Just Let Me Love You (25 page)

Well, more or less. But that’s neither here nor there.

Bottom line is that my parents will not, as they put it in their terse message, have me “veering off course.”

Oh, really? So they think…

My defiance hits full throttle, and I purposely choose the wrong answers for the next four questions.

I hit submit and think,
take that, Mr. and Mrs. Brant
.

Despite my actions, I’ll still receive a solid A for the class. My GPA will not suffer in the slightest. Still, it feels kind of good to be bad.

That’s sad, Essa, that choosing a few wrong answers on a final is the best defiant act you can come up with
.

Sighing, I click a button to indicate I am finished with the exam. I then grab my purse from the back of the chair and head for the door. “You’re pathetic,” I mumble to myself as I step out into a warm, stuffy hallway that smells of varnish and books.

I kind of like the smell as it wraps around me. It’s the smell of students seeking knowledge; it’s the smell of youth. Despite all my protestations to the contrary, I do like college. I would just prefer to be studying something of my own choosing.

I stand and ponder. Not only does the smell of school envelope me, but the heat of the day does as well. The second-floor hall I’m lingering in is about ten degrees warmer than the classroom was. Dropping my purse to the floor, I shrug out of my olive-green mock-army jacket. I’m down to two layered tanks, blue over white, but I am still roasting.

“Blech,” I pant, fanning myself as I bend down to pick up my purse. The button on my pants threatens to pop, and I let out a curse. I really should have worn a pair of nice, loose shorts instead of squeezing my ass into overly stylish skinny jeans this morning.

Maybe if the jeans were a little looser, I’d be more comfy.

I do a funny little dance in the thankfully empty area outside the classroom. Sadly, the jeans don’t feel a single inch looser. Damn designers. Don’t they realize we’re not all model-perfect? When I exhale, the button squeezes once again at my middle, and I remind myself that I need to lay off the sweets.

Yeah, right. A girl has to have some kind of indulgence, right? And since I’m no exception, sugary treats are it for me. Otherwise, I’m fairly straight and narrow. I don’t do drugs, and I don’t smoke. I also barely drink—two drinks are my limit when I do imbibe—and I’m not promiscuous.

“Far from it,” I mumble.

I’ve only had sex once, in fact. And what a disaster
that
turned out to be. The memory alone, from one of the few nights I deviated from my two-drinks policy, at a Saint Patrick’s Day party two months ago, leaves me feeling nauseated. Yeah, the thirty seconds spent with the senior who was cowriting an article with me for the online
Oakwood College Gazette
just wasn’t worth the time it took to take off my clothes. All too clearly, a fuzzy memory of him grunting on top of me, sweaty and harsh, comes to mind. I kept regretting that this was how I was losing my virginity. I still regret it. But what can you do? Last time I checked there were no time machines.

So, yeah, forget about sex. That’s my motto. I’ll stick with sugar-laden goodies for now. Like cupcakes. Haven made a batch to celebrate our surviving finals week. Her homemade buttercream frosting is far better than sex any day. Not to mention it’s more orgasm-inducing than the thirty seconds that had me asking, “What? That’s it? Why bother?”

I sigh. I need to get back to the apartment and hit up those awesome cupcakes. But my feet are far from moving. I can’t believe I daydreamed away five whole minutes. Or maybe it’s been ten.

Retrieving my phone from my purse, I send Haven a quick text:
Leaving Byers Hall. Don’t eat all the cupcakes.

A few seconds later, she texts back:
Oops. I got hungry and ate the rest for dinner.
Sorry.

Bitch
, I reply.

Whore
, is her response.

I call her a bitch again and laugh. She’s laughing too. I’m sure of it. Haven knows my texts are sent with love. She is so not a bitch, and I would never think such a thing for real. Nor do I suspect she sees me as a whore. I am far from it, as established. Well, unless we’re talking sugar. Then, I’m a full-blown slut.

Haven sends another text.
Just kidding,
Es. I didn’t eat all the cupcakes. I know you love them, so I left the rest for you.

Aww, Haven is the best.
You’re super sweet
, I text back, and then I start down the hallway. Finally.

