Chasing After Me

by R. C. Martin

  I open my mouth the argue, but she shakes her head and forges on before I can get in a word edgewise.

  “I’m not saying get over it; I’m just saying—it’s time to move on. You’re nineteen! You’re beautiful and fun and way too smart to spend your entire college career with your nose stuck in a book.”

  “It’s school. You’re supposed to—”

  “Live! You’re supposed to live it up, Kenz! You’re supposed to try new things, make mistakes, get stupid, have fun, and repeat.”

  I groan, folding my arms over my face. I’ve heard this all before. “I don’t want to get stupid.”

  “Okay, but what about the fun part, huh? I can totally help with that! So get up, chica. Pronto. We’re going out.”

  She stands without another word, smacking the side of my leg before she starts to make her way out of my room. Just when I think I’m in the clear, she cries, “The outfit and the shower are merely kind suggestions. I’m dragging you out of here whether you take me up on them or not.”

  Throwing my hands down at my sides, I whimper in protest. Then I realize that she still has my phone. I’ve been bested. So with a heavy sigh, I heave myself out of bed and make my way to the shower.

  Brooke is right. It takes me nearly an hour to dry and style my hair the way I like it. When I’m finished, my long, dark hair hangs in big, beautiful waves down my chest and back. I’m working on my make-up when Brooke joins me in the bathroom to do her own.

  “Yes!” she cries, slapping my backside before reaching for her make-up bag. “Your hair looks awesome. I can’t wait to see you in that outfit.”

  “Where are we going, anyway?” I ask, applying a second coat of mascara.

  “Out.”

  I halt my movements and stare at her reflection, not at all satisfied with her vague response. “Out? That’s it? That’s all you’re giving me?”

  “Out someplace fun. Someplace fun where you will look hot.”

  I furrow my brow, tilting my head to the side as I ask, “Why are you so concerned with how hot I look?”

  She giggles, meeting my eye in the mirror as she replies, “Because, where we’re going, the hot girls have the most fun.”

  I frown, my stomach dropping as I turn to get a good look at her. I notice her feet are still bare, but she’s in a pair of glittery, black leggings. The long, dark pink, over-sized t-shirt she’s got on hangs just below her butt, and the neckline is cut in a deep V, showing off just enough cleavage. A year and a half of friendship has taught me that the long, pendant necklace that dangles down to her stomach serves as the distraction away from said cleavage—but that’s just a ploy.

  “Brooke—”

  “Finish your left eye, Kenz. Time’s’a wastin’!”

  “You’re going to be cold,” I grumble, turning back to the mirror to finish my left eye as instructed.

  “Oh, this outfit comes with killer black booties and an amazing satin blazer I got for Christmas. My sister is a fashion goddess, and her husband’s credit card is like mana from heaven.”

  I raise my eyebrows as my jaw falls open in surprise. Staring at her reflection, I cough out a laugh. She meets my gaze, giggles, and winks before she asks, “What? I do listen when you drag me to church.”

  “Right,” I chuckle, shaking my head at her.

  It only takes me two minutes to finish my eye. On my way out, Brooke stops me to add a light tint of blush to my cheeks before she shoos me away to get dressed. Once inside of my room, I lay out the clothes that she has insisted I wear. Generally, I’m not exactly a flashy dresser. While the short, silver sequined skirt screams for attention, I have to give her credit for the rest of it.

  I pull on the skin-tight, black leggings and then wiggle my way into the skirt, which barely—barely—covers my behind. When I reach for the simple, long-sleeved, gray sweater, I find that it’s comfy and hangs off my frame loosely; though, I’m slightly confused, as it drapes almost as low as the skirt.

  “Brooke! I don’t think this—”

  “Let me see,” she insists, bursting into my room. I ignore the intrusion, too distracted by the grin on her face when she looks me up and down. “Fuck, yes.” She closes the distance between us and then takes the front of the sweater and tucks it into the front of the skirt, which—not surprisingly, considering it’s Brooke—somehow manages to make the whole outfit come together. “You. Look. Perfect! Now, let’s talk shoes.”

