Book III of UNC Series
While it's known that there are five stages of grief, did you know that there are also five stages of love?
Bailey Nicholson dreamed of finishing her Master's degree and settling in Boston while working alongside her boyfriend...
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flashback | present
The sun beats down relentlessly as a sheen layer of sweat accumulates atop my pale skin, which has reddened significantly this week. Rumblings of car engines and honking punctuate the air as I tip my sunglasses further up the bridge of my nose. I peer up and down the street, waiting for my friends and Parker to make an appearance.
Parker. Just the thought of him brings a sour taste to my mouth. Yesterday, as retaliation for the strip club show, he sent fermented fish to my room. Despite the many showers, the wretched smell still lingered on my skin and clothes. I'm going to kill him. I'm just plotting the most accessible and least complicated way.
I'm not going to let him have the last say in this little series of tug-of-war pranks we have going on.
My stomach grumbles under the presence of hunger, eyeing the restaurant entrance and then to the street. Where is everyone? It's understandable if maybe one or two of them were late, but missing all seven is absurd.
Mia and Noah are off on their date, filled with museums and exhibit visits for the day, as the rest of us agreed to meet for lunch. And while the others decided to check out the arcades, I split off to get Ava a gift to surprise her for her spring showcase. Chase offered to come along, but I knew how tired he was of shopping, so I suggested that I would meet everyone at the restaurant.
But perhaps I should have taken him up on his offer.
My phone rings in my clammy palms, and I heave a sigh of relief when I see it's Chase.
"Where are you?" I palm the top of my glasses, shielding myself from the sun's glare as I peer down the street again. Perhaps they just arrived and are searching for me.
"Where are you, B? We've been waiting inside for about ten minutes." His rough voice sounds faint against our friends' bristling noises and chatter. I frown, turning to glance behind me into the restaurant.
"Inside? I've been standing out here for at least 15." I head inside and greet the hostess, "Reservation for Bailey Nicholson."
A short, curvy woman with blonde streaks in her otherwise dark, tightly ringed hair scrolls through her tablet before offering me a grim smile, "Sorry, I don't have a reservation under that name."
I blanch. How could Chase be seated if there wasn't a reservation under my name?
"Chase, what was the name for the reservation?"
"It's under your name."
"But," I trail, glimpsing over the hostess' shoulder. It's a considerable open space, and I can see the entire floor from where I'm standing, but there's no sign of my friends or a large group. There's only one, but it's a family of five with three young kids.