As I amble along, I think of how Haven is definitely one of the better parts of my life. Throughout the course of the past three years, we’ve become best friends. We met at a freshman orientation. It was an early one, held during the spring prior to matriculation. We sat next to each other and clicked immediately, which is kind of amusing, since we’re so different from one another. Somehow, though, we just work. Bottom line, I love Haven, and I’d do anything for her. She’s certainly done some selfless things for me, no doubt about that. As a result, we’re close, thicker than thieves some say. I tease Haven all the time; tell her she’s my sister from another mother. Since her own mom passed away years ago, she usually replies that she’d let my mom adopt her. But then she adds the qualifier, “that is, if she wasn’t so damn overbearing.”

Understatement of the year.

Just the other day, after I received a call from my mom—she was checking in on my studying—Haven joked, “If your mom took me in she’d probably insist I change my major from theater to business.”

“She probably would,” I agreed.

It’s true. My mother means well, as does my dad, but both my parents have a tendency to focus on practicality. And to the Mr. and Mrs. Brant, practicality means majoring in business.

“It’s always smart to major in something marketable,” Dad likes to say.

“Like business, honey,” Mom always adds with a smile. “You’re making smart choices, Essa.”

Too bad they’re not
my
choices.

Wishing I was more like Haven, who answers to no one, I round the corner and run smack dab into one of Haven’s acting professors. To my dismay, it’s the shitty professor who broke my friend’s heart two weeks ago.

“Hi, Essa,” Professor Walsh says cordially while pretending to step out of my path.

He remains in the way, of course. Still, I manage to slip around him. He nonetheless stays with me, turning and watching me the whole time.

Ugh
. It is so hard not to snipe, “Get the hell out of my face, you fucking douche bag.”

Since I lack the courage to say such a thing, I hold my tongue.

But when Professor Walsh reaches out and touches my arm, halting my progress, I twist from his grasp and snap, “Really?” I raise both brows and take a step back. “Please tell me you did not just lay your hand on me.”

“Now, now,” Douche Bag Walsh says in a sickly, patronizing tone. “There’s no need for such a venomous retort. I don’t know what Haven has told you—”

“Try everything,” I interrupt.

Haven and her thirty-five-year-old professor had a three-month fling. It was all hot and heavy, not to mention illicit as hell, until he ended it in a not-so-nice way.

Concern fills the professor’s light-brown eyes as he taps his foot and stares at me. It’s not concern for the girl whose heart he’s broken. It’s purely concern for his own ass. Oh, the trouble he could get into for fucking one of his students.

“Don’t worry,” I say, just to get him to stop staring and, hopefully, go away. “Haven won’t let me go to the disciplinary board, and God knows she’ll never do it herself, so your secret is safe.”

The professor, more confident as soon as he hears I plan to keep my mouth shut, lazily brushes back a lock of wispy, dirty-blond hair that’s fallen to his forehead. He’s boyishly handsome, and this is a move he’s obviously perfected.

Too bad it does absolutely nothing for me.

Undeterred, he says in a low voice, “Everything that happened between me and Haven Shaw was consensual. She’s twenty-two years old, Miss Brant. Last time I checked that makes her an adult.”

I feel like screaming in his smug face. “You were her freaking professor, prick. Not only did you violate school policy, but you violated her when you let her fall in love with you and then callously walked away.”

But there’s no point in lashing out. Haven is still hung up on the guy, shady though he is. She doesn’t want him to get into any trouble. And someone might hear me if I start going off in defense of my friend. The halls are empty, but many of the classrooms are full.

So I don’t say a thing. I do, however, scowl at the man. And then I walk away, leaving him standing in the middle of the hall. I feel his eyes on me, probably checking out my ass. His hooking up with Haven wasn’t some fluke. It’s common knowledge that Professor Walsh has a thing for college-age girls. Until Haven, he was known as a one-and-done kind of guy. But he was really into Haven, for a while…until he wasn’t.

It’s really no surprise he liked her as much as he did in the early days of their fling. Men find Haven irresistible. And why wouldn’t they? The girl is gorgeous. She is far prettier than I am. Haven is tall, with a model-like body. I am short, not super thin. Haven has big, expressive aquamarine eyes and shiny, raven-black hair. I have boring hair that can’t even decide what color it wants to be. Some days it appears light brown, other days it’s more of a dark blonde shade. Not that I pay much notice. I usually just pile the long, unruly tresses up in a sloppy bun, or twist the mess into a ponytail.

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.”