Inevitable Detour (2 page)

I’m not saying I’m unattractive. I just don’t really stand out in a crowd. Not like Haven does.

Despite all she has going for her, Haven is far from conceited. She’s unassuming and genuine, loyal to the core. That’s why I maintain that she didn’t deserve to be treated the way Professor Walsh treated her. He used her for sex, strung her along, and then unceremoniously dumped her with no explanation two weeks ago.

My ire at the jerk professor escalates. By the time I reach the stairs, I am smacking my hand down on the dark wood railing in anger. Quickly, I spin around, intent on stomping back and having one last word with the guy.

But he’s long gone.

“Chickenshit,” I murmur.

Sighing, I step over to a wall and lean back against it. There’s a classroom a few feet away, in session. Leaning my head back, I listen to the soothing murmur of voices, thus allowing myself a few minutes to calm down.

Soon, I am relaxed. I also find I am fully engaged in listening to the lecture. Not surprising since the instructor, her voice light and feminine, is speaking on a subject I find fascinating—the role of fate in our lives. I walk over to the door and press my ear up against it.

“Wonderful,” she says. “You’ve all shared some great insights. But now that we’ve dissected Shakespeare’s use of fate in
Romeo and Juliet
and
Macbeth
, I have a question for you, a question regarding
your
lives.”

The class titters, she chuckles, and I step back to where I’m able to lean against the wall. After a minute or two, I slide down to a seated position.

“What I want to know,” the instructor continues, “is who here believes that real lives—
our
lives—are influenced by fate?”

“I do,” I whisper.
At least I think I do
.

The professor calls on someone in the class, a girl. She responds, “I believe all of our lives are influenced by fate. And I firmly believe in destiny.”

“Is there a difference?” the instructor questions.

The girl replies, “Yes, I think so. I’ve always heard that fate refers to the bad things that happen in our lives.”

“And destiny?” the instructor prompts.

“It’s the good stuff.”

“That is a commonly accepted belief,” the instructor concurs.

There’s some shuffling of papers.

“What it all comes down to,” the instructor continues, “is that every person’s life is destined for a certain path. We may not realize it, especially when it’s happening, but we
will
end up where we’re supposed to be.”

Wow. I think about my own life. I believe in concepts like fate and destiny. But, to my chagrin, I don’t feel as if either has ever touched my life. In some ways, I suppose my parents have prevented
things
from happening by the way they’ve structured everything for me. Still, I hold out hope that something that is “meant to be” will eventually occur. If that doesn’t happen, what will become of me? My biggest fear is that I’ll graduate from college next year—with my shiny, new business degree—and move right back to my hometown of Philadelphia. Maybe I’ll become an accountant, like my mom and dad. And maybe, like Mom and Dad, I’ll never really
live
.

“Ugh.” I place my face in my hands. I don’t want to be an accountant. I’d rather eat pocket lint, I swear. If I had my way, I’d much rather work as a writer, a journalist of some sort. I find joy in writing articles for the school paper. But, really, if I dare to dream big, I see myself as an investigative journalist. The kind that seeks out exciting stories, stories with an element of danger.

Who in the hell am I kidding? I’m play-it-by the-rules Essa Brant. “Let’s be real here,” I whisper.

Sighing, I return my attention to the instructor and her big words on fate.

“Remember,” she says. Her tone is so very serious, so very ominous. “Just because you think fate or destiny hasn’t yet guided your life in some noticeable way doesn’t mean it won’t happen. I promise you, my friends, you will end up where you’re supposed to be. And how can I say that with such certainty? The answer is simple: You can’t escape your destiny.”

Okay, so where will fate lead me
?
What is my destiny
?

On a roll, the instructor goes on. “Things happen in our lives that are predetermined, whether we realize it or not. Often it’s a series of small events that slowly and methodically lead us to where we’re supposed to be. But sometimes it’s a big, cataclysmic event that changes the course of everything. Even so, you may not realize your life is changing at the time. Something may happen to someone you know, perhaps someone close to you. Their ‘something’ ends up affecting you.
Your
life is now altered;
you’re
set on a different path.” The instructor pauses, and then she says, “Think of this path as an inevitable detour of sorts.”

Everyone in the classroom is so quiet you’d hear a pin drop if someone were inclined to drop one. Guess everyone is deep in thought, wondering what “inevitable detour”
is in store for them. And how will this “detour” alter their lives. God knows that’s what I’m thinking.

“We have about ten minutes left,” the instructor announces, breaking the trance she was holding everyone in, including me. “Are there any questions, class?”

A lively Q&A ensues, and I know it’s high time I get up off my ass and go home. But I can’t leave, not yet. I need a minute to take in all I’ve heard. It’s like when someone puts something in your head, and that’s all you think about. Now, I can’t help but imagine an inevitable detour of my own. Maybe I should take charge and make one happen next week. I could defy my parents and go to New York City with Haven. It might be worth my parents’ ire to finally venture out of the only state I’ve ever known. Not only would my bestie and I have a great time tearing up the town, but I’d be staying with Haven in her older brother’s apartment. And there’s a good chance that though Farren Shaw travels a lot for some crazy-secretive job he has, I’d finally have an opportunity to meet him. Possibly, I could even spend some time with him.

Gah
. A thrill shoots through me at the thought of spending even a mere minute with Farren. Now there’s an inevitable detour I’d like to take. Much like his sister, Farren is gorgeous. He has the same raven-black hair, same model-perfect features, like full lips and high cheekbones. His eyes, however, are not aquamarine. They’re better; they’re a unique and stunning shade of green. Not that I’ve had the pleasure of viewing these stunning green eyes in person. Only in pictures have I seen them, since, sadly, I’ve never actually met Farren. He’s not around much. He was in the military for years, special ops according to Haven. And though he was discharged over a year ago, he still spends a good deal of time in other countries for his “work.” Consequently, he’s never visited Oakwood College campus. That’s why I’ve never met him. And that
is why I’m so incredibly upset about New York. That would have been my chance. Travel or no, he’d have to stop home at some point.

