The Let Out

The Let Out - Part 2

You checked your phone for the zillionth time that hour.

Nothing.

"Stupid. Stupid!" you whispered to yourself, trying desperately to pay attention to the task ahead of you. You drummed your fingers against the desk of the Student Activities Center and clicked through a few files on the computer before unconsciously checking your phone again.

Nothing.

You slammed it face down on your desk and groaned.

The one student sleeping in a beanbag chair stirred a little.

Today was slow, and your obsessive opening and closing of your messages app wasn't making it any faster. Hardly anyone had come in to the SAC this morning because it was pouring buckets outside.

The rain rhythmically thrummed against the window pane, and the bean bag student began to lightly snore once more. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled somewhere far away a few seconds later. Normally, monotonous din like this helped you focus and work, but your mind was still consumed with Erik.

Stupid Erik Stevens.

Stupid stupid, you.

Stupid.

It had been two days since you'd left him in that pizza parlor and he hadn't tried to reach out to you even once. Like, really? Were you that easy for him to just throw away?

You'd hoped that with the arrival of Monday, you could go to your work study job and your classes and finally think about something other than him, but apparently, that wasn't the case.

You vacillated between cussing him out and chastising yourself for falling for a fuck boy. You'd heard what all the other girls on campus said about Erik Stevens. But for some reason you had convinced yourself you were special? All because you'd worked on an assignment together and watched some Hulu in your bed while eating pizza?

STUPID!

You found yourself clicking on to his Facebook profile yet again. He hadn't updated since early Saturday evening. He'd been tagged in a photo with all of his boys that he seemed desperate to hide you from.

You scoffed. You'd been uploading pictures from that night periodically over the weekend. You wanted him to see how happy you were without him... living your damn life. Looking fine as hell too.

Ugh, this was embarrassing. How'd you let this nigga in your head?

In your heart.

Sleeping bean bag kid be dammed. You needed something to occupy your mind. You exed out of Facebook and went in search of Drake's new album. You'd heard there were two sides and that was more than enough music to get you through this shift without obsessing anymore over stupid Erik Stevens.

You'd barely started the first track when a soaking wet delivery guy pushed through the front door and stumbled in to the center. He teetered up to you, carrying an oversized, gaudy bouquet of pink roses. He plunked them on to the desk, rain droplets cascading all over your phone and keyboard.

"Are you Y/N?" he asked gruffly, pushing the soaked curls plastered to his forehead out of his eyes.

You eyed him suspiciously from around the vase.

"Yes. But I'm confused. We don't have an event today. We didn't order any flowers," you insisted.

"Lady," the guy started. You glared at him. He was probably only two years younger than you at best. "I just deliver the flowers okay. Just sign for them. They're freshly watered."