Chapter 4
Guinevere
T he breeze feels amazing on my hot skin as I make my way across campus to my Literary Criticism class. This is one of my favorite classes so far this semester because I love reading and I enjoy talking about what I’m reading with people who are just as into it as I am. It makes the conversations so much better.
I stroll past Whittaker Hall and the library to get to Mallory Center where most of my classes take place since it’s the creative arts building. All the buildings on campus are old, but not necessarily falling apart. They’ve done a lot of renovations and added some modern amenities, but the outside architecture is absolutely beautiful.
Ellington University was founded in the 1920s by Augustus Ellington. The story goes that Augustus was building his family a home, which was intended to be what is now known as Ellington House, or the administrative building. It was the only building standing before Augustus died and it was never finished. His wife and children moved away, and no one ever saw them again. Today, it is one of New England’s grandest universities.
Many students who attend Ellington University are trust fund brats that come from families with more money than they know what to do with. I come from money, but I don’t show it off like most kids here. The only reason I’m even here is because my dad was an Elite member, and his one wish was for me to attend his alma mater.
As I step into the building, my mother’s name pops up on my phone screen. We talk every day, at least twice a day. Since my parents got their divorce when I was eighteen, my mom and I have gotten really close, but she’s kind of been smothering me lately. I didn’t want to leave her back home, but she insisted she would be okay.
It’s only about a two-hour drive from where I am in Connecticut to Barrington, my hometown in Rhode Island. My father moved to California after the divorce, so I don’t see him much, but he makes sure to give me updates about his life via his secretary sending me emails here and there. Him and mom are civil, but I don’t see them talking much either.
Their divorce wasn’t messy. It wasn’t drawn out or dramatic. It was quick, painless. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. At least, it was for them.
I grew up with happy parents who were the picture of romance. They were always together, they never fought, and they loved me. My dad constantly brought home flowers for my mom, and sometimes he’d even buy me some.
“For my little princess,” he’d say as he picked me up and twirled me around.
Up until I was about to leave for Ellington U, they were perfect. But the night before I left, they sat me down and told me they were getting a divorce. They admitted that they haven’t been getting along for a while which was obviously a shock to me.
I didn’t show them, but I was sick about it. I couldn’t believe it; they were so happy.
I watched as my dad packed his things and tried not to cry. Honestly, I don’t even think my mother cried.
My father left us loads of money, enough to live off of for the rest of our lives. He also set up an account for me for when I turned twenty-one, which was last year.
As soon as they signed the papers, my dad hopped on a one-way flight to California and hasn’t been back since. He says he likes the weather and being close to LA.
Being a famous actor affords him many luxuries, but it also takes a lot of his time away from me. I haven’t been out to visit him yet, and we rarely ever actually talk.
I answer the call and bring my phone to my ear. My mother’s sweet voice speaks on the other end. “Gwenny?” The nickname makes me cringe, but I’ve gotten used to it.
“Hi, mom,” I say with a small smile even though she can’t see me.
“How are you? You didn’t call me last night. I was worried. Are you okay?”
“I know, I’m sorry. I had a paper to write for my class this morning and it took a lot longer than I expected. I’m okay,” I assure her. She worries so much, and I hate that she does.
I hear her let out a breath on the other end.
“Oh, okay. Good. When are you coming home?” she asks with hope in her voice. Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t mind my hometown, but when I’m there, it reminds me that my dad is no longer there which really brings down my mood.
“Soon, mom. I gotta get to class. I’ll talk to you later,” I tell her.
“Okay. Love you, sweetie.”
“Love you, too,” I hang up the phone and let out a small breath before continuing on my way up the stairs and to my lecture hall.
As I turn the corner toward the hall my classroom is in, I receive a text from my mother letting me know she forgot to inform me of the new dog she recently took in from our elderly neighbor. I chuckle as I begin to text back, but before I can, I run into someone, and my phone falls to the floor.
“Sorry, I-”
“Watch where you’re going,” the deep voice growls. What the hell? I pick my phone up off the floor, and as I stand back up, an unfamiliar face stares down at me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him around, but the campus is pretty big, so that makes sense.
“I’m sorry, I should have been looking-” he interrupts again.
“Yeah, you should have. Maybe don’t look down at your phone while you’re walking.” Okay… why is this guy being so freaking rude? He was the one standing on the corner. I cross my arms over my chest and note the cell phone in his large hand.
“You were on your phone,” I retort. His face is hard as stone, and if I knew better, I’d probably back down now. But there’s no way I’m going to let him talk to me like that.
“I wasn’t walking,” he states.
“No, but you’re standing right at the corner of a busy hallway, looking down at your phone. So, I should be saying that to you,” I give myself a mental high five for the snark in my response.
The strangers' eyes narrow as they move up and down my body.
“Whatever. Just watch where you’re going,” he says again before proceeding to lean back against the wall and look down at his phone.
What a prick. If I were smarter, I would leave and forget this situation ever happened. But I’m not, so here I am. My hands land on my hips and I glare at the tall, muscular man standing in front of me.
“You know, you could be a little nicer. I said I was sorry.”
His eyes roam over me once more and I’m suddenly aware of the goosebumps on my exposed arms.
The man pushes off the wall and stands in front of me. He’s so close I can feel the heat emanating off his body. I can smell his musky cologne, and the slight mint in his breath. He looks me directly in the eyes before his gaze lowers to my lips, then back to my eyes. God, if he wasn’t such an ass, I’d probably want him to kiss me.
“This is me being nice,” he shakes his head and stalks off down the hall. I’ve met some assholes in my life, but he takes the freaking cake.