Genevieve Hall is small town girl with a lust for life.
And what better place to live life to it's fullest than Los Angeles?
A fresh start.
Until She finds herself at the same college as Luca Dominique.
Her childhood best friend who happens to be a...
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I don't sleep when I hear Luca switch off all the lights and presumably go to bed. I find I still haven't slept a wink even after he switches the lights on for the day and draws open the blinds. I let out a breath in relief. I can get up now. I didn't think it would be very polite even to my terms to get up before him and loiter around his place.
I can't say the same for Dolce because he's already gone for a stroll in the kitchen looking for something to do. Selma whose thirst for exploring has always been a lot less than Dolce's, lays comfortably in a laundry basket.
I found Selma at the park in a litter of 5 other kittens. But my mother wouldn't let me keep all of them as the hater that she is. So she made me close my eyes and pick one before taking the rest to the vet. Dolce, however, was given to me by a very dodgy man on my way home from the supermarket one day. At this point I like to think my mother got the hint that she was no longer boss in this relationship.
Another big reason I decided to live off campus was because the college dorms don't allow pets. But Selma and Dolce they don't need to know that those narcissistic little bitches.
I want to go see if there's any progress with my door so I go to the en-suite bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth quickly with the little bag of toiletries I already had packed from home. I didn't think I'd be unpacking them at Luca Dominique's place though. I remove my headscarf and dampen my curly brown hair before moisturising it and putting it up in a truly messy bun.
Once I leave the guest room, I find Luca leaning on his elbows on the kitchen bench. From where I am it looks as if he's toggling with a video of himself as a familiar melody plays from his laptop speakers urging me to walk closer despite myself.
"Morning," Luca says without turning around.
"Yeah, it is," I murmur, putting on the slippers I had came with the day before.
"I know that song, what is it?" I didn't mean for it to sound as forward as it came out. But Luca's unbothered by it being the sole utiliser of straightforwardness.
"I don't know" he says absentmindedly.
"Ne me quitte pas? Ew, you have the same taste as my dad. I like Nina Simone's version." I say
"Her accent sucks though." He replies.
"But the emotion is so raw."
He ignores me and continues editing the video of himself.
It makes sense for Luca's morning playlist to feature old french songs. His mother is french. Like the whole shabang french. Not like my dad who migrated there from Mauritius at a young age. Sure I know that from hanging around his family a lot but everybody knows that. She's a big shot lawyer here in California.
But what everyone doesn't know is the story she wine drunkenly told my mother at the dinner table while I pretended to be preoccupied with my Caldo Verde.
