Anabelle
Anabelle.
My parents couldn’t have chosen a more feminine name for me, but here’s the thing, they didn’t choose it because it was pretty or ladylike.
No.
They chose it because of wrestling.
Everything was always about wrestling.
Before I was born, the masculine part of my father wished for a son, as men often do, someone to carry on the family name.
The Donnelly family tradition: wrestling.
As far back as I can remember, the sport flows in the Donnelly family blood. It’s my father’s livelihood.
My Irish grandfather wrestled.
My father wrestled.
Instead of a son, he ended up with me, an Anabelle instead of an Anthony. Ana instead of Abe.
A little girl scared of her own shadow who, instead of taking an interest in her father’s hobbies, clung to his leg. A little girl who carried around dolls and cried for her mother on the rare occasions he took pity on her and tried to teach her a few self-defense moves.
Back in college, when Dad was a novice wrestler at a junior college in Mississippi, he had a best friend on the team named Lucien Belletonio. Belle, they called him, though he was the very antithesis of such a feminine nickname—dark and broody and destined to be something big.
A champion.
My father’s best friend.
The year before I was born, just five months after my parents met, Belle and my father were tapped for greater things.
Coaching.
Life was good and only getting better—Belle a rising star on and off the mats, my father with a new wife and a baby on the way—but then fate got in the way, along with five tons of steel, ending Belle’s life and taking my father’s best friend along with it.
Belle.
Anabelle.
Feminine and smart and strong.
My father never wanted to forget Lucien Belletonio, and now he never will, because he has me.
Mom didn’t exactly make it easy to see or visit him after they got divorced, always citing one ridiculous reason or another. Your father is too busy with his career to have you stay with him. It’s wrestling season. It’s almost wresting season. He cares more about those boys than he cares about you.
I used to believe her.
Until I grew up and realized what she really meant was he cared more about those boys than he ever cared about her.
Me? I never felt abandoned by my dad, never felt left behind.
I grew older and wiser, started seeing Dad on television, on ESPN. Knew he was an important man with an important job, and I respected that.
It was my mother who didn’t.
As a young woman with a small child, she wasn’t willing to make the sacrifices many coaches’ wives have to make, moving in the fall when coaching staff changes. Pay cuts. Pay increases. Promotions followed by demotions. Moving across the country, going where the jobs are.
The thought makes me cringe.
My feet move at a brisk pace on the treadmill, thoughts of my parents’ divorce propelling me forward, the machine I’m on at a steep incline. Pushing me to my limits. Making me sweat. Making my legs climb and climb and run faster, pounding the rubber in time to the music, my entire workout a metaphor for my life.
It’s time to move, Anabelle. It’s time to move. My feet tap out the rhythm of the words.
It’s time for a change. My legs burn out the chant.
It’s time to—
“Hey, you almost done with this machine?” The question is followed by a tap on my upper arm, and I glance over, curious about the person with the gall to interrupt my workout.
I don’t bother pulling out my earbuds as I shake my head, ponytail swaying. “Fifteen more minutes.” My eyes assess the room, the empty row of treadmills. “You can use one of those machines.”
I try to be polite as possible, but he’s just standing there, watching me. His lips move, but with my ears plugged, I can barely make out what he’s saying.
They continue moving.
I yank out an ear bud, holding it near my head. “What?”
“This is my lucky treadmill.” He gives me a wide grin I’m sure he thinks will have me hopping off in a snap.
It doesn’t. “Your lucky treadmill? You don’t say.”
I mean seriously, who’s heard of such a thing? So dumb.
“Yup. Lucky number seven.”
I do a quick scan, counting the machines from right to left. He’s correct; I am on the seventh treadmill.
“Okay, well, give me another thirteen minutes, and it’s all yours.”
His arms cross. “I can wait.”
“Can you, um, wait over there?”
His closeness is a tad invasive, unnecessary, and weirding me out.
