A sound of disbelief comes from me. I taught him a lesson? Divorcing him wasn’t a game I played. He cheated on me! He thinks if I babysit him, he won’t do it again? I’m not his mother.
My hands fidget and I temper my tone. “I care about you as a person, Vane, but I have a life here. Grad school, remember? Romy needs me. I can’t just leave her. I don’t want to. I spent too much time with you, away from her, and she got in some trouble.”
“Bring her.”
“No.”
“You can write anywhere. Give me a chance. All you need is me. We were happy.”
I sit back and stare at him. Were we? Or was I always jumping when he snapped his fingers, supporting him, putting my family on hold? Romy did drugs. My grades suffered. I barely graduated with a decent GPA. He’s always put himself first, his music, his career. He hasn’t once asked how I am.
As if he senses my train of thought, he says, “I took you for granted, but I’ll rebuild our trust.” His throat bobs. “Where’s the girl who fell in love with me in one night?”
That girl was needy and naïve. She was looking for something to fill the void left by the death of her parents. I’m older now. Smarter. “She’s not me.”
He jerks up from the table and paces around, hands clenched.
I rise with him. “I came out of respect for what we had, and because I knew you needed to hear it from me in person. I’m done,” I say softly. “Move on, Vane. Write your beautiful music and become a superstar.”
“I don’t want to.” His voice is dejected as his shoulders slump. “No one gets me like you. You’re real, baby. I could write an entire album with songs just about you.”
I sigh. “Maybe it’s all about fate, about when you meet someone. The timing wasn’t right for us—”
He holds my eyes. “You loved me once—”
“I deserve better,” I say sharply.
A bird chirps in a tree, a car horn sounds somewhere in the distance, and the world turns as he lets my words sink in. He paces back and forth as the silence settles around us.
Whether he accepts it or not, I have. “Your five minutes are up.” I stand and he rushes over to me, his eyes shiny.
He takes my hands. “You’re really not coming back to me?”
Oh, Vane. Never in a million years. “No.”
We stare at each other for a long time. He lets out a long breath, his hands cupping my face. “Baby girl. Whoever he is—because I know there’s someone—I hope he deserves you.”
21
Welcome to Theta’s Man of Mystery! is splashed across a plastic banner hanging over the library door. Underneath is scrawled Talk to a Stranger and Fall in Love. Little hearts dance around the words.
I scoff as I halt, digging my heels in. “No way, girls. Better yet, hell no. Don’t care if I go through a pack of batteries in a week—my bullet is better than some kind of what, speed dating thing?”
“What’s a bullet?” Bambi asks, pulling me by the arm, undeterred.
“Vibrator. Tiny and very effective,” Chantal replies to Bambi, latching onto my other side.
“Oh,” Bambi murmurs thoughtfully. “Are they on Amazon?”
“Yes,” Chantal says. “They come in all colors. Mine is purple.”
“Forget the bullet, girls. Am I a prisoner?” I ask dryly.
“Yes,” they chorus.
“Okay, so let’s see if I have this right: you waited for me after yoga, said you had something I had to see, then you woman-handle me into walking into a trap to meet mystery men? No.”
Bambi smiles, waving her hands at me. “So dramatic. It’s a new event to raise money for a local women’s shelter. Where’s your Theta sense of sisterhood? Your love for helping others? Don’t you want to contribute to the community? More importantly, where’s your intrinsic drive to mate with a hottie?”
“Dead,” I chirp. I had sex with Dillon; I might be good for another eighteen months.
She titters. “We have some sexy applicants. Not surprised—we are the best sorority.” She turns and, as a trio, we do our secret handshake. In the glass reflection of the door, I see the goofy grin on my face.
“And you just might meet someone nice,” Chantal adds.
“I’m in leggings and flip-flops! Worse, I’m sweaty. Also, it’s dark—”
“It’s eight in the evening. God, you’re old,” Chantal says as she elbows me.
