Sweet Little Nothing
Logically, I know that Sterling Abbot isn’t here, in Georgia. He’s back in Texas with all of the monsters, doing rich boy things. Like ruining lives and crushing dreams.
After sprinting all the way back to my dorm, I scoured the school’s website for any mention of him. Much to my relief, my search came up blank. There’s no trace of a Sterling Abbot at Central Valley.
For a split second, it crossed my mind that he could be a student here, but I brushed that notion aside. Surely a man like him would go to an ivy and not a small-town private college.
Don’t get me wrong, Central Valley is still the kind of school where money talks, especially old money. It has top-notch academics and produces graduates that go on to do great things. But in the circles my family runs in, prestige is power, and I’m not sure this charming little town offers enough of it.
It is, however, highly unfortunate that the devil’s right hand has a doppelganger here, of all places.
Sterling was a fixture in my childhood home. He and Rob were practically bosom buddies—with their wet nurses, because God knows their mothers wouldn’t risk sagging tits. The devilish duo grew up together and, truth be told, for a long time, I used to secretly pray Sterling would come over.
Because if he was there, then Rob was too preoccupied to mess with me.
Sterling sleeping over was typically the only reprieve I ever got from my stepbrother sneaking into my bedroom at night.
Not to mention, the many times he sought me out just to say hi or ask me about my day. In such a cold, frigid household steeped in hate, he was often times my only bright spot.
As silly as it sounds, I always fancied him a knight, sent to protect me. Now I know those were childish wishes, but at the time, the notion helped me get by.
Seeing him though—well, seeing his lookalike—sent me into a tailspin. Those darkly familiar and striking features of his stole away every bit of safety and security I’ve acquired since arriving here. Seeing him thrust me back into the hell I’ve spent the last nine months clawing my way out of.
Hopefully, if I’m lucky, I’ll never see him again.
Except, when am I ever lucky?
* * *
A quick glance at the clock tells me I still have a few hours before I need to be up. But the thought of what horrors might await me in my slumber has me swiping open the Kindle app on my phone.
There’s nothing like a good book to steal you away from your troubles. Truly, without the escape reading provides, I may not have survived at all. When all of my friends and family turned on me, fictional characters wrapped me in their words and fit back together my mangled, barely beating heart.
Before I know it, I’m several chapters deep, and Stella is banging on my bedroom door, shouting for me to get up. “Girl! We’re not going to have time to stop by Holy Roasters if you don’t get it in gear. I need coffee, Emmy. Need. It.”
I swipe out of the app and check the time. Holy crap, it’s after eight!
“I’m coming!” I fly out of my bed and throw on my favorite high-waisted leggings, stuffing my feet into my Vans. I slip a cropped neon-pink hoodie over my bralette, toss my hair in a topknot and call it good.
“Are you ready?” Stella asks as I race past her on my way into the bathroom.
“Nearly!” I call back, shutting the door behind me.
I emerge five minutes later as put together as a girl can be in under ten minutes. “Ready,” I murmur, grabbing my messenger bag from the couch on our way out of the door.
“Are you nervous?” she asks as we emerge from the building.
“Only a lot.”
Her answering laugh causes me to grin.
The sun is shining. The sky is blue. I’m safe. And today is the first official day of my future. Come hell or high water, I’m determined to make the best of it.
Surprisingly, the line at Holy Roasters is relatively short; we’re in and out in under five minutes, with our coveted caffeinated beverages in hand.
“Let’s get lunch after?” I ask when it’s time for us to go our separate ways.
“Duh.” Stella rolls her eyes, as if it was a given. “Let’s meet at the fountain in the quad?”
“Perfect.”
She heads left down the sidewalk, while I enter the building to the right.
The hallway is packed with students and faculty alike, but I’m far too concerned with counting the room numbers to pay them any mind.
Ever since realizing Professor Ellison is both my Psych 101 prof and my academic advisor, I’ve been determined to make a good first impression. The man has serious clout in the world of academia. He’s supposedly working on the second book of a three-book deal.