Determined to ignore him, I pop the music back in my ears, cranking the volume to drown him out. His mouth moves again.
I point to my ears. “Music is too loud, I can’t hear you.”
His mouth curves into a smirk, a knowing little smile—and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think his lips were saying, “Thank God you don’t look anything like your dad.”
That can’t be what he said, can it? This guy doesn’t even know me.
Doesn’t know my dad is Coach Donnelly, the winningest coach in college wrestling history. Doesn’t know I’m here to live with him and my stepmom until I can get my own place off campus, as soon as freaking possible because Dad’s hovering is about to drive me nuts.
I understand his need to watch over me, I really do.
The man hasn’t seen me in over a year, and I haven’t lived within a thousand miles of him since I was eight, since my mom packed our bags and moved us to the east coast.
But I’m not a little kid anymore.
Dad can’t know where and what I’m doing all hours of the day. He’s been making my lunch like I’m in elementary school, leaving the lights on in the hall at night like you’d do for a child afraid of the dark. His wife—my stepmom, Linda—has been great, preparing the guest bedroom for my arrival, outfitting me with everything I need.
Or would have needed—for the dorms, or for when I was twelve.
Everything is pink.
The problem is—and this is a big one—I’m not a freshman anymore. I don’t want to live with my parents, and I sure as hell don’t want to live in the damn dorms.
I want a house or an apartment. I want to come home and sit on the couch in my underwear, eat pizza out of the box, and watch TV until two in the morning without having my father walk into the room to shut it off.
I want what I had before I transferred.
An apartment. A roommate.
Friends.
I love my family, but the college experience just isn’t the same if you’re living at home.
Sighing, I finally hit the twenty-minute mark with one mile under my belt for the morning. Not too shabby.
Tap the cool-down button on the controls, letting the treadmill slow on its own. Slow my gate from a run…to a light jog…to a walk. Look over and see the guy with the blond hair and cocky grin leaning against the wall, watching me. I study him right back.
The cutoff tee.
The biceps. The perspiration under his armpits, staining his shirt. His damp hair.
The wrestling logo on his shirt.
My lips purse.
I’m not judging the guy, I just don’t want him knowing who I am. Not yet.
Not if he’s a wrestler.
There’s only one way to find out.
Four minutes left.
Two and a half.
I lower the speed, pressing until the machine hits a sloped two-point-six. Lazy, tired paces.
Blondie meanders over, headphones draped around his neck. “Done?”
I nod. “Done.”
His hands rest on his hips—lean hips that are obviously in shape. He offers me a patronizing smile. “Thanks for understanding.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Right.”
“You come here often?” he asks, approaching with a sanitizing wipe, beginning with the handles of the treadmill before I’ve even stepped off it.
“No. I’m new here.”
“Junior?”
“Yup. Second semester transfer.”
“From where?”
He’s just full of questions, isn’t he?
“A small school out east.”
A real small Catholic college, if you want to get technical. The college where my mom went, in the town where she met my dad, back when times were good and he was beginning his coaching career. They were young and excited and hardly fought about all the time he was gone, leaving her alone.
Newly graduated and full of ambition, his first job was as an assistant conditioning coach at Holy Immaculate of Massachusetts College. He bumped into my mother coming around the corner near the gym, almost knocked her off her feet, and when he moved to help her up—well, the rest was history.
Until it wasn’t.
I don’t know why Mom pushed and pushed so hard for me to enroll there. She hates my dad with the passion of a thousand blazing suns, blames him for the breakdown in their marriage. Blames the college recruiting process, his driven nature to always want more, to be more, to have more.
To win.
I was young when they separated, but I can still remember them fighting every time he got a new opportunity at a new college or university, doing his best to advance on the coaching path. The next best school. The next level.
Until he landed Iowa.
Holy Immaculate must have held enough good memories for her because she pleaded with me to give it a shot, to give it at least one year until I transferred.
I gave her two and a half.
