Campus God (Campus)

Oh, hell no.

“Wait—”

Before I can stop her, she pushes past me. Excitement dances across her face. The expression is night and day from the one she’d been wearing while staring at me. Unsure what to do, I watch as the guy plows a hand through his hair, shoving the strands away from his eyes before grinning.

Instead of stalking over and grabbing her the way every instinct is clamoring, I hightail it out of the Roasted Bean. As I push through the door, a chilly breeze wafts over me, cooling all of the emotion that riots beneath the surface of my skin. After a couple of steps, I pull out my phone and fire off a quick text, apologizing for being a no-show.

Do you really think for one damn minute I’m going to let her think that the asshole inside is the one she’s been texting with?

No fucking way.

17

BROOKE

As soon as I park my car in the half-filled lot, I flip down the visor and take one last look in the mirror, making sure that my hair and makeup are on point. There’s no need to give Elaine any further ammunition to use against me. I blow out a steady breath, knowing that no matter how much I straighten and smooth, my mother will find something to comment on. It’s taken a couple of years and a shit ton of therapy sessions to come to that realization.

Most of the time we meet up, my armor is firmly intact and I’m able to use the counseling tools in my toolbox to get through the visits relatively unscathed. That’s not the case today. After Chris bailed on me, I’m feeling a little vulnerable. My high hopes had ended in crushing disappointment.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised that he flaked. Although, after last night, I guess I am. Masturbating while on the phone with a guy is certainly a first for me. I’m not going to lie—it was super-hot, but still…

The only consolation I have is that he texted right away to let me know he couldn’t make it. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done. I’d assumed the cute guy I’d caught the eye of across the shop was him and went over to introduce myself. When I’d asked if his name was Chris, he’d said, and I quote, that he could be any guy I wanted him to be. I’d thought he was trying to be cute until the real Chris’s message rolled in, letting me know that he’d been held up by one of his professors. Extricating myself from the coffee shop situation had been embarrassing.

The rest of the day had been downhill from there. And now, I’m going to cap it off by having dinner with my mother. I’m sure by the end of the meal, I’ll want to hurtle myself off the nearest bridge.

With a resigned huff, I steel myself for two hours of unpleasantness, all the while tiptoeing through a minefield of topics. The evening will be exhausting, which is why I can only deal with seeing her every couple of weeks. Lord knows it’ll take that long to undo all the damaging subliminal—and not so subliminal—messages she’ll bombard me with. If it’s a real shitshow, I’ll make an appointment with my counselor on campus to discuss my unresolved issues.

Exiting the vehicle, I smooth down my skirt and head inside the restaurant. The quicker I get in there, the sooner it’ll be over with, and I can head home to lick my wounds in private.

“Hi,” I say with a forced smile when I reach the hostess stand, “I’m here to meet Elaine Bollinger.”

The younger woman nods before stepping from behind the sleek desk. “She’s already been seated. If you’ll please follow me, I’ll show you to your table.”

It takes everything I have inside to keep the pleasant expression pasted across my face as I catch sight of Mom strategically positioned in the middle of the elegant dining room where she can see everyone who comes and goes. Once she catches sight of me, she rises to her feet and throws open her arms.

“Darling,” she coos, “it’s so good to see you. It feels like it’s been forever.”

I’m immediately enveloped in a sultry cloud of Chanel as she air kisses both cheeks, behaving as if she’s from a sophisticated European country instead of a holler in Eastern Kentucky, where she was born and raised before hightailing it from there when she was seventeen years old. The only times she’s returned to her roots are when her parents died, and she sold the tiny hovel she’d grown up in. Mom always had big dreams and, say what you want about her, she made damn sure to attain them.

I stare longingly after the hostess as she silently retreats to the front of the restaurant, wishing there were a way for me to escape with her.