“Are you crazy? I’m not like that. I can’t hook up with a guy I don’t even know.”
“It’s not like you’re marrying the guy, Skye,” she replies dismissively, smiling at my scandalized face.
“I just want to go back to our dorm.”
She takes my hand and forces me to walk toward the house. I don’t know how she manages to walk that fast in her mile-high heels, but it’s almost difficult to follow her. “It’s a big party. You won’t even see him.”
I push away the panic attack ready to take over the remaining calm I can muster. Of course I’m going to see him. I can always spot him in a room, even a packed one.
In the house, the party looks out of hand but I know from some of Kate’s stories that it’s a typical frat party. Kegs are in every room, empty red and blue cups are on every surface and on the ground, sweating bodies are grinding against each other to the upbeat of the music and laughter is everywhere. I cough several times, not just smelling your usual cigarette smoke. There’s pot in here and I know it’s going to give me a massive headache.
Kate waves at a guy and walks to him, releasing me from her death grip. It must be the guy who invited her. My roommate disappears through the mass of bodies and I’m alone, feeling like an idiot. I push away my hair, far too frizzy for my liking, and head toward one of the kegs. I wait my turn. The beer is cold but doesn’t taste that good. I’m more of a Coke and rum kind of girl, but it’s safer to take just one cup of beer fresh from the keg where nobody can put anything in it.
I walk toward the edge of the main room that I think is normally the living room, but stop in my tracks when a hand grabs my upper arm with a death grip that freezes me and makes me cringe. My heart misses several beats, and cold sweat runs down my spine.
“What are you doing here?” a male voice growls in my ear, a voice I recognize as much as the death grip on my arm, which will probably leave a blue mark tomorrow. His breath fans my cheek and it smells of tequila.
My body stiffens, my heart beats louder, and I whimper. I can’t say a word, can’t look at him. I don’t want to see his blazing blue eyes murderous on me. I have enough nightmares like that.
“I came with my roommate,” I say in a wobbly voice I loathe. I try to extricate my arm from his tight grip, but he only tightens his hand around it. My fingers are already losing their sensation.
“You think you can bring your little ass in here and drink our beer? You think you’re worthy of me? You think I want you back? You’re so pathetic.” I shake my head vehemently, both to say no and because I can’t believe what he’s saying. “Leave now or else ...” he threatens me.
Then he releases his grip and walks away, but not before I see the murderous glare he gives me and the satisfied smile plastered on his face. He loves this pseudo-power he has over me. I swallow loudly and weakly massage my arm. It hurts and wakes up old scars I’m desperate to bury inside of me. I take a tentative step, but only manage to trip on the rug and my half empty cup flies from my shaking hand. Of course, instead of falling to the ground, it falls in a guy’s lap. A guy obviously flirting with a blonde girl with big tits and a micro mini skirt that leaves nothing to the imagination. The girl shrieks and glares at me before heading toward what I assume is the bathroom to clean her bare arm slightly damp from the beer.
I’m blushing furiously, and for once I’m glad for my untamed hair that can hide me a little right now. The guy stands up and faces me, but I don’t look up. His jeans are damp from the beer and I’m waiting to hear him yelling at me or something, but nothing is coming.
His hand comes toward my face and I jump away. I can’t be touched right now. Not again. I just can’t. His hand falls against his body. I take a deep breath and look up, locking eyes with very expressive black irises. Too expressive. It’s the TA from my Psychology class. Great.
“Do you recognize me? I’m Drills’ TA,” he says with a smile, not caring about the beer on his clothes or the fact that the girl he was talking to, and probably planning to sleep with, disappeared.
“I know. Sorry for that,” I mumble, waving at his crotch where most of the beer landed. It looks like he peed in his blue jeans. I’m mortified. How can I always be that clumsy around the same guy? Oh yeah, because my ex put me in knots just a moment before. I need to go back to my room. It was a mistake to come to this place. I knew it!
Absentmindedly, I rub my upper arm and wince at the pain. It’s already bruising.
“Are you hurt or something?” he asks me, his dark eyes following my movement. I let my arm fall against my body and straighten my back.
“No,” I answer in a clipped voice, too defensive not to attract his attention.
He frowns and plays with his necklace. The sleeves of the brown sweater he’s wearing are rolled up his forearms, showing a complicated and colorful sleeve tattoo on his left arm and a tattoo of two American-Indian feathers on his right forearm. I’m not a huge fan of tattoos, but somehow it works on him. It works very well.
“I call bullshit,” he says seriously, towering high above me, making me claustrophobic all of a sudden.
I can’t deal with this, with him. I can’t take any more crap from another guy tonight. Or ever. I want to walk away … to run away, calm down, and breathe again. It’s like my heart is ready to explode, and my brain is expanding in my head so much that it hurts just to force myself to breathe as normally as I can. All I think about is how my ex still has some kind of power over me, how I’m still afraid.