“What was your small school called?” the guy prods, done wiping down the handles, rubbing the wipe back and forth against the control panel.
Lost in thought, I’ve forgotten our conversation. “Huh?”
“Your last university—what was it called?”
Right. “Oh, you’ve never heard of it, trust me.”
“Try me.” He’s so cocky it’s almost unbelievable.
This time, I do roll my eyes. “Holy Immaculate of Massachusetts College.”
His eyes widen. “Yup, definitely never heard of it.”
I laugh at him; he’s kind of goofy, if a bit relentless. I can’t decide if it’s annoying or refreshing—probably a bit of both.
I take his measure. Average, he has the look of a wrestler, no doubt about it: wide forehead, ears a tad bent, intense brown gaze directed at me.
I smooth a nervous hand down the front of my tight athletic pants, conscious of my appearance. Of my tight tank top, the sweat dripping between my boobs. The skin on my back squishing out of my sports bra. My mass of long, out of control, chestnut hair.
“Are you like—holy?” he enquires.
“Am I holy?” I play dumb. “What does that mean?”
He waves a hand in the air. “You know, are you saving yourself for marriage and shit?”
My nose goes in the air. “That’s personal—I don’t even know you.”
His smirk is cocky, like he has me—and the universe—figured out. “So you are saving yourself.”
I sigh. “Holy Immaculate is where my mom went. That’s where she wanted me to go, so I…went.”
“How did you end up here?”
I grab the towel hanging off the handrail, patting at the perspiration dampening my chest, the wet hairs at the nape of my neck. “Family.”
My dad.
His discount as a member of the staff.
Iowa’s stellar law program.
“What family?”
I shoot him a look. “Why are you so nosy?”
“Why aren’t you answering me?”
“I don’t know you.”
“My name is Eric. You can get to know me.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.” I laugh. “You seem like a total…” Pain in the ass. Too pushy for my taste. “You’re a complete stranger.”
“I’m not a sixty-five-year-old pervert, I can tell you that.”
“Not yet, but you will be someday.” It slips out before I can stop it and I cover my mouth, laughing. “Oops, did I say that out loud?”
He looks surprised. “Am I weirding you out?”
“You’re coming on a little strong,” I answer honestly.
“Coming on? What does that mean?”
My eyes narrow as I gather my things. “Look around you, pal. You cannot tell me you have to run on this same treadmill every day and if you don’t, you’ll have bad luck. That’s such a load of crap.”
Eric studies me, lip twitching. “Fair enough. Maybe I did want to come over here to meet you—do you blame me?”
“Making up a string of lies isn’t a great way to start a friendship with someone.”
“So we’re friends now?”
I shrug.
He pauses, considering this information, looking into my eyes. Dark chocolate gaze slides down my nose to my mouth. Up again, to my hairline. “You look familiar.”
“Maybe I look like someone you know.”
“You know, you’re right. You do.”
“Who?”
I have a feeling I already know the answer, but I wait for him to fill in the blanks. He looks like a semi-smart fellow.
“I heard a rumor that one of the coaches here had a daughter.”
I nod knowingly. “Ah, so you are a wrestler.” God, I love it when I’m right.
“So what if I am?”
Ha! Yes! I knew it. “My father is the coach.”
“You look nothing like him.” He continues watching me. “Well, you kind of do, but you’re much better-looking.”
Obviously, I’m much better-looking. I mean, my dad is a man. Plus, he hasn’t aged well. The stress of his job has definitely taken its toll, and he looks nothing like the man my mother fell head-over-heels in love with twenty years ago.
Whoever this wrestler is, he came over here knowing who I was.
I step onto the carpeted floor. “Eric, what’s your last name?”
“Johnson.”
I bank that away in my mind for a rainy day, just in case I need to shake down my father for intel on the kid.
“Well Eric Johnson, it’s been swell, but I’m pretty sure my dad warned the entire team off me, and you’ve just lied to me twice. So, you’re either hard of hearing or looking for trouble. Which one is it?”
