Falling for You (Seasons of Love #1)

Chapter 1

Genevieve

Some of us take longer to figure out who we are. I’m only a freshman, I thought I still had time. With each tick of the clock on the wall, my headache pounds harder.

I desperately need a manicure. My cuticles look like a crime scene and if my mother saw them, she’d faint—then rise from the dead just to lecture me about image.

I’ve chewed my nails to nubs, impatiently waiting for my academic advisor and the dean of students to come to a decision.

These two crusty admin women keep staring at me like I’m some walking Prada bag with an attitude problem.

They're not wrong.

I’m sure they would like for me to just disappear. I’ve given them enough to deal with.

But it’s their job.

“Genevieve, you are on academic probation. You cannot change your major for a third time mid-semester. It’s against school policy to add new courses this late into the semester,” my academic advisor, Bridgett Haslor, says.

“What do you mean I’m on academic probation? I just got to this school!” I respond to her. She stares at me under her clumpy mascara with a look of disappointment.

Don’t they know how hard it is to find a major?

To commit to one field of study for four entire years?

I’m not perfect like Lana, the perfect roommate and the perfect student.

I wasn't born knowing what I wanted to do for my whole life. I’m supposed to have more time, and I know that, but why doesn’t the dean?

“You’re failing statistics, Genevieve, and you have straight “C’s” in the rest of your classes.

You cannot change your major for the third time when your grades look like this.

It’s November, school has already been in session for three months,” Ms. Haslor says.

Her tone oozes with disdain. I roll my eyes.

“The University’s policy doesn’t allow it.

You’ll have to bring your grades up if you want to change your major again.

Even if that happens, you need to really think about what major you want.

You can’t just change your major on a whim,” says the college dean, Sherri Grant.

Mrs. Grant looks at me as if I'm a child throwing a tantrum instead of a college student struggling.

They don't want to see a tantrum from me.

I take a deep breath quietly and try to keep my cool as I listen. I focus on the bright yellow painting on the wall behind them that says, you have the power to write your story.

How ironic.

I have the power to write my story, but they won’t let me change my major.

I’m not a child. I’ve heard the word ‘no’ before, but it sure sucks to hear it yet again, especially from people I’m supposed to admire.

I can’t fathom finishing this semester taking classes I loathe. There has to be something I can do. Maybe my dad could give me a leg up. He could donate a building or some new computers for the library.

He owes me.

But maybe they know about his past.

I look at my dean and advisor's faces, noting the disappointing gazes sent to each other as if I'm not sitting right here. I can tell they both despise me.

I call them by their first names because they don’t deserve my respect right now.

“Bridgett, Sherri, I’m sure my father, David Brown, would love to hear about how I’m being treated,” I say, crossing my arms tightly against my chest, “and that neither of you could help the daughter of the person who funded the new auditorium find a major that she likes.” Cue my best death stare, Chanel No. 5 edition.

They can’t mess with me; my father won’t allow it. No matter how much damage he’s done to our family, he still cares about me.

I think.

I coil a strand of my long, blonde hair around my finger imagining that it’s Bridgett and Sherri.

Ms. Haslor’s eyebrows raise so high that her glasses almost fall off. Dean Grant looks stunned. I know I’ve scared them now.

“That won’t be necessary, Ms. Brown. This is simply the University’s policy,” Bridgett says trying to talk her way out of the situation.

“I think what Ms. Haslor meant to say is ‘what would you like to change your major to?’” Dean Grant intervenes with full composure, trying her hardest to hold back her clenched jaw.

I smile back at her like I’m posing for a close-up.

***

Fuckers! The look on their faces was everything! They were so scared that they probably would have taken my classes for me. No one can touch me at this school; I own this place.

I look down at my shoes as I walk away from the office towards my dorm and remember my first time seeing them, knowing they'd give me the confidence for this meeting.

I changed my major to business administration. Isn’t that what everyone does when they don’t know what they want to do? It’s an easy route and it'll keep my sanity, and my parents happy, for now.