“Come on, Serena. You’re bored and lonely.” Bambi pulls my hair out of my ponytail and arranges it around my shoulders. “They can’t see you anyway. It’s like that show The Dating Game, only we made it better. This event is about getting to know someone—without seeing them. You might meet Mr. Right.”
“I’m not lonely.” I haven’t seen or talked to Dillon in four days, and I miss him. I keep expecting him to pop up wherever I am, and he hasn’t. A long sigh slides through my lips.
“As far as I’m aware—and I would know since I’m part of the committee—no football players signed up, so you don’t have to worry about you know who being here, if you were,” Chantal says.
“I wasn’t.”
Bambi pulls out a tiny glass bottle and spritzes me. I bat it away, even though it does smell nice.
“Settle down, it’s just some Louis Vuitton perfume. Free sample in the mail. Score.”
“We did help you write your article for the LSU game,” Chantal reminds me, a gleam in her eyes.
I heave out a breath. “Fine, but I’m only staying for half an hour. That’s it. After that—”
They squeal.
“I’m a firm believer in love at first sight. My dad fell for my mom in a heartbeat,” Bambi gushes.
“My parents hate each other, but don’t listen to me,” Chantal says with a grin. “Honestly, we just need more participants.”
I don’t believe her as I take in the line of guys and girls waltzing into the library, most of them dressed for going to the club…
Screw it. I have been lonely.
Monday night, I consumed a pint of ice cream as I re-watched Shaun of the Dead. On Tuesday, I outlined a fluff story called “How To Suck at Paintball But Win”—kind of on the nose, but I’ll fix it later. Then earlier today, I almost texted him when I thought I saw him inside the student center.
“Let’s rock this,” I grouse.
Another squeal.
The young girl at the entrance to the main lobby glances up at the officers on either side of me. She almost does a curtsey. Ah, I recall those days of pledging.
“We’ve brought fresh meat,” Chantal says to the pledge.
The girl at the podium takes my name, cell number, and email then passes me a piece of paper that resembles some kind of scorecard and tips on dating.
“Ticket, please, or if you don’t have one, it’s a hundred dollars,” the pledge says.
I gasp, nearly running out the door.
“No need for that. She’s a sister,” Chantal pronounces, as if I’m the queen of England.
The girl smiles at me brightly. “Welcome! Please proceed upstairs to Room 100. They’ll make announcements there and explain the rules.”
“Rules?”
Bambi pats me. “When you frown, it makes lines on your forehead.”
I give her my fake smile.
“Creepy. And don’t squint. Try again.”
“We can’t all look like Mila Kunis—”
“Funny,” she says as we walk up the stairs and enter the spacious room, taking seats in the back.
“One of the Kappa guys is explaining how it works,” Chantal murmurs. “You made us late.”
“I didn’t intend to come!” I whisper ferociously. “Where’s Ashley?”
“Oh, she’s behind the scenes getting everything organized,” Bambi says.
The guy on stage is dressed in slacks and a lavender Ralph Lauren shirt. He says his name is Kevin and goes into a spiel about how their fraternity has partnered with the Thetas to benefit the Magnolia Women’s Shelter, givin
g details about the importance of the facility and the cost of maintenance. I listen while scanning the crowd. There are about twenty-five girls, none of them familiar. The guys must be in a separate room.
“…women will be assigned small rooms, one of the study carrels, on the third floor. If you’ve never been to the top floor, just take the stairs right outside the door here. The men will rotate rooms. You’ll have seven minutes to get to know each other—seven minutes in heaven, I like to say. Heh.” Kevin smirks. “After that, a buzzer will sound and the men will move to the next room.”
A hand in the front goes up. “What if we want to leave with our dates and go somewhere private?” It’s a girl in a Chi-O jersey.
He smiles. “Leave at your discretion, but we’d prefer that you stay and meet everyone. We’ve got a great group, and you might find more than one match.”
She stands up and looks around. “Are there any football players present, specifically Dillon McQueen?”
“Please, girl, sit your ass down,” Chantal grumbles under her breath. “Gah, I hate that I was as desperate as she was to hang with them. I’m still doing it.”