“You don’t think this meeting was purely coincidental?”
I squint at him, unable to read his blank expression. The guy has an amazing poker face.
Shooting me another friendly smile, the mischievous glint is telling me he’s definitely interested in whatever he thinks I have to offer, or he wants to get on my dad’s good side.
He’s also kind of dopey but in a cute way.
Hmm.
Still, I decide not to give him the time of day. I have things to do, and his level of persistence can only lead to trouble, I’m sure of it.
“What’s your name?” he calls out as I weave through the exercise machines, heading toward the locker room.
Jeez, why is he so loud?
Halting, I retreat, not wanting to yell back across the gym, not in a room full of athletes I’ve never met—hot, perspiring athletes. Did I mention hot?
“Would you keep your voice down?”
He does a mini shrug. “It’s loud in here.”
“Not so loud you have to shout.”
“Sorry?”
“My name is Anabelle.”
Eric Johnson, my new acquaintance—one my father will not be pleased about—sticks out his hand, offering it up for a shake. I hesitate to take it at first, certain my palms are sweaty and gross.
“Nice to meet you, Anabelle.”
I can’t say the same, but nonetheless, my hand slides into his, pumps his arm up and down, gripping his hand firmly. “Eric, it’s been interesting.”
“See you around?”
“Sure.” Then I add, “Why not?”
“Hey Dad, is this a bad time?” My knuckles give a soft rap on the window to his office, located at the entrance of the wrestling locker room. He sits at his desk, head bent over a sheaf of papers, bright yellow sticky notes on his computer, walls.
His head lifts, happy to see me standing in the doorway. “Hey Ana Banana.”
I used to hate when he called me that—he’s been doing it since I was five—but now I’m so used to it, the nickname actually brings a silly grin to my face.
“Got a free minute?”
“Anything for my baby girl.”
Oh brother.
I dial down my nervous energy and shuffle to one of the chairs in his office, a blue-painted cinderblock room with only a bank of windows separating it from the changing area, the showers.
A veritable fishbowl.
“I’m not going to accidentally see any naked wrestlers, am I?” Not that I’d be mad about it, but it might be embarrassing if my father was sitting beside me when it happened.
“Nope. No one should be getting here until”—he checks the ancient watch circling his wrist—“four.”
I dump my backpack on the concrete floor, which at one time was painted beige but has now faded, and plop down in an uncomfortable metal chair. No luxuries for my old man.
He leans forward, already interested in whatever it is I’m about to say. “How are classes?”
“Good.” Real good actually. “I was just on my way to grab a bite to eat. I’m starving. You want anything?”
I steal a peppermint from the bowl on his desk—the same brand he’s eaten since I was young—and peel it open, pop it in my mouth. Toss the green wrapper into the nearby wastebasket.
“Why don’t you just run home and grab something to eat?”
“Because I’m already on campus. I’ll just grab a sub in the union shop.”
“You don’t have to eat in the cafeteria you know—the food here is utter shit.”
There it is—my opening for the conversation I’ve been wanting to have.
“Actually Dad, that’s why I’m here.” I clear my throat, garnering my courage. “You know I love living with you and Linda, it’s just…I think it’s time to find my own place. It’s been a month,” I add hurriedly. “I think I’ve adjusted really well and there’s no need for me to, you know, stay with you guys anymore.”
Ugh, do I sound ungrateful? I feel terrible even bringing it up, but I really do need and want my own place.
Dad shifts in his seat, tipping it back until it squeaks, steepling his fingers in a move I’ve learned is his signature when he’s thinking of what to say next.
“Have you started looking?”
“Not really. I’m not sure where to start. I thought maybe you could help me.”
This puffs him up a bit, and he sits up straighter. Crying teenage girls, he knew nothing about. Scared little girls who missed their mother during a routine weekend visit, not a clue. Periods? Hormones? Boy troubles? No, no, and heck no. Those were all things he could never understand or help me with.
