I take a breath. “That’s why I called.”
I explain my dilemma and this party.
Daisy nods slowly. “Do whatever makes you feel comfortable.”
“That’d be staying in my dorm for the rest of eternity.”
“Then go. Have fun. Don’t overthink it.”
“What if I sit by myself all night and no one talks to me? There’s a good chance I don’t gain the courage to approach anyone.” I can imagine it now. I’m the girl in the corner, eating popcorn and trying to dissolve into the chair.
“Then you’ll have a stupendous, amazing time by yourself,” Daisy cuts into my morbid thought. “You’re an awesome person. All you need to do is believe it, Willow Hale.” She wags her brows.
I touch my ring: a plain silver band with a black square in the middle. It’s a friendship ring from one of my favorite superheroes in The Fourth Degree, Tilly Stazyor, and Daisy has an identical one.
My phone buzzes and a text pops up on top of the FaceTime screen.
Tess: SOS. Did you guys see the professor’s email? We have to choose our product and email it to him by tonight.
Oh no.
Tess is a part of my group for that Intro to Marketing course. Last class, I briefly met my partners and we made plans to meet up next week to start our project. We have to create a print and online advertising strategy for a product, and it’s worth half our grade.
“What’s wrong?” Daisy asks, seeing the haunted look on my face. Another text pops up.
Salvatore: Emergency meeting. Where can I find you guys?
“I think I have to meet with my group tonight,” I say. So there goes the party. “But maybe…maybe I’ll invite them over here?”
Daisy nods and bites on the end of a Twizzler. “Yes, I like this idea.”
Courage emblazons my bones. I am a Gryffindor for a reason, right? Like Neville Longbottom, I can put myself in situations that seem daunting and out-of-my-element. And I will succeed—if I can try to believe it.
So I text the group: My hall is pretty quiet. You all can meet at my dorm. 301. Bishop Hall.
Tess: Sweet. See you soon.
Sheetal: Brilliant!
Salvatore: I’ll be there in twenty
Did I just invite people over? I did. Pride overcomes me, followed by an intense wave of worry. Shit, I don’t even have snacks or sodas. How am I supposed to host people here? And my room—oh God. Two bras are on the floor and my hamper overflows. This is about the time I’d love to have some woodland creatures come help me. Yeah, if only my life were a Disney movie.
I carry a stack of Fizz Life cans and redial his number. Garrison just sent me a video and he looked different. He mumbled out words and had dark circles under his eyes.
I heard all about his pizza disaster and how his roommate has been acting oddly friendly. As a result, Garrison has been spending longer hours in the office just to avoid his apartment.
I worry he’s not sleeping.
And we’re both shitty at confronting insecurities head-on, I realize.
Running away and ignoring them is easier.
But I’m not going to ignore him. “Pick up…” I tell my phone. I only have a five-minute window before my groupmates start arriving. I make it back to my dorm when the call goes to voicemail. Shit. Struggling, I pocket my phone and fumble with my key. I lose balance and an aluminum soda can falls off the four-can stack. It rolls down the hall, and before I can chase after it, a guy places his shoe on top of the can, stopping it.
I take a quick note of the person who saved the soda. Dusty brown hair, squared jaw. Deep brown eyes and tanned, olive skin. He wears this navy tweed sports coat on top of a plain burgundy T-shirt, and it shouldn’t match. But it does.
I also know this guy.
Salvatore Amadio. AKA one-fourth of my Intro to Marketing group. We only briefly met in class, but he’s now five-feet in front of me. Bending down to snatch the Fizz Life off the floor.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
He appraises the stack of cans in my arms. “Getting drinks?” His Italian accent is thick on the words.
He’s from Naples but came to Wakefield for university. International students make up eighty-percent of the school, one of the main reasons I chose it over other colleges. Most people here are far away from their homes like me.
“Yep, can’t have a group meeting without Fizz—crap.” I drop the key and bend too quickly to pick it up. Another can falls off my tower and rolls down to Salvatore.
Okay, this is not going well.
“Sorry,” I say.
He laughs. “Don’t worry about it.” He picks up the second can. “Here.” He walks over and holds out his hand for the key. Am I that pathetic that I can’t even open my own door? This is a new low. I must be frozen because Salvatore motions for the key again. “We’ll switch. You take these.” We somehow swap items. I’m carrying all four cans again.
He has my room key.
In seconds, the door is unlocked. I avoid his eyes as I go to my desk, setting down all the soda cans.
From an earlier assessment, I know that Salvatore is very good looking. The kind that would anoint him Prom King—even if he didn’t go to that school—and I wouldn’t be surprised if hundreds of girls slide into his DMs a day. While I can acknowledge his outward beauty, he is not my guy.
My guy is back in Philadelphia currently either passed out asleep or ignoring my calls. Both options concern me. But I can’t worry about that right now—I’m hosting people in my dorm room. For the first time ever.
And right now I am alone with a boy in my room.
Who is not Garrison.
Before I become uncomfortable by the thought, a voice comes from my door.
“Hey, girl! Thanks for letting us use your place.” Tess leans into the doorway with a beaming smile. She has tight black curls, dark brown skin, and wears camo cargo pants with a cute beige crop top.
What I’ve learned after one introduction to my group: I am the plain one. Tess, Salvatore, and Sheetal have trendy styles, where I look like I shop at Old Navy (because I do) in my faded jeans and worn T-shirt. It’s not even a graphic tee because I don’t love people reading my chest or abdomen or wherever the words would fall. It’s literally just green. I’m okay with that though.
“Yeah, thanks, Willow,” Salvatore says as he pops a can of Fizz Life.
Tess tosses her backpack on the floor beside my bed. “Not going to lie, when I saw Professor Flynn’s email, I almost had a small panic attack. We’re so far behind.” Her American accent, I recognized when we first met, but I still asked where she’s from. Atlanta. Born and raised.
Salvatore sits at my desk chair. “Where’s Sheetal?”
“Took me ages to get a proper spot in the car park. Gutted, let me tell you.” A tall Indian girl saunters into the room, tote on the crook of her arm. She’s dressed in Calloway Couture’s latest line: black trousers that just barely hover over the floor and an emerald-green silk top.
Tess grins. “I love how you say proper and gutted.” She glides over and kisses Sheetal on the lips in greeting.