking I’m excited to spend my evening in a bar.
“Hey.” Maisy appears in the doorway as I’m laying clothes out on the bed. “I forgot to tell you something. I’m really happy you’re here.”
A genuine smile curves my lips. “No you didn’t. You told me three times already today.”
“Well, just in case you forgot. Or you’re tired of me burning sandalwood candles day and night.
Or you’re noticing the heat barely reaches your bedroom.
Or you’re hitting your head on the ceiling and running out of space to put your stuff in this shoebox of a room.
I know it’s not fancy, but you don’t have to rush to get settled into your aunt’s house. I like having you here.”
“Hey, don’t make me cry, I just finished my makeup.” Not that I’d do such a thing in front of someone else, but the sentiment is there. I hold out my arms for a hug, and Maisy bounces right over.
“All right, finish getting ready.” She releases me. “My friends are picking us up in twenty minutes, and I’m still waiting for my makeover.”
I throw on my clothes, feeling incredibly lucky Maisy took pity on me.
When I decided to transfer to Shafer, the plan was to live with Aunt Julie.
But when that went to hell, Maisy insisted I live with her, and I was hesitant.
Being alone is my comfort zone, and while Maisy and I had instantly clicked back in our camp days, that was over a decade ago.
I had no idea if that chemistry would translate to our adult selves, but as soon as she hugged me, it was as if no time had passed.
I know the novelty will wear off for her—loners with a thing for tea, breakfast foods, and classical music are surely the most boring roommates imaginable—but this might be the last time in my life I live with someone else. Time to enjoy it.
The Phantom is somehow more and less impressive than expected.
I’ve only been to a handful of college bars in my three years as a student, and the Phantom’s worn-in aesthetic is a replica of the others: pool tables, too-loud music, neon signs covering the walls, and shelf after shelf of liquor bottles backlit by moody red lighting.
But the vibe is something else. Maybe Shafer University’s student population is livelier than the sleepy little college I attended back in Jersey a few miles from home, but Maisy was right; the Phantom on the first Thursday of the new semester is an experience.
The place is packed and sweltering, some students already having stripped down to short sleeves and tank tops, the ones still in their sweaters and jackets sporting a thin sheen on their foreheads.
The air is electric with new-semester energy and the buzz of cabin fever.
Every few feet, a mini reunion transpires, guys clapping each other on the backs and girls shrieking or hugging as friends reunite after the long break.
Moving in a pack with Maisy and her three friends, I weave toward the polished wood bar, then squeeze between two stools and the guys occupying them to wait for my turn to shout my order at the bartender.
Maisy beams, impressed to find her wallflower of a friend saddling up to the bar without hesitation, but my motives are selfish.
If I do the ordering, I don’t have to hear anyone tell me I can’t possibly drink water all night.
Armed with my plastic cup of ice water, I let Maisy and her girls drag me to a corner of the dance floor, where I humor them with a few minutes of halfhearted dancing before fading into the background.
I’m not fooling anyone, though. Maisy beckons me back to them, but I only have to smile and shake my head and she leaves me alone, accepting my introversion while keeping a close eye on me and any guys who glance my way.
Maisy heads back to the bar for another round a few songs later, while her friends surround me.
They’re glowy from the buzz of alcohol and from dancing in the jam-packed space.
Two of them, Leann and Ximena, yell over the music and pepper me with questions about why I transferred second semester of senior year, while Avery—the one who’s been side-eyeing me ever since Maisy introduced us—alternates between ignoring me and shooting me the occasional assessing glance.
I’m giving a condensed version of my convoluted story when a commotion sounds over by the entrance. A few cheers go up, heads turn to look, and someone shouts “Conference champs,” but I can’t see past the crowd.
Leann leans close to my ear. “Football guys just walked in,” she says, like that explains everything.
I nod even though I don’t get it. Shafer’s football program is one of the best in the nation, and I’m sure the players are celebrities on campus, but do cheers really erupt every time one of them walks into a room?
“There’s Cash,” Avery says, craning her neck, her gaze never leaving the crowd at the front of the bar. Yet all I see is head after head of hair.
Cash Hartnell. Maisy’s twin brother is one of Shafer’s top football players; however, the last time I saw him, he was a fourth grader with close-cut curly hair and a soft voice.
Even though I spent a week—or was it two?
—at Cash and Maisy’s house, the entire visit is a blur.
Although memories poke up here and there.
The dazzling stash of ice cream in the Hartnells’ freezer.
Mrs. Hartnell’s nearly unbearable kindness.
My disbelief that I was, in fact, an orphan, and that when I went home, my parents would never be there again.
And the memory of little Cash entertaining me throughout one long, hot summer day as Maisy was off to who knew where.