I turn, glancing frantically around the room, looking for Kate. I find her enthusiastically kissing the guy who invited her here. Brushing past couples dancing or kissing and groping each other, I tap on her shoulder. She comes up for air and looks at me, her eyes bright from lust if I’m guessing right.
“What’s wrong?”
A tear falls down my cheek before I can hide it and Kate comes to me, hugging me tightly. “I need to go home,” I mutter weakly in her ear.
She nods, talks quickly with the guy who is obviously mad at her for leaving him when they were about to go upstairs to have some more fun, and takes my hand to walk outside. She pauses briefly. “Did you see that tall, dark-haired guy? The hottest guy I’ve ever seen. I think he was trying to come after us.”
“Let’s go, please.” I know who she’s talking about—I saw him waving at me—but I don’t want to see him, to be confronted by his intense eyes seeking a part of me that I desperately want to hide.
She doesn’t question me and we walk to her car hand in hand. For once, I don’t want to let go of this comfort. I need some kind of contact, a contact that’s not making me so afraid that I’m sweating like I just ran a marathon. Kate doesn’t question me, doesn’t ask me who the handsome guy is, or what happened and I’m thankful. She never hesitated a second to leave the party and the guy she was having a good time with. She just followed me. Maybe I was wrong, maybe I do need a friend, but I don’t know how to do this anymore. I don’t even know if I’m ready for this.
There is one thing I do know. Now I’m dreading the next Psychology class and the tattooed TA that, I’m positive, won’t leave me alone.
Chapter Two
The weekend passed in a blur. I was too caught up in my studies to think about anything else. It’s my way to cope even if I’m aware it’s just delaying the after effects of my confrontation with my ex and the thing with the TA who remains to be named.
Kate tried several times to force me to open up, but finally decided to leave me alone after I lost my temper and broke my bedside lamp just to stop the flow of questions. I don’t like violence. I loathe it, really. Sometimes, I don’t recognize this girl I have become, slowly sinking and yet holding everything together … just barely!
And now it’s Monday and I’m back in my Psychology class. Somehow, I’m back at the same seat as the last time, down in the front and close to the door. I fidget with my long white sleeves and don’t look up from my MacBook Air. Even if I ignore everybody
, I can hear some of them laughing and making bad Star Wars references with my names and poor imitations of Yoda. What went through my parents’ heads when they named me Skye? Seriously? I love my name, but when your last name is Walker, it’s far too easy to be the target of those bad jokes about the Force and all this crap. Skyewalker, really?
The funny thing is, when I was a little girl I heard these jokes, which meant that I never wanted to watch the movies. My father tried—and is still trying—to convince me to watch them with him, but I don’t want to.
I recoil even more in my chair, trying to make myself disappear even if my five foot and four inches can’t disappear that easily. Well, I’m pretty sure it’s mostly my wild hair that makes me visible in the sea of students.
“Hey! What’s the thing with Star Wars?”
I look next to me and realize there’s nobody in the seats yet, so I glance up. The TA again. Today he’s wearing a black T-shirt over a long sleeved white shirt and jeans so washed up that holes begin to appear by themselves. The silver necklace is probably under his clothes, hidden from view.
I clear my throat, my eyes wandering between him and the door just behind his lofty frame. For the first time this the year, I’m thinking of skipping this class. You know, the flight or fight instinct? It’s basic psychology. Well, I never mastered the fight instinct, always falling into the flight category. This time was no exception.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warns me with amusement in his deep voice.
My eyes come back to his face and meet his sparkling eyes. I can’t believe it. My cheeks are hot. What’s the matter with this guy? I make a face and cross my arms over my chest, annoyed that he knows what I am thinking of doing.
“What do you want?” My voice sounds steadier than I am. My heart is in a frenzy and it’s not because I’m attracted by this guy … it is pure fear. When will I cease to feel so frightened all the time?
“For starters, I’d like to understand this thing about Star Wars. Are you a fan or something?” he asks me, leaning against the little desk beside mine; his long, strong arms crossed over his broad chest. He looks intimidating even if he’s trying to play it sympathetic with me. Unfortunately, I don’t often react like normal people. I’m too neurotic for this.
I glance at the other students talking animatedly about their weekend and already making plans for the next. Star Wars break is over, or maybe it’s seeing the TA talking with me that impressed them or something. After all, this tall guy is helping Dr. Dills grade our papers. Deep inside there is a big part of me buried under tons of layers of insecurities, but right now I’m only gloating at the prospect that this TA impressed them.
“It’s ridiculous, and like barely middle school level,” I answer with a dismissive wave of my hand. The other TAs are looking at us with smirks that I know all too well. They think I’m going to sleep with this guy. Perfect.
“And?”
“You know how annoying you are?” I retort through gritted teeth, glaring at him. His smile broadens, showing his perfectly white teeth in stunning contrast with his naturally tanned skin.
