CIGARETTE SMOKE PUFFED FROM HER LIPS, as she paced around her dorm room. Eyes moving along the carpet, attempting to understand the information she was receiving. Patrick sat at her desk, with a cigarette in his hand, hanging outside of the window. Art and Patrick met Tashi at the Junior US Open in August—she knew that part. They both wanted to fuck her the night the met, so they invited her to their hotel room—she didn't know that part. All she was told, was that he was amazed by her. Art thought she was extremely skilled. Hell, she should've known something was there when he couldn't admit his attraction to her. Tashi was a beautiful girl—even Emma couldn't deny that. Then, there was a bet for who could get her number—she didn't know that part either. Patrick obviously won, but that left a gray area for where Art stood when it came to his feelings.
And, clearly, it was still gray with her in the picture.
"Honestly... I don't know what to think." Emma shook her head, taking a pull from her cigarette. "I mean, you won her number! Why couldn't he just forget about it?" Her eyebrows furrowed, featured pinching. She couldn't help but wonder—why couldn't he be happy with her? Sure, Tashi and Emma had their differences, but they also had a handful of similarities.
Patrick snickered, glancing out the window. "That's the thing about Art. He pretends not care about winning, but in all actuality— he does care." He dryly chuckled, shaking his head. "He really fucking cares. If only he had that same energy playing tennis—"
Emma interrupts him, holding out her index finger. "He's improved a lot since he's been here."
"You're defending him?"
"In terms of tennis! Now, his character— not so much. I feel like I don't even know him anymore." She crossed her arms, inhaling sharply. "Tell me what to do." Emma stopped, intently looking at the man at her desk.
Patrick raised his eyebrows, lips pulling to the side. "What? You don't want me telling you what to do—"
"You're right. I don't— I'm losing my mind." She pinched the bridge of her nose, beginning to pace, again. Emma was unsure where she stood with Art—it's not like he's cheating on her. It very well could be that, though, if she doesn't say something. They've been together for about seven months, and it's been good. Minus his few suspicious actions. The ball was in her court—Emma just couldn't decide if she should hit it, or miss it all together. She pulled out her phone, sliding it open. Scrolling passed all of his missed calls and unanswered texts, she texted him back.