  “No,” I laugh, walking around her to my closet. I bend down and grab my black, high-top Converse sneakers before turning around to tell her, “You made me tame my hair, you made me wear this outfit, and you won’t tell me where we’re going—I will wear whatever shoes I want.”

  “But—”

  “Brooke—”

  “Okay, okay,” she concedes, holding her hands up in surrender. “We’re out in ten. Oh, and you’re driving,” she calls out as she makes her exit.

  I close my eyes, tilt my head back, and let my shoulders sag as I free a miserable moan.

  If I’m driving, I now know one thing for sure—wherever we’re going, there will be alcohol. Great. Just what I wanted, to be trapped in a room filled with intoxicated morons.

  “Brooke, I think we need to discuss what you consider fun!” I shout, pulling on a shoe.

  “You’re not getting out of this, babe! You’re officially too hot to stay home. Besides, it’s gonna be fun. I promise!”

  “Right,” I mumble.

  A frat party.

  I’m going to kill her.

  I’ve never actually been to a frat party, but I’ve seen enough movies to know that it’s not my scene. As a matter of fact, most house parties aren’t exactly my scene. I don’t drink. I’m a horrible flirt. I’m shy, which often times translates into awkward. And I’m not Brooke—no matter how hot she thinks I am. In the year and a half that I’ve been a college student, I’ve been dragged to two college parties—which, considering Brooke’s penchant for loud and rowdy crowds, is actually quite a remarkable feat. The point is, in both instances, I was miserable the entire time. Brooke knows this—she knows this, and yet she’s brought me tonight to “have fun.”

  I’m going to kill her.

  “Turn that frown upside-down, Kenzie Willis,” she demands, linking her arm through mine as we cross the threshold into the Phi Delta Theta house. “Tonight is going to be amazing.”

  I scrunch my face, appalled that she would think so, and—just in case she doesn’t understand how much I hate her right now—I tell her, “I’m going to kill you. Better yet, I’m going to ditch you.”

  She laughs as if I’ve told her a joke. Squeezing my arm, she replies, “You love me too much to ditch me or kill me. And you only think you hate it here because you haven’t given it a fair shake.”

  I look around the house, already filled with frat brothers, sorority sisters, and a few wildcards, like us. Everyone is engaged in some sort of activity—most of which revolves around various drinking games—and they’re all clumped together in their respective cliques. I groan inwardly as I start to plan my escape.

  “How did you even get invited to this thing?” I ask. As soon as the words tumble from my lips, I know how stupid it is for me to even question her. She’s Brooke. She gets invited everywhere.

  “So, do you remember Kathleen?” she asks, not pausing a beat for me to even try and remember. “She’s a Delta Zeta, and she’s dating Will, who is a Phi Delt. Anyway, she’s in my lit class this semester, and I overheard her talking to Freddy—who is also in my lit class—and when I asked what was going on, Freddy said I should come check it out myself.”

  “And Freddy is….?”

  “You know Freddy! He’s a Phi Delt, too. He plays soccer with Owen.”

  I nod, even though I couldn’t name a single one of Owen’s teammates. Sure, I’ve been to plenty of his games, but Owen plays year-round and with far too many other guys for me to keep track.

  “Speaking of Owen, he said he’d be here toni
ght, too.”

  “Great! Then you have a ride home. I’m out of here,” I state, turning to take my leave.

  “Kenzie—no,” she commands, her arm tightening around mine. She then grabs my chin, tilting my head so that I have nowhere to look but into her big, blue eyes. “Please. Please, stay. I know you don’t think you can have fun here, but that’s just because you’re not opening yourself up to the possibility that you might enjoy doing something outside of your comfort zone.” She lets go of my chin and cups her hand around my face, her expression softening as she goes on to say, “It’s time you spent more of your weekends with people your age. People who aren’t sick. You need a breath of fresh—non-sterilized—collegiate air. Hell, if you want to let loose and have a drink, we’ll have Owen take us home later. Just—don’t go.”

