College Ruled

ten

| 10 |
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I DON'T go to the football game.

        Whoops.

        And I know what you're thinking, okay: Oh, Remi. How rude of you to leave poor little Grayson hanging.

       Or maybe it's simply—

God, what a bitch.

        But frankly, I don't care. When I woke up this morning my senses were dead set on knocking me right on my ass. So, I bailed. Big deal. Grayson probably forgot all about it anyway. Or woke up with the same fresh, logically sound mind I had.

At least, that's what I spend the whole day believing.

     I throw on pajamas, spread out notes for my endless string of midterm assignments across the living room floor, and binge on the assortment of old candy Leyla keeps in the kitchen.

     I planned to barely come up for air.

     And I made good on that plan — for the most part. But then the knock comes.

     By now, the sun is setting. And I fully intend on completely ignoring the whoever it is. Chris is working and Leyla is at a study group — I don't give a flying fuck who is at the door. Anyone coming for me would've at least shot me a text first, otherwise it's totally on them if I pretend to not be home.

     But the knocking just doesn't stop. And the sound drills straight into my bones, zeroing right in on the frustration that has spent the past six hours marinating in scribbled notes and past due assignments.

     The door doesn't stand a chance when I finally manage to spring myself up from the floor. I swear it almost creaks off it's hinges when I swing it open.

     I don't bother with pleasantries.

     "What on earth," I grind out, my hand sprawling against the doorframe with an annoyed smack, "do you want?"

     The visitor takes well to my hostility, blinking right past it as if I'm not trying to slam it right in their face. His face, because the obsessive knocker just happens to be Grayson Katz. Standing right outside my door. Huffing and puffing as if he was moments away from attempting to blow his way into the apartment — or, for a more reasonable explanation, simply out of breath from the four flights of stairs he had to climb to get to my door (Westwood athlete of the year my ass).

     The air outside is twinged with humidity, and it warms the fall night enough to make it bearable in the flimsy t-shirt I wear. It's dark, the lampposts already attracting bugs at an alarming rate in the distant parking lot, but I would guess it isn't much later than eight. There's a small brown package still waiting for Mrs. Walsh next door, and she never misses her eight-thirty telenovela.

        "So," Grayson says as soon as his eyes roam over my disheveled slouch. He blows out a breath that ruffles the damp hair hanging over his forehead. He must have just showered before coming here because there's a few damp stains on the shoulder of his Nike windbreaker. "You're not dead."

      My eyebrows shoot up. A Twizzler still dangles out of my mouth — a semi-stale choice from Leyla's collection still spread across the living room rug — and I talk around where it's tucked between the corners of my lips. "Getting there."

He rolls his eyes and, in total Grayson fashion, shoves his way into my apartment. The apartment that he shouldn't even know exists.

      "You know," I mumble, tearing the Twizzler with my teeth, "when you mentioned the fake dating thing I was under the impression that it would help rid me of a stalker. Gaining one wasn't a consequence I was aware I signed up for."