No Easy Choices (A New Adult Romance) (8 page)

             
“It is the drugs, no? You have heard about the drugs.” He looked at me in a kind of defeated way, and something about the way he sat there with his shoulders sagging, a somber expression on his face, told me that this wasn’t the first conversation he’d had about this. Well, I’m not into criminal charity cases, so I was sure it would be the last conversation he ever had with me about it. I stepped around him.

             
“I’m very sorry, Javier, but we don’t believe in the same things. I have to go.” I turned and raced into the house, closing the door firmly and running straight to my room before I had a chance to let his stunning but hurting eyes change my mind.

             
Several times during my sob fest, a different sister would knock on the door and ask if I wanted to talk. When Kennedy finally made it back from class, she expertly fielded all of the polite—and occasionally not-so-polite—inquiries like a professional mourner at a funeral home. She answered the door with a soft voice, telling the concerned sister that I wasn’t feeling up to having visitors. It would have been hilarious if I wasn’t so miserable.

             
“I really liked him, Kennedy,” I finally managed to admit. “Why did he have to turn out to be a guy who pretends to be someone he’s not?”

             
“That I can’t answer, except to tell you a little bit more advice from my Momma. ALL guys are pretending to be something they’re not. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be fit to take out in public, let alone fall in love with. It’s a universal truth that once that wedding ring slides on your finger, one hand slides in the waistband of his pants and he farts, right where he’s standing. They’re all pigs and we dress ‘em up and parade ‘em around for as long as they can stand it. The only reason a guy asks a girl to marry him is because he’s tired of dressing up and using his manners!”

             
“That can’t be true,” I wailed. “Tell me there’s something good to look forward to!”

             
“Nope. There’s not. Sorry.” She looked so smug and matter-of-fact about sharing her world views on all men that I couldn’t tell if it was coming from her mother’s poisonous influence or a broken heart of her own.

             
Hours later, there was a good old fashioned Theta sister pity party, thrown in my honor. The sisters—well, most of them, the ones who had probably voted for me to stay—gathered in the TV room, wearing their rattiest comfy pajamas and armed with decadently stupid amounts of snack foods and dessert.

             
“It’s practically a by-law,” Harper chirped when I came in, taking me by the arm and leading me to what must have been the sofa of honor. “Whenever a sister gets dumped—or does the dumping, like you, I mean—we put on our oldest comfy pajamas and fall into a coma brought on by romantic comedies and sugar. C’mon.” We plopped down on a couch as sisters squashed themselves over to make room for me. So much for being the total pariah I was just twenty-four hours ago.

             
The rest of the evening is still a total blur of tear-jerker date movies and Doritos. It was...eye-opening. They may have their flaws and their outdated ways, but this was a group of girls who could have been anywhere else at that moment, but instead, thirty or so sisters, many of whom probably cancelled plans at the last minute, chose to hang out with me instead and help me take my mind off of tall, dark, and loathsome. I noticed Quinn and a few other of the older sisters were conspicuously absent from our food-fest, until someone squealed in a high-pitched shriek.

             
“OMG!” someone yelled, literally saying all three letters just to avoid taking her Lord’s name in vain, “they’re here!”

             
I must have looked completely confused, because Kennedy came up behind me and leaned down to explain. “We also have this tradition called Other Fish. One of the sisters scrounges up another fish, as in, there are plenty of other fish in the sea. We go all out to see who can find the hottest, most eligible guy on campus, and present him on a silver platter. Well, you know, not like actually sitting on a platter. We’d have to polish it first and believe me, that’s a real chore and it’s the housekeeper’s day off!” she teased, poking fun at her own proper upbringing for once.

             
“Because you know what they say,” Brooks began, “best way to get over one guy is to get under another one.” She smirked and winked at me.

             
“Brooks Frances Langston! I can’t believe you just said that out loud!” Harper screamed, obviously shocked but laughing too hard to keep a straight face long enough to reprimand her for her comment.

             
“Oh, don’t worry about Brooks,” Collins chimed in, “that’s just her daddy’s side of the family showing through.”

             
“That is all very...intriguing...but I don’t think I’m ready to go get under another fish, or on top of one, or whatever. Especially one that you guys actually refer to as a fish,” I said with a laugh, hoping I wasn’t spitting on their kindness but also seriously hoping this was all a big joke and there wasn’t actually a guy out there.

             
I was wrong. Kennedy snatched me up off the couch, pulled the rubber band out of my hair, and fluffed out my curls while another sister held out a silk robe. Before I knew it, I was wearing something that look a lot like a negligée, complete with feathers around the collar, and a swipe of peach lipstick on my face. I was unceremoniously shoved out the side door to the TV room, mortified to find myself face-to-face with about twenty guys.

