5 Ways to Ruin Casey Brandt

t w o

♥ CASEY ♥

Whenever asked to describe myself with one word I've always chosen dumbass.

A therapist would probably explain that I had my father to blame, that hearing him call me more insults than my actual name had stuck inside my head. Engraved itself into my brain. I'd argue that it's just because I am, in fact, an idiot.

I stare at her back as she walks away, dripping textbook clutched to her chest. She couldn't get away from me fast enough. Something drops into the aching pit that began forming the moment I opened my eyes this morning. Recognition.

Briar Elliot.

I just physically ran into the girl I interviewed fall semester of freshman year, and I didn't even recognize her. I am a complete and total dumbass.

I've felt terrible since that morning. Her response to my idiotic, view-seeking, question had stabbed into me and left a stinging wound in my chest. It burned every time I reached a new milestone in the career her interview launched.

I've been planning what I would say if I ever saw her again for a year now. I had speeches, apologies, and questions. I was honestly beginning to worry the rumors were true, that the hate got to be too much. The stares on campus, whispers in class, hate filling the comments of her page finally got to her. I didn't think she was coming back to Cartwright.

I wanted so badly to reach out as soon as it all started but I couldn't. Not when I had no clue what to say. I got my chance this morning and managed to completely blow it.

Dumbass.

I'd like to blame her new look for keeping me from recognizing her. The last time we saw each other she had shorter, lighter hair.

The one I'd really love to blame, though, is my father. We have a meeting set for this morning that I've spent weeks agonizing over. I was distracted by the dread in my stomach. Especially since I'm running late. I was reading a stern text from him, about the only type I ever really receive from the man, when I rammed right into Briar. The girl whose life I'd singlehandedly dragged into shit.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair as I pull out my buzzing phone.

I'd love to hear your explanation for being late.

Another buzz.

Again.

I type out a quick response and hit send. With my coffee-stained shirt, I have an excuse to skip my meeting, but my father will have none of that. Instead, we agree to meet two hours later. I wasn't really in the mood to discuss my future this morning but Dr. Richard Brandt will not be argued with. With the way my social media career is taking me, I don't think I want to talk about it at all. As grateful as I am for the following, this isn't how I want my life to turn out. I don't need to explain that to my father, though. I really don't need to hear what he has to say in response to it.

I glance down at the brown splotches on my chest and feel that familiar stinging at the thought of Briar Elliot. Postponing the face-to-face time with my father today was yet another thing I had to thank her for.

I don't bother heading to my car, even though I know I should probably head back to my apartment to change. Instead, I take off the button-down and trash it. The white tee I wear underneath still has a stain, but it's less noticeable. It seems only fitting I wear evidence of my mistake.

With my morning now free, I head to the campus bookstore. I caught a glimpse of the cover before Briar ripped it away. I had a vague idea of the title and hope it'll be enough to track down another copy. Finding her a new textbook wasn't enough to make up for all I'd done, but it was what I could do today, and that was a start.

I usually order my books or choose not to buy any at all. It really depends on my mood and if the information is appealing to me. I've never purchased a textbook in my life but I have a tall stack of filmography hardcovers beside my desk. Much to my Father's disappointment.

The bookstore is busier than I could've imagined. Two students argue a few isles over from me, tugging what seems to be the only copy of a thick plastic-covered book back and forth. The line is almost out the door and getting longer with each passing second. Wasting no more time, I head over to the psychology section.

About five minutes into my search I realize finding the textbook she needs is going to be harder than I'd originally anticipated. There are four introductory psychology classes on campus and each professor assigned a different text.

Inconvenient.

I consider buying all four books and dropping them at her door, but, something tells me she wouldn't appreciate the over-the-top display. I pull all off the bookshelf and line them up on the scratchy blue carpet. Once all together, I recognize the book Briar had immediately. It's the only one with a blue cover, written by Professor Ardell himself.

Problem solved. Or, one problem solved. Despite my effort to track down the correct textbook, I'm sure Briar still hates me. And I can't exactly blame her.

While waiting in line, I decide to pass the time by skimming through the chapters. It seems kind of interesting. Freud. Different disorders. A lot different than my media studies courses.

"Next."

I set the book down with a distinct thump. The student-worker across the counter scans it while smacking on her gum. She hands it back to me with a closed mouth smile.

The next step is somehow figuring out where Briar lives. Is she in a dorm on campus? An apartment off? I realize, then, that I'm not sure where to even start.

My phone buzzes.

Where are you?

I shove the book into my bag and try to prepare myself for some father-son time.