“You love the game,” I insist.
I focus on Kevin as he replies to the girl. “The guys are in another room, getting their instructions. It wouldn’t be any fun if we all knew who was here, would it?”
More murmuring comes from the crowd, the excitement rising. Another girl stands and asks a question, her blonde hair billowing in loose waves down her back, her halter dress tight and clingy. There’s a cute pink cloche on her head.
“Alexa, play ‘Raspberry Beret’ by Prince,” I murmur.
“Who are you talking to?” Chantal hisses.
“Myself. It happens.” I blow at a piece of hair in my face then sniff my armpits. Deodorant still works. No date clothes, but hey, I smell like cucumber.
Kevin continues with, “Each female has been assigned an ID number and a scorecard for her mystery man. Simply turn that in at the end of the event, and our computers will tally up your best matches along with photos of the men you liked. Will he be what you thought? Will he like you?” He grins, a hint of slyness on his face. “That’s up for you to decide—after you both receive your match’s phone number.”
Great. If there are the same number of guys and each one gets seven minutes, this event is going to last almost three hours. I twitch in my chair. Yeah…so? What else do I have to do? Romy is situated for the night.
After the introduction is done, we head up to the third floor, and I’m assigned a room at the end of the hall near the stairwell, tucked between nonfiction shelves. Seems appropriate that I skim them and grab How To Unf*ck Yourself. If the dates get boring, I can always do some self-improving.
Bambi and Chantal have wandered off to do their duties for the event, and it’s a pledge that leads me inside the room. It’s on the small side, about six by six, a desk with a partition in the middle.
“That’s so you can’t see faces,” the girl tells me as I settle into the seat. She instructs me to tuck my feet in since they would be visible if I didn’t, and I scoff.
“You think he’ll recognize me by shoes?”
She shrugs, unconcerned. “Use the tip sheet for questions, and there’s a buzzer if you need help—”
“Help?”
“If he comes on too strong—or if you do.”
“Don’t lunge for the mystery man, got it.”
“Have fun,” she calls as she slips out the door, and I exhale, glaring at the flimsy plywood in front of me. Will we even be able to hear each other through this thing?
I glance at the tip sheet. What’s your favorite color? What type of music do you enjoy? and so on. Meh. I mark them out and pencil in a few of my own. I read through the directions again.
A bell rings, people move out in the hall, and my door opens. Heavy breathing and a cough are the first things I notice, and I almost peek around to see if he needs me to resuscitate him.
“Are you okay?” I ask as he takes his seat. Looking down, I note the skinny jeans and leather flip-flops. His big toe is remarkably tiny.
He clears his throat, then another racking cough comes from his chest. “Just a cold. I think I have a fever.”
I don’t recognize the voice, although I didn’t expect to. “Oh. Well, uh, I hate to be uptight before we even get started, but my nana has a heart condition and COPD, and my sister has asthma, so if you don’t mind, please scoot your chair back.”
“Seriously? There’s wood in front of us.”
“Yes.”
He huffs and scoots back. When I ask him Would you rather live in a universe set in The Office or Game of Thrones? his reply is TV is destroying young minds. No, no it isn’t. I give up and let him talk about his crappy roommate who steals his clean underwear. Apparently, not seeing your date’s face encourages people to vent.
Another guy arrives, and after he tells me he likes his women to call him Sexy Daddy in bed, I zone out. Is this all I’ve missed in a year and a half of being without a man? I text Romy to see how her homework is progressing. She sends me screenshots of math problems and I text back directions. Multitasking.
By the time the seventh date leaves—yes, I’m counting—I’m bored out of my head and ready to jump across the partition and dash for my car.
The next guy walks in and sits as I put my phone away.
“Hey.” His voice is low and deep, like silk over steel, and I’m instantly at attention, prickles of awareness skating down my spine.
“Hey,” I reply.
There’s a beat of silence, and it goes on too long. I shift in my chair as I glance down at his shoes: orange Converse. Nah, no way.
I clear my throat. “Um, first off, I’m in grad school. What year are you?”