  I study her for a moment, our gazes locked, and I feel it in the air the second I give in; as if the very atmosphere recognizes that I can’t say no. Not to Brooke. Not tonight. Her intentions are good, even if her choice of venue is a little selfish.

  “Fine,” I grumble, sliding my arm out of hers. I start to make my way further into the house as I say, “I’m leaving at midnight, with or without you.”

  An hour later, my back against the wall in the far corner of what appears to be the dining room, I watch as Brooke flirts with her beer pong partner. They met just fifteen minutes ago, but it’s as if they’re some sort of love match or something. The little touches they exchange—his hand gliding across the small of her back, her shoulder rubbing against his every time she leans into him, giggling when her aim is bad—it all appears so natural and genuine. I know it’s really harmless and meaningless. I’ve seen her like this before, and it’s just how she is. But watching her sends a pang of longing through my belly.

  Guys don’t look at me like they look at her. They don’t touch or flirt with me. When I enter a room like the one I’m in now, I’m practically invisible. I know it’s probably my fault. I’m a wallflower, I can’t help it—but that doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes wish that someone might want to flirt with me—laugh with me—touch me. It’s been a really long time since anyone has tried.

  I’ve had two boyfriends in my life, both of whom I dated in high school. Boyfriend number one broke my heart. I was fifteen and under some grand illusion that it was love. It wasn’t, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell when he told me he didn’t want to be with me anymore. Then when boyfriend number two came along, I was seventeen. We dated for all of senior year. After graduation, it was my turn to be the heartbreaker. He was going to a college in another state, and I just wasn’t interested in long distance, which I took to mean that what I felt for him wasn’t love, either. It still hurt to say goodbye, but it was for the best.

  Since then, the closest I’ve come to having a boyfriend is my friendship with Owen—which, hello, it’s not like that between us; so, basically, I haven’t even dipped my toe in the dating pool. To be honest, I sometimes don’t understand it. I’m so much more put together now than I was in high school. I’m less frizzy, I know how to apply mascara, and I’ve got a best friend who likes to dress me up so I look hot. Then again, I guess none of that matters so long as I’m too shy to break away from the wall.

  With a sigh, I shake my head, scattering my silly thoughts. I don’t want what Brooke has. Not really. I just think that I do. It looks nice, but it’s all just surface level. She’ll make out with that guy later and wake up with happy thoughts of a fun night had by all, but she won’t remember his name. And when she sees him again—if she sees him again—the cycle will likely repeat itself. It won’t go any deeper. Brooke isn’t a settler. At least not yet. The truth is, she knows what these guys are about. She doesn’t get attached because she knows they won’t get attached, and she’s smart enough to protect her heart. She always tells me that when she meets someone who is genuinely interested in what’s underneath her boobs, she’ll know.

  Though, I think it’s safe to say that she’s not exactly looking. If she was, she might see Owen a lot differently.

  Remembering that Brooke said Owen would be here, I decide to push away from the wall and wander around to see if I can find him. Considering the view I just abandoned, I’m not surprised I haven’t spotted him yet. He likes to make himself scarce when Brooke cozies up to other guys, which I completely understand. Self preservation and all that.

  As I walk around the house, I notice it’s gotten more crowded in the last hour. People have also had a chance to up their level of inebriation, a few of them clumsily colliding into me as they stumble to their destination. Most of them apologize, which I must say I appreciate, but I’m about one collision away from abandoning my search for Owen. Then it happens.

  I’m standing at the mouth of what looks like the den when a mob of people come charging down the hallway, the guys bellowing and the girls squealing as they barrel past me to who knows where. Instinctively, I hug my arms to my chest, clutching my purse against my side. Just as the group starts to thin out, and I think I’m in the clear, a girl trips into me, spilling her beer all over the bottom half of my sweater. I gasp, throwing my arms out in surprise, then someone else bumps into my back, causing me to drop my bag, sending the contents flying everywhere.

  “Oh, my god! I’m so sorry,” the girl giggles, looking into her empty cup.