“I usually qualify as a charming guy, but I can go with annoying.”
I frown and shrug. “My name is Skye Walker.”
He looks at me a second, then at the other students. One of his eyebrows shoots up. He bites his well-defined lower lip, trying not to give in to the building laughter that I’m sure is coming. Predictable. “And that’s all?”
I nod slowly, waiting for him to laugh in my face and even maybe join in on a round of Star Wars lame references, but nothing comes. He runs a hand through his dark hair. Some locks get stuck on top of his head, but it looks good for some reason.
“I told you it was ridiculous.”
“Yeah, and pathetic. Do you realize that these guys must have spent countless hours in front of their TV to watch the movies if they can make the jokes again and again? And these lame impersonations of a freaky green wrinkled thing?”
Despite myself, a small laugh escapes me before I put a hand in front of my mouth to contain it. The TA’s eyes sparkle even more. He cocks his head on one side before he leans toward my face. “Do you know that I know there’s something really wrong?” he says in a hushed tone, his deep voice sending chills down my spine both from the intensity of his voice and from the meaning of his words.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Playing dumb is the lamest tactic to divert the attention of someone that nosy. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that I want someone to know and be interested by what’s happening.
“I think you do.” His dark eyes never leave mine. He doesn’t even blink. “I don’t know what’s going on, but don’t forget you’re in a Psychology class and I’m a TA, which means that I’m not a complete newbie in Psychology.”
“Please, go on,” I encourage him with a fake smirk, like I’m amused by his ideas. Not so much. My breath hitches and I don’t like it. It’s a dead giveaway that he’s onto something.
“You’ve got several markers of someone depressed.” His gaze travels up and down my upper body, the only part of myself visible above the little desk. “Your sleeves are always covering your hands.”
“I’m always freezing and it’s winter,” I retort calmly, not rushing my words out.
“You often, if not always, hide behind your hair.”
“If you had my hair, you’d understand that I can’t do anything to tame it.”
“You always look at the ground.”
“I don’t want to slip and fall on ice.”
“You never smile.”
“I’m here to study.”
“You never talk to anybody.”
“I was at a party with my roommate.”
He sighs and shrugs. I uncross my arms, beginning to relax. I know how to react to these observations. He’s not the first person trying to prove something about me.
“Then tell me if I’m so wrong, why you’re so tense and dead set on avoiding me?”
“Maybe because I don’t like you.”
“Once again, I call bullshit. It’s funny you know, I was just like you a few years back. I didn’t want to acknowledge that I was depressed and didn’t want any help but you ...” He lets the end of his sentence trail off, his eyes probing me to say something. However, I keep my mouth shut. “You have something going on that you don’t want to think about and that’s what worries me, because when you’re forced to face this thing, if you’re alone you won’t make it in one piece.”
His words sting. I level down my eyes and keep my hands on the keyboard of my laptop. My head fogs up. A lump forms in my throat, making it difficult to swallow. “What if I am already broken in to pieces?”
I can’t believe I said this. I can’t believe I said this in a classroom full of students. I can’t believe I said this to a guy and I don’t even know his name. But he’s the only person to ever insist, to ever doubt my words when I said that everything is okay. Even my parents that I’m close to, or used to be, are not aware of how unhappy I am, how things are so bad in my life.
“You’re still up, still functioning. You’re strong, and it means you’ve got more pieces that stick together than you think,” he replies just above a whisper.
“You don’t know me.”
“Is it a challenge? Because I love a challenge,” he says playfully, his voice louder than seconds before.
I squint up at him and shake my head. “It’s not. I don’t want to deal with your crap.”
“Sorry, Skye, but you gave me your full name. Now I can track you down and you’ll be forced to deal with me.”
“You’re not a stalker,” I reply, almost amused by the stubborn lines that appear on his forehead, half hidden by thick locks of raven hair.
“You don’t know me either. Maybe I’m a creepy guy who likes to follow freshman girls around until they confess everything.”
“But I won’t. Everyone has to deal with crappy things, that doesn’t mea
n there’s something more to it.”
“The fact that you’re so into driving me away makes me believe that you’re hiding something huge and I can’t just ignore it. When I told you that you remind me of myself, it’s true. I’m not into psychology for nothing.”
I sigh and push away some of my hair. His gaze follows the movement with careful attention. He looks at me like I’m some kind of puzzle with lost pieces he’s trying to find. It’s disturbing, and yet, something in him intrigues me too because when he talks about his past, something raw and intense passes in his eyes and on his face, hardening his features. I don’t know what he has had to deal with, but one thing is for sure, he’s not over it yet no matter what he wants to believe or claims.
“So, what do you want?” I ask as Dr. Dills walks in the room, a scowl on his face that makes me realize that the class won’t be that fun. When this teacher is in a bad mood, he does not take his time to explain every concept, which means that I’m going to be spending more time at the library. I slump in my chair, already exhausted.
Patch Up Page 2