His leg moves, stretching out. “Senior.” His tone has changed, more alert. “What’s your favorite color?”
I sigh. “Do we really have to do those?”
“What color?” he insists.
“Blue? I’ve never thought about it. Yours?”
“Topaz.”
“So yellow?”
“You say tomato, I say Bloody Mary.”
“Funny. I like those. Do you put bacon in your Bloody Mary?”
“With cheese and peppers. Give me all the spices.”
I relax back in the chair. “Ever eat the celery?”
“Most vile thing to land on my tongue.”
I laugh under my breath. “Fun fact: celery stalks can reach over three feet.”
Another long pause. Then, “I’m picturing one coming to life and grabbing me with stringy arms.”
“Me too. Terrifying, right?”
“Hmm. Almost as scary as running through the woods in the dark.”
My breath hitches, and I swallow as nerves hit. I can’t think of a single original question, so I resort to the list. “Um, let’s see…biggest fear?”
The silence builds. I squirm. It’s him, it is… Does he know it’s me? Bambi and Chantal either didn’t know he was here or told a whopper of a lie.
“Hello?” I inquire.
“Creatures with wings, I guess. Birds, chickens. They freak me out. When I was a kid, my brother got pecked by a cardinal. Scared the heck out of me.” He lets out a small laugh.
“But…they’re so…nonviolent?”
He scoffs. “Ever see a hawk eat a cute chipmunk? I have.”
“I see. What are you looking for in a girl you date?”
My lungs squeeze as he shifts closer, his other leg stretching out. I can almost picture how tall he is, trying to get comfortable in the small chair. “Someone different from everyone else.”
“How?”
“She won’t care about my talent.”
“What’s your talent?”
A pause. “Lacrosse.”
My breath snags. “I, um, hear it’s a complicated game.”
He hesitates. “Yeah, there’s a…stick with a net on the end.”
Oh, really… “I believe it’s called a pocket.”
“Like I said, you say tomato—”
“I say salsa.”
He laughs. “Anyway, my girl, I’ll want to give her things, gifts, maybe a shirt with my name on it—is that stupid?”
“No,” I whisper.
“She’ll care about people, especially her family. She’ll be fiery, a little terror at times. She’ll like my friends. She’ll listen to me when I tell her my secrets.”
“You have secrets?”
“I keep things close. She’ll be the kind of girl who likes yoga. Fun fact: yoga is good for loosening your pelvic muscles—in surprising ways.”
“Yeah?”
“What about you? Who’s your perfect date?”
You.
I bite my lip as my mind fills with images of Dillon running with me through the woods, using me as a decoy, laughing when I shot Bullseye, laughing again when I shot Troy, not getting pissy when I shot him. “He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t give up on me, even when I’m not sure which way to turn.”
My head goes back to our last conversation at the airport. “I want him to leave his ego at the door and not care that I have a whole set of baggage. I’ve been through a bad relationship, and I’ve learned hard lessons. Caring for someone, putting yourself out there… It’s like a beautiful butterfly in your hand. If you hold really still and try to do everything right, it might stay, but you’re going to flinch, and when you do, it might fly away.” I stare down at my hands. “I sacrificed pieces of myself for him, gave up friends, family, goals. I can’t do that again.”
Tension tumbles into the room, the sound of his breaths low, yet I’m tuned in, counting them. I hear him ease forward, closer to the partition. “Je promets d’être bon avec toi.”
I promise to be good to you.
“Serena…” His voice is rough.
The room feels hot, and I inhale. “You scare me, Dillon.”
He pauses as if searching for the right words. “What if you stop being afraid of how it ends and enjoy the ride? Nothing is certain. Life is fleeting. I lost a brother, a biological father, grandparents. It changes a person, and you get it. People see me as some kind of, I don’t know, hotshot guy, but deep down there’s only a few things I want: football, my dad’s approval, and someone authentic. We had sex. Okay, acknowledged. It was amazing, so what the hell are we doing now?”
I Promise You Page 20