Finding a place to live?
That he knows a little something about.
I pat myself on the back for asking him. I hate that he feels like he failed me when my mother divorced him, hate that he missed so much of my life because of it—because he was busy chasing the dream while my mother only became bitter.
I can only wonder and imagine what it would have been like had they stayed together, tried to make it work. If my mother hadn’t minded moving every December when he took a new job for the spring. I wonder if it would have felt like an adventure not staying in the same town my whole life.
My hands fiddle with the hem of my sweatshirt, the only warm thing I’ve unpacked since I got to his place, knowing—hoping—it was temporary.
“I don’t want you living with strangers, Annie.”
“Everyone here is a stranger, Daddy. I’m still meeting people.”
“Then maybe now is not the right time to move into your own place.”
“Well.” I fold my hands on his desk. “Maybe that’s the solution. Maybe I should get my own place—maybe I shouldn’t do the roommate thing anymore. I’m a junior. I’ll be twenty-two in no time at all.”
His head lolls from side to side and he stares up at the ceiling. “Don’t remind me. It only makes me feel old,” he teases. Sits up again and directs his steely green gaze in my direction. “You really want to live alone?”
“Not really, but I don’t want to wait. It might take me forever to find people to live with.” I take a deep breath. “I love you Dad, and I love Linda. I just, you know, need my own space. It feels weird wanting to have my own guests.”
“Sure you can!”
“Dad, come on,” I deadpan. “By people, I mean guys.”
If I ever manage to meet someone.
I ramble on as if his face hasn’t just contorted into a horrified expression. “Can you imagine me sneaking someone into the house at night while you’re asleep? I snuck friends in when I lived at Mom’s. Man, she used to get so mad.”
“Why would you have to sneak people in?”
“Uh, because she was strict, never really wanted me to have people over. It’s not a big deal.”
Dad’s entire face changes and I feel guilty for bringing her up. “Anabelle, you know we will let you have people over. You don’t even have to ask.” He pauses. “Maybe not guys, but other people—girl kind of people.”
I’m still laughing when a door opens inside the locker room and we both look, watch as a dark, broody figure stalks across the tile floor.
“Who’s that?” My voice is breathy though I try to disguise it.
He cranes his head to look. “Zeke Daniels. He graduated but helps out from time to time.”
My lips part and I feel my head tilt as I study him. I let out a little puff of, “Whoa.”
“He has a girlfriend—and even if he didn’t, I wouldn’t want you anywhere near him.”
My shoulders fall because damn he’s good-looking.
“Which reminds me—you might meet him at a dinner Linda and I are taking you to. Probably his girlfriend, too.”
I peel my eyes away…barely. “What dinner?”
“It’s the Big Brothers program I’ve had a hand in sponsoring the last few years. Daniels is a mentor for one of the boys, along with a few of my other wrestlers. Anyway, there’s an annual fundraising dinner at the end of February. Dinner, dancing, a silent auction. Linda and I enjoy it, make it a date night.”
“Date night?”
Dad does that thing where he narrows his eyes ever so slightly to gauge a person’s reaction—and no matter how much I school my expression, I know he sees the excitement in my eyes at the mention of a date.
“I told you, you’re not allowed to date any of these assholes.”
“Which assholes? You’ve warned me off practically everyone.”
“The wrestlers. It just doesn’t cotton.” Dad’s southern roots are showing. “I don’t need you tangled up with anyone on the team. It won’t end well.”
“Won’t end well for who?”
“Them.” He picks at a yellow sticky pad, scribbles something on it, and slaps the square of paper onto his computer monitor. “Besides, you know I’ve already told each and every damn one of them to stay away from you.”
“Some of them aren’t the best listeners,” I quip under my breath with a laugh.
My father doesn’t find it the least bit funny, unflinching in his chair. “Who?”
