Camryn Quinn is finally getting what she wants...sort of. Moving into a dorm and away from her not so supportive father is a good first step, but like everything with him, it comes with strings. She must attend the college of his choosing for at lea...
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The elevator pings, delivering me to the third floor. As I exit, I make a right and walk down to the hallway, stopping in front of the last door straight at the end. I stare at the black slab that will lead me into my brother's apartment.
I could hear music blaring from the elevator. Something with a deep bass and inaudible lyrics. I wasn't one hundred percent, but now that I'm standing here I know for a fact that it is coming from beyond Cal's door.
It was one thing for me to agree to come to this university in the first place, especially considering my dad is the head football coach and always lurking around the campus. But it's a whole other thing to have my brother here too. It only makes sense though. State's program is the best in the league, and he's the best quarterback.
Callan and I's relationship has just been complicated the last few years, and me showing up at his door on a random week night feels more unnatural than I'd like to admit.
I drop my head for a second and take a deep breath. I attempt to muster up the courage to knock on the door, even though I have no desire to be a part of whatever lies on the other side. But desperate times call for even more desperate measures.
I knock three times in quick concession, but there is no answer. I pull my phone out to call Callan instead of injuring my knuckles to make a knock loud enough to be heard over the song that I can now hear clearly. The lyrics are sung by Kanye, although I have no idea what the song is. I was only tipped off because someone on the other side of the door yelled a very loud, "Ye!"
Just as I swipe to my most important contacts and press his picture the door swings open. I'm met with the white t-shirt covered torso of a person who very clearly isn't my brother. Callan could take all the steroids on the planet and his muscles wouldn't look like that. My eyes scan upwards to put a face with the body, not stopping until a thick neck meets the collar of the shirt. I can tell he's tall from the way I have to crane my neck up past my already five foot seven frame to meet his face.
Instinctively, I continue my search. Strictly for context clues about who this might be. Sure, I could probably guess that it's one of my brother's friends who probably also plays football, but something about this guy doesn't scream organized sports.
Maybe it's the brown hair trapped underneath a backwards ball cap, the strap high on his forehead. The locks continue past the edge of the cap, cascading down the back of his neck in messy waves stopping just past the collar of his plain white t-shirt.
Or maybe it's the pair of obviously well loved bluejeans with a single rip on his right knee, neglecting to conform to the fact that it's still eighty degrees outside. On his feet, the pointed toe of a brown boot is poking out beneath the boot cut fabric. Again, a questionable choice considering the current conditions outside.
