What My Rival Made Me Do

Saturday

The lake is calm in the soft dawn light, as if it’s forgotten everything that happened here.

I haven’t.

I can’t even look at the dark pier jutting into that serene pink lagoon without flinching.

I sweep my gaze across the vast green quad sprawled out before me, the gray stone buildings poking out above the pines, the rocky shore.

But it’s no use. Memories flash like ghosts within the morning mist no matter where I look.

There’s still time to back out.

No one knows I’m coming. I didn’t really even know I was coming until I got in my car two hours ago and started driving.

Jet lag and anxiety are a hell of a combination.

When I woke up in the middle of the night, I knew there was no chance of going back to sleep.

I couldn’t stop wondering what was occurring a mere hundred miles north of me in the Adirondacks at the reunion weekend I’ve been too chickenshit to acknowledge.

Swiftmorepalooza, as it’s affectionately called, takes place every year the weekend after school ends, which is the same weekend before summer classes begin.

All the students from the prior year’s graduating class are invited to move back into their freshman dorms for forty-eight hours of pure debauchery.

If you thought college kids knew how to party, they’ve got nothing on recent grads who’ve tasted the bittersweet reality of adulthood.

My friends begged me to come.

I played it coy.

It’s so far to fly. I’m not sure if I can get enough time off from the lab. I don’t drink anyway. We chat every day.

The truth?

My one-year contract ended a week ago. I was always planning to be home. I miss them so much it hurts. And I’m dying to see their faces outside of a screen.

I’m just not sure if I’m ready to see him.

That’s the real reason I’m sneaking onto campus at the asscrack of dawn—no unintentional run-ins.

Even the hardest partiers have passed out by now.

Everyone is asleep. If I can just get to my friends without bumping into him, I can stick to them like glue, use them as shields, make sure I’m never left alone.

Ugh. I sigh.

I thought I outgrew this nervous need for self-preservation.

Apparently not.

I’m probably overthinking it. He’s probably not even here.

But what if he is?

Enough, Clara!

A breath huffs out as I straighten my shoulders, refusing to lose my nerve now.

I’m here. I’m seeing my friends. I will not get scared off by some guy who hasn’t given any indication in the past year and a half that he even thinks about me anymore, let alone wants to corner me in the back room at a party to rehash our entire relationship.

It’s over.

It’s done.

I’m the one who ended it.

A gust of wind blows off the lake, pushing me in the direction of the dorms as if to call my bluff.

I used to think of this place as magic. Now, it’s more like an old hag playing tricks.

I roll my eyes but stumble down the path, ceding to her demands.

A shiver ripples across my shoulders. Even in the summer, this mountain air bites.

My freshman dorm is the first one off the lower quad.

Each step I take closer to those gray walls looming through the trees makes my heart pound.

It’s drumming in my ears by the time I reach the front gate, which has been deactivated just for the weekend.

My shaking fingers meet no resistance as I push my way through, but my feet still drag.

Don’t look up.

Don’t look up.

I keep my face down and press onward to the entrance marked with my house name, Willow.

Empty cups line the inside stairs and I carefully tiptoe around them as I silently make the climb.

I could probably do it with my eyes closed.

My body remembers these halls even if my heart tried to forget.

When I push open the door to my room, my stomach drops.

This is bad.

Very, very bad.

My roommate isn’t here. Which means there’s no one to distract me, nothing to stop me from turning my head to the window situated just above my bed.

From the dorm room opposite mine, Nox stares back.

I blink a few times, worried I might be hallucinating.

I’m not.

Those green eyes pierce too sharply below the black swoop of his hair, as if he’s been sitting on his bed looking out his window all night just waiting for me to arrive, as if he saw me the second I stepped through that gate and he’s been tracking my movements ever since, watching to see what I’ll do.

Cry?

Run?

Give him the finger?

Instead, I hold his gaze and slowly cross the room.

He leans forward, his brow furrowing slightly as he lifts his palm.

My chest tightens at the sight of his muscled forearm, those long fingers, the memory of how they felt against my skin.

A hopeful look flashes across his otherwise inscrutable expression as I reach my hand up.

But I don’t press it to the glass.

I keep lifting until I find that familiar little string, then pull, slamming the blinds shut between us.