Halston

One Year Later…

What a difference a year makes.

Fall leaves crunch beneath my boots as I lug my backpack over one shoulder, hauling ass across the campus of Greatwood University, the only state college that accepted my application, and only after Uncle Vic pulled a few strings.

Eight months at Welsh Academy turned out not to be so bad. There was no Bree. There was no Uncle Vic or Aunt Tabitha. There were no BMW-driving rich kids to contend with. By all accounts, it was a fresh start. A clean slate.

It didn’t take long for me to get used to the rigorous schedule or the ridiculous classes we were forced to suffer through, but Lila made things palatable. She knew all of the best hiding spots, all of the little nooks and crannies of the house. She knew where all the cameras were and how not to trip the alarms in the library and pantry.

The summer before college, I went home with Lila, spending those warm months at her family’s vacation cottage in Portland, Maine, just the two of us in a little house by the shore. She’d planned to attend Brown in the fall, her father’s alma mater, but at the last minute, she decided to go to GU with me.

I couldn’t have been happier … but I played it cool.

I didn’t want to seem that desperate.

“Hey, stranger.” Lila walks toward me from Curtis Hall, shoving the rest of her peanut butter sandwich between her pink lips. “Want to go to Friday After Class at The Oxblood Taproom? Two for one wells?”

Within a month of moving into our dorm, Lila somehow managed to find us both fake IDs. I haven’t asked. She hasn’t explained. It’s probably safer that way.

“I have a ten-page paper due Monday.” I bite my lower lip.

“Oh, my god,” Lila groans. “You’re almost twenty. Come get one drink with me. Live a little. You’re killing me here.”

If someone had told me years ago that I’d turn into a studious, college embracing nerd, I’d have never believed them, but for the first time in my life, I feel like I’ve finally found my groove.

I wake up when I want to wake up. I take classes that actually interest me. High school cliques and politics don’t seem to be an issue here because there are literally tens of thousands of students, and last but not least, I don’t need a car. The extensive bus system gets me where I need to go, and anything else is within walking distance.

I’ve also managed to land a part-time retail job on the weekends, which pays for most of my clothes and extras.

All things considered, I’m doing really fucking well.

Glancing over Lila’s shoulder, I spot Emily Miller in the distance, laughing and walking in a group of girls who all look alike: mousy and tiny. She finally found her people. I saw her at the food court the first week of school. She pretended like she didn’t know me, which at the time, caught me off guard. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized Bree probably spent the remainder of our senior year trashing my reputation to anyone who would listen.

I can only imagine the kinds of things circulating the halls of Rosefield High.

“Lila, hey.” Two guys with khaki shorts, neon polos, and backwards visors approach us, their gazes darting between us as they wear mischievous grins. “Didn’t see you in Econ this morning. What gives?”

“Overslept.” Lila bites her bottom lip. “I can’t do eight AM classes.”

“Ah, well. I took notes. Let me know if you want them,” the first guy says.

“What? No way. That’s so sweet of you.” Lila’s mouth pulls wide and she tilts her head. The note-taker blushes. She’s so good at playing the charm card it’s disgusting.

“Anyway, we’re going to grab some drinks at Oxblood if you and your friend want to join us?” he asks.

Her face lights. “We were just talking about going to FAC. We’ll totally join you.”

I shoot her a look, which she proceeds to ignore, and the second the guys leave, I jab my elbow into her ribcage.

“I cannot believe you just did that,” I say, my voice hushed.

“What?” The legitimate confusion on her face is concerning. “We were going anyway, what’s the big deal?”

All those years spent away at a girls’ only prep school have done some serious damage to this woman. We’ve only been here a couple of months and already she’s doing everything she can to make up for lost time.

I’m pretty sure if I looked up “boy crazy” in Webster’s dictionary, there’d be a cross-reference to Lila Mayfield.

Folding her arms, she squints. “When are you going to move on?”

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“This is about that guy, that principal guy,” she says.

“No, it’s not.” I try to sound convincing, but I don’t even convince myself.

Her jaw hangs. “That’s exactly what this is about. That’s why you’ve been acting so weird since we came here. All you do is study and hide up in our room, and when you’re not studying, you’re reading books, and when you’re not studying or reading books, you’ve got a million Google tabs going at once.”

Busted.

Trying to find Kerouac has become a compulsive obsession that occupies ninety-nine percent of my study-breaks.

“When are you going to move on, babe?” Lila asks, one hand on her hip. “It’s been a year.”

“It feels like yesterday,” I say, my voice narrowing to a whisper.

She places her hands on my shoulders, almost shaking me as she gets in my face. “I promise you, Halston. Where ever he is? He’s not sitting around waiting for you to walk back into his life. So why are you?”

I let her words replay in my mind, hoping they might actually sink in for once. It’s not like I haven’t had the exact same thought a million times before …

My heart just isn’t ready to accept it.