  My jaw still open from a moment ago, I watch as she brings the red cup to her lips before she tilts her head back and swallows.

  How lucky—not so empty after all.

  “Um, glad to see you didn’t spill all of it,” I mutter sarcastically, squatting down to gather my things.

  “Shit. Let me help you,” she replies, dropping her solo cup as she bends down next to me.

  “No, please—don’t.” I hold my palm up with one hand, sweeping my hair out of my face and behind my ear with the other. When my vision clears, I see her turn her nose up at me before she stands to walk away.

  “Basic bitch,” she mumbles, sauntering after the others.

  My cheeks heat in a blush as I watch her go. Suddenly, I want to be anywhere but here. Well, even more than I did before, that is.

  Hurriedly, I turn my attention to the floor space surrounding my feet, sweeping up the contents of my purse and shoving it in my bag. When I think I’ve got everything, I look inside and notice that the book is missing. My head shoots up and I widen my search perimeter, spotting it just barely within reach. It must have slid across the hardwood floor after being jostled out of my purse. Relieved that it doesn’t appear to have landed in any spilled beer, I extend my arm out to grab it when someone’s shoe—long, thick, black, biker boot to be more precise—steps right on the cover. I choke on a shriek, suddenly feeling as if someone has just stomped on my heart.

  “No!”

  I see the boot halt, my hand still stretched out in its direction, and then I watch as the owner of said boot carefully lifts it, as if moving in reverse. I let out a strangled sigh and lean forward, in an attempt to reach for the book a second time, but he grabs it before I can. Startled, my eyes follow my possession as its captor stands to full height. I don’t look at his face, too concerned about the book, hoping that he doesn’t do something careless or mean.

  “Mack’s Big Adventure?” he reads aloud.

  I close my eyes tight, praying he’ll just give me back the book. The last thing I need tonight is for someone to humiliate me even further.

  “Hey. Eyes up, Mack,” he speaks, his voice gentle and smooth—warm and manly.

  I don’t know if he’s speaking to me, but my body responds before my brain can catch up. My eyes fly open and my lips part as I suck in a quiet breath when I look up to see an outstretched hand waiting for me. Hesitantly, I accept his offer, placing my fingers in his palm and allowing him to help me to my feet. His hand is hot, and his touch sends a shock of tingles up my arm, though I don’t know why. I still don’t seek out his face, feeling wildly embarrassed.

  “Can I—?” I
start to say, letting go of him as I reach for my book.

  I give the corner a tug, but he doesn’t let go as he repeats, “Eyes up, Mack.”

  My cheeks heat in another blush, realizing that somehow I’ve become Mack, and I tilt my head back to look up at him. When our eyes lock, I swear my heart skips a beat, my stomach does a somersault, and my palms start to sweat all at the same time.

  He’s…so-freaking-gorgeous.

  Yup. Gorgeous. That’s the word.

  He’s tall. Taller than Owen, who is six feet—so, yeah, he’s tall. He’s got deep, dark, rich brown hair that he wears messy on top but neat on the sides, and his eyes—good Lord—his eyes. They’re soulful. His irises are dark and surrounded by thick, long lashes, making them appear even darker. And when he smirks at me, the curl of his lips making the skin wrinkle on one side of his face, my stomach clenches.

  Yup. Gorgeous. That’s the word.

  “What’s with the kids book?” he asks, yanking me from my thoughts.

  “Oh, my gosh,” I whisper, tearing my eyes away from his before I close them tight. I dip my chin and shake my head, silently berating myself for being so stupid.

  I was totally staring!

  This—this is why I hug the wall. I can’t be trusted to my own devices.

  “Eyes up, Mack.”

  My stomach clenches again at the sound of his voice. My heart races hearing him call me Mack. I whimper in embarrassment as I’m forced to look up at him again. I meet his eyes only for a second before I look down at the book, back up into his eyes, and then back down at the book—each of us holding a side.

  “You got a thing for trucks or something?” he asks with what I assume is a hint of amusement in his tone.

  For reasons he’ll never understand, and at no fault of his own, his words crush me.