A tiny shake of my head. “No one.”
“Has one of them already come on to you?”
“No Dad. I was just making a joke.”
“Anabelle Juliet.”
“Oh brother, here we go with the middle name.”
“I’m not shitting around here Annie. Half them boys wouldn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.”
I smirk. “What about the other half?” Those are the ones I care about.
He levels me with an unamused stare. “Were you this much of a smartass with your mother?”
“Yes, kind of.” It’s one of the reasons Mom and I fought when I was a teenager. She couldn’t stand my mouth or my sense of humor, said I reminded her too much of my dad. Since when is that a bad thing? I’d always smart back.
“The other half don’t have time for dating, Anabelle. The other half are winning national championships and don’t need the distractions.”
Ahhh, there it is. “So you’re the one who doesn’t want the guys dating.”
He scoffs. “Anabelle, not a single coach in the history of the NCAA wants their athletes dating.”
I laugh, tipping my head back because he says it so matter-of-factly, like it should be obvious. “I get that Dad, but you can’t control everything they do.”
“No, but I can stop them from dating my daughter.”
“What if I end up liking one of them?”
“That’s not going to happen.” His tone dares me to argue with him.
So I do.
“Seriously Dad, what if I meet one and they are just so hot and funny and captivating I couldn’t possibly resist him?”
His fingers steeple again. “Lucky for me, those boys are already off the market. Is that what you kids call it? The meat market?”
“Worst metaphor, but sure.” I shrug. “We’ll go with meat market.”
“I’m not kidding about this.”
“I know that, Dad.”
“Good.” He makes a show of shuffling some papers to let me know we’re done with this conversation. “Besides, I don’t know why you’d want to date a wrestler to begin with—their ears are all funny.”
“Are you making a joke?”
“Yes. Was that not funny?”
“Not really, because I think those funny ears are kind of cute sometimes.” I’m giving him a hard time and he knows it. I rise from my seat and reach over, giving his earlobes a little wiggle. “Look at my daddy’s cute little ears.”
He swats at me, grouchy. “Stop it, people are looking.”
I give him an eye roll worthy of my teenage self. “No one is looking.”
Not if you don’t count the wrestler shuffling around the locker room. Zeke Daniels catches my eye and scowls, immediately presenting me with his broad back as he changes into a gym shirt. The entire expanse of it is covered with a black tattoo that looks like a rising phoenix. Stark against his skin, hard lines with a dark mood.
Mysterious and hard and angry, just as he appears to be.
“Is he always broody like that? Or is it just me?”
“Daniels?” My dad cranes his neck again, peering through the glass. Grunts dismissively. “He’s always like that.”
“Why?”
“Suspect it has something to do with his upbringing. He doesn’t get along with his parents.”
“Ahh.”
Neither of us speak after that, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am. That a person’s parents shape the person they become, whether they want them to or not. I mean, look at me—I have two perfectly normal parents who happen to be divorced, and in a way, it kind of did a number on me.
I moved halfway across the country to seek my dad’s approval, to atone for my mother leaving him. I’ve taken enough high school psych classes to know this behavior stems from my past and has everything to do with my family dynamic.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” Dad is saying, “but he’s really come a long way. He was such a goddamn prick last year, I almost had to suspend him.”
I study Zeke through the glass, gaze roaming up and down his body, ogling. Really Anabelle, in front of your father?
Ugh.
“Suspend him? Why?”
“Piss-poor attitude—pardon my French.”
“He doesn’t look all that terrible.”
Dad hmphs. “Looks can be deceiving, and I suspect his girlfriend has a lot to do with it.”
“Have you met her?”
I watch as Zeke sits on the bench, back to us, lacing up a pair of black wrestling shoes and sliding a tank top over his head. Such a pity, covering his broad back.
“Once, at the Big Brothers fundraiser. I’m guessing by now, that blonde has him wrapped around her little finger.”