Oh well. Guess I’ll have to continue to rely on pictures and short videos of Haven’s incredibly handsome brother to fuel my libido. And by fuel, I mean on all cylinders. I may not have much of an interest in sex, but I am still a woman. And, as a woman, I sense a man like Farren could change my mind on the sex-thing. He’s like some dream guy—tall, dark, and too handsome for words.

So, yeah, I’m into him. It’s mostly a secret, though. However, I must confess that once, several months ago, Haven caught me uploading pictures of Farren from her computer to my phone.

“Cyberstalking my brother, I see,” she teased as she walked over to where I was seated—rather uneasily at that point—on the sofa in our living room, her laptop in my hands.

“No, no,” I stammered while trying to close all the open windows…of Farren in uniform, Farren standing next to Haven, and Farren—a recent shot—in a finely tailored suit.

“He does look good in that one,” she said, tapping the screen before the picture of her brother in a dark suit disappeared.

She was right. Farren in a business suit was all kinds of serious hot, so I had to agree. Then, I turned from the computer and asked, “Does he have to wear suits for his new job?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, Essa. I guess.”

“What exactly
is
his new job?” I pressed. “You said he’s some kind of personal security contractor, right? What does that mean, exactly?”

“I don’t really know,” Haven admitted. Then, with a laugh, she said, “All I know is whatever Farren does he gets paid a lot of money.”

“I hope it’s nothing illegal,” I mumbled under my breath.

Hey, it’s not so farfetched to think such a thing. Not only does Farren fund his sister’s college education—as well as all her expenses—but he also has plenty of money for himself. He owns some of the best real estate in the world, including a luxurious New York City apartment. The place is sweet, very sweet, located on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, in a high-rise building right next to Central Park. I’ve seen pictures, and it looks like the kind of place a celebrity would live in. Not that I care about the money Farren has, but the fact that he has so much of it does make me curious.

See, Farren and Haven Shaw were not born into any kind of money, not like the level of wealth Farren currently possesses. Their childhood circumstances were far from ideal and not anywhere near upscale. Their dad, a man named Alan Shaw, disappeared, seemingly into thin air, when they were very young. At the time, Farren was ten and Haven was only three. Their mom was left to struggle on her own to support her two young children. And she was doing okay, until she was killed in a car crash. Seventeen-year-old Farren and ten-year-old Haven were sent to live with their aunt—someone who absolutely did not want the burden of her sister’s kids. Her aunt was cold and indifferent. Haven has said many times that her aunt was far from nice. That’s why Farren joined the army the day he turned eighteen. He left and started sending Haven money right away. Their aunt was always cheap with them, buying the kids only the bare essentials. Despite all of those things, to this day, Haven still craves family. She tries so hard to maintain a relationship with her aunt. But the woman rarely—if ever—returns Haven’s calls.

My phone vibrates, bringing me back to the present. It’s another text from Haven.

Where are you? You better get your ass home soon. We’re still going out tonight, right?

Of course
, I type back.
I haven’t forgotten that we’re celebrating the fact we survived our third year of college.

We did, didn’t we?

Hell, yeah,
I type back.
Seniors next year. Woohoo.

I’ll drink to that
,
Haven replies.

Me, too
.

Hey,
by the way, I hope you’re planning on having more than two beers tonight. Rules are out the window.

Ha-ha. And, yes, rules are out the window.

Good
,
she texts.
Who knows, Essa, maybe you’ll get so loosened up that you’ll end up meeting your fantasy man.

If only she knew it’s her brother who stars in my fantasies. Just thinking about the man—and he is a man, not some fumbling college boy—gets me all worked up. But it’s ridiculous to continue on like this. I’ll surely never meet Farren, seeing as New York City is off the table.

Resigned to live my parent-directed life, which certainly does not include hot guys, I push all thoughts of my secret fantasy, Farren Shaw, to the back of my mind. Gathering up my purse, I stand. But before I leave, I think about the lecture I listened in on.

Fate…

Destiny…

What’s in store for me? Where will these so-called predetermined events lead me? Somewhere, everywhere, nowhere. The possibilities are endless. Still, I have to wonder if there will ever be an inevitable detour in
my
life.

“Yeah, right,” I quietly scoff. The only inevitability in my future is that my life will continue as planned. But the instructor’s words resonate in my head, reminding me that we can’t escape our destiny and that we always end up where we’re supposed to be.

Of course, for that to happen, it may require a bit more defiance on my part. Particularly when it comes to my parents and where they expect me to spend this summer.

Good, okay
. That’s fine with me.

’Cause I think I’m finally ready to start pressing B every chance I get.

T
he Mexican-themed bar, located a few blocks from the tiny frame house where Haven and I rent a second-floor apartment, is completely packed. I shouldn’t be surprised. The lone bar in the otherwise quiet and sedate tree-lined neighborhood—located just off campus—is always busy. But with tonight bearing the distinction of being a Friday
and
the end of finals week, Señor Frog’s is utterly crazy.

“Looks like everyone decided to celebrate here tonight,” I yell over to Haven.

It’s hot and sweaty in the bar, the small dance floor is packed, and a heavy bass beat is practically shaking the whole building.

Haven spins on her barstool to face me, her aquamarine eyes widening in agreement. She nods and takes a sip from her frothy margarita. Lowering the salt-rimmed glass, she yells back, “I know, right?”