What I really want to study is fashion, but the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York got a new director, and not even my father’s money could get the administration to start it up again. I would’ve started with that initially, instead of pre-med. My brothers did the same.

I’ll have to stick to doing sketches alone for now.

My mother didn’t want to buy my way into college and have me flunk out.

If her friends found out she bought her daughter into college, she would be mortified and I would never hear the end of it.

So I went to the only school that accepted me and my mom decided I’d go to medical school to follow in the footsteps of my brothers.

It took one chemistry class to tell me what I already knew.

I hate science.

So I changed to psychology without telling her. I figured she would be more forgiving once she found out I switched if I was in a respectable major, but I hated the thought of listening to other people’s problems. So, three months and another switch later, here we are.

Business admin.

I just can’t tell my mom. She’d flip harder than a Real Housewife at a reunion show.

Living in New York has made her always feel like she needs to maintain some sort of image.

It's always been extremely annoying because not only does my mom need to create a perfect image for herself, her family had to follow suit.

Even when my parents went through their divorce, my mom made sure to never bat an eye when someone was watching or brought it up so that the entire situation was all hush, hush.

It didn't matter if I was struggling with the life-change, I pasted a smile on from ear-to-ear.

Nebraska was a huge change from New York, but in all honesty, Nebraska has been good to me. I love it here, even though sometimes I feel stifled by it’s brevity. Everyone knows everyone, but I don’t always want everyone to know me, even if it's not the real me.

The main thing I love about small towns is it feels like a family.

Especially when I’ve never really had a close family. But sometimes the smallness gets to me and I remember where I’m from.

The city of dreams.

I walk back to my dorm across campus, plotting how to get away from this place. How much does my time here at this school really matter?

Not much, I decide, taking a sharp inhale of the crisp fall air. I love everything about the season. It’s Mother Nature’s way of showing us new beginnings, that it’s okay to change, and that change is beautiful.

It’s time for a change of pace. Fall break starts tomorrow and maybe I can convince Lana to take a trip with me for a few days.

People sip out of paper coffee cups as they walk to class.

Pumpkin spiced lattes, judging by the sweet spiciness lingering in the air. If I liked coffee I’d probably join in on the trend, but I’ve always preferred tea- too bad they don’t have pumpkin spiced teas at Starbucks.

And none of that chai bullshit, a real herbal, pumpkin spiced tea.

A squirrel runs by me, followed by another. Everything about fall is gorgeous.

Wind scatters red, yellow, and orange leaves across campus, sending a chill down my legs as I walk.

I zip up my leather jacket to hide my nipples, hard from the cold and poking through my sheer t-shirt.

The jacket isn’t warm, it’s just for looks, but at least if I zip up it will cover my nips.

The rustle of leaves creates a mellifluous hush.

Fall outfits are my favorite. There’s nothing better than leather jackets with matching boots.

Mine have a tiny heel that makes me feel extra tall and graceful.

The wind does me dirty—lifting my plaid skirt like we’re in some budget Marilyn Monroe remake. And of course, I’m not wearing Spanx; because fashion. A man whistles in the distance and now I can add a few more tallies to men on this campus who have seen my ass.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

In New York, the sidewalks are the runway. On campus, the sidewalks are people’s front yards and everyone around here lives in sweatpants and flannels. I’ve driven by elementary schools where parents pick up their kids in pajamas.

That was a new one for me.

It’s a shame the fashion here in Nebraska is nonexistent. I’ve always wanted to become a fashion designer or a model, but here, that isn’t really an option. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. My mother wouldn’t support it.

She still thinks my major is pre-med. A surgeon who values STEM education, she wouldn’t want me pursuing a career as risky as modeling.

But I can’t drop out. If I dropped out of college, my mother would die. And my mother saves a lot of lives, so her death would cause other people to die. So, basically, my dropping out of college would be like the plague.

The only opportunity for me to model in Nebraska is Omaha Fashion Week, where amateur designers can showcase their work once a year.

Ever since I was old enough, I’ve gone to New York Fashion Week.

My father is friends with a few designers, and he was always able to convince their friends to let me walk the runway.

It was the least he could do.