Blonde? Typical.
Guys like that always go for the blondes.
“Tiny slip of a thing, not much to her. Has a stutter.”
Say what? “A stutter?”
“You know, a speech impediment.”
“I know what a stutter is, Dad.” My brows go up, curious. “That guy is dating a girl with a speech impediment?”
“He is.”
I can’t peel my eyes off him now, curiosity getting the best of me as I second-guess my initial valuation of him.
“What’s she like?”
“Who, Violet?”
“Is that her name?”
“Yes.” Dad steeples his fingers once again. “She volunteers a lot. Babysits. Small and quiet, I guess. I wouldn’t have paired the two of them together in a million years, but I guess we can’t choose who we fall in love with.”
I can’t decide if that’s a dig at Zeke or at Violet’s choice in romantic partners.
“Anyway, I have to hand it to the boy—he works his ass off for the team.”
I would say so—he’s an hour and a half early for practice, already wrapping his wrists. Tilting his head from side to side, headgear dangling from around his wrist.
“Enough about him. We need to get your living situation squared away.”
I breathe a sigh, relieved he’s ready to talk about it. “Yes. Thank you, Dad.”
“If you want to live on your own, I have nothing to say against it, but I don’t want you in a shithole.”
“They’re all shitholes,” I say, feeling the need to point out this unfortunate fact.
“True.” He stands, coming around his desk. “Find a few options and we’ll have a look. In the meantime, do your old man a favor and try to find a roommate, preferably one who studies a lot and likes to stay home, one who hates partying and boys.”
“Haha.” I rise too, wrapping my hands around his shoulders and squeezing. Give him a kiss on his weathered cheek. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Love you, Annie.” When he ruffles my hair, I let him.
I roll my eyes at the childhood nickname. “Love you too, Dad.”
I’ve found the perfect little spot on campus to study.
Climbing the steps all the way to the top floor of the university’s library, I weave through the peaceful space, past the archaic volumes of books, newspaper archives, and outdated, old-school periodical machines—you know, the ones where you search for articles from before we had the internet.
There are several study rooms on this level, but I choose a table instead. It’s in the corner, tucked away, hidden behind a bookshelf almost five feet high.
No one would be able to see me if they came up here.
No one will bother me since I haven’t seen a single soul the four times I’ve studied up here. It’s peaceful, the perfect environment for getting homework done.
Five floors down, there are way too many young people. It’s a place for students to socialize, yet another breeding ground for procrastination and flirting.
The damn library is like a nightclub.
I crack open my laptop and log into the school’s social media site. Click through, searching the classifieds. Roommates wanted and apartments for rent.
Too expensive.
Too far from campus.
Six roommates in a four-bedroom house? No thanks.
I scroll on by, passing over anything old and outdated. The houses that look dilapidated and falling apart. The ads with no photos.
The rentals with pets? Pass—I’m allergic to cats.
Furnished would be fantastic; the last thing I want after moving out is to burden Dad and Linda with the task of scavenging for furniture with me. I can’t imagine what that would cost.
Plus, Dad’s in the middle of wrestling season; he doesn’t have time to orchestrate an entire move, so if I could find something even partially furnished, I’d be winning at life.
Frustrated, I close out the website and open the document I started earlier for my ethics class, determined to pound out the required word count, resolute to ace this assignment.
School doesn’t come easy for me; I have to work at it. Sometimes I’ll be reading and by the end of the first paragraph or page, I have to go back and read it again. Memorization is not my forte.
The sixth floor remains silent and empty, except for me, and I wonder why it’s not utilized. It’s the perfect place for studying, and…other things.
You hear stories at other universities about the top floor of the library, stories about couples having sex in the aisles of books. The long, dusty rows are dark and secluded and unsupervised by employees.
I’ve never heard any such stories about the top floor of this one.
Bummer.
I push my earbuds in deeper, sliding the button for noise cancellation to on.
Drop my head and get to work.