             
“Andie McMichaels,” Quinn began in a severe voice, “it is my sincere pleasure to introduce you to Jackson Burrage.” She held out her hand and indicated the guy. Yup, that guy. The puker. And truth be told, he was kind of good-looking when there weren’t chunks stuck to the side of his face. Quinn kept on with the serious voice while she gave me what sound a whole lot like a sales pitch, only the product she was selling was puke boy.

             
“Jackson is a member of Epsilon Chi fraternity, the student government, and our own football team, where he rushed for six hundred years so far this season. He would like permission to escort you to dinner tomorrow night, and the sisterhood has already accepted on your behalf. We’ll leave you two alone. Gentlemen!” She barked that last word and actually clapped her hands once, which would have been hilarious if it hadn’t actually worked. The guys turned around and left their brother on the stoop next to me.

             
“Hi,” Jackson began. “You know, you actually look familiar.”

             
“Yes,” I replied, “I drove you home from the mixer last weekend. You threw up on me.” Why not start things off with honesty? Honesty is important in a relationship.

             
“Wow. I’m really sorry about that. I don’t usually drink because of sports and all, but they had just named me as the starting offensive lineman, and I got a little carried away with my celebrating. Am I forgiven?” And I admit it, he actually did look sorry. What the hell. It wasn’t like my prospects could get worse. I’d already kind of hit rock bottom on my own, so why not let those who care and know best point me in the right direction?

             
“So,” he continued, “dinner tomorrow? I thought we’d go to Effina’s, and then maybe to a movie?”

             
“That sounds like fun. Thanks!” I said with what I hoped was an eager smile. Jackson leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, sparking a chorus of gleeful screams from inside the house. I should have known they’d be watching.

             
Jackson told me goodnight and walked back up the hill to fraternity row, leaving me to go inside and face the interrogation. I turned the knob and braced myself.

Chapter Twelve

             
“I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to ask you what your major is,” Jackson said with a smile after we were shown to our table at the restaurant and had placed our order with the waitress.

             
“Art,” I said, prepared to defend myself but pleasantly surprised by the excited look on his face.

             
“Really? I almost went into art,” he said, “but my dad said it wasn’t right for me.” He snapped a breadstick in two a little more forcefully than necessary before crunching it into pieces with his clenched jaw.

             
“Oh,” I said, kind of at a loss for words. “My dad thinks it’s perfect for me.”

             
“It is, I can tell. You’ve got that free-spirit look about you. And of course, you’re a girl.”

             
“What?” I laughed. “All the great artists were historically men.”

             
“Right, but nowadays, how’s a guy who majors in art supposed to earn money? Selling his paintings on the street corner? Auctioning them off on eBay?” His response sounded so rehearsed that I couldn’t even get mad. Someone had shoved that crap down his throat one too many times.

             
“Well, there’s graphic art, digital art, stuff like that. Those things pay big bucks, too, since it’s not something that just anybody can do. And you have to be really smart.” I looked at him hopefully as the light flickered in his eyes, only to be extinguished just as quickly.

             
“Well, yeah, but it’s nothing like the income potential of accounting. And my dad should know. I intern at his firm in the summers, well, until practices start.”

             
“I don’t know. I just couldn’t sit behind a desk all day doing stuff I don’t love.” The idea made me want to physically convulse.

             
“Oh, you don’t have to sit behind a desk all day. There are lots of conferences and tax law trainings and stuff to go to.”

             
“You just described hell to me,” I said, cringing and hoping I hadn’t hurt his feeling. I reached for a breadstick to stuff in my mouth to keep me from saying something else that was stupid or hurtful.

             
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he answered, only he wasn’t laughing this time. I prayed for the waitress to hurry up and bring our food so I couldn’t keep this conversation going.

             
On paper, he was perfection. He was dutiful to his parents, even if it was taking things too far by ignoring what he wanted to do and becoming an accountant. He was outgoing and athletic, but had the good sense to apologize for throwing up on me. This was someone my parents would be thrilled to see me walk through the door with at Christmas break.

             
So why didn’t I feel anything?

             
This was a first date, and it was with someone who probably wouldn’t have had three words to say to me if we’d gone to high school together. I’d officially come into my own, me, Andie McMichaels. I was in college studying something I loved, I was a member of a really active campus sorority, and I was on a first date with a genuine specimen of a guy. I should have felt something. Anything. Instead, I nibbled a breadstick and tried not to hurt his feelings any more than I already had.

             
After we finished eating and had watched a fun, non-offensive, non-overly-sex-filled movie, we headed back to my house, thankfully without any more talk of ruining our lives by becoming drones who worked for a corporate overlord or by being “free spirits” who got to sit around and draw all day. We talked a little bit about sports—I’m not a moron, I went to public school, I know what football is—and how the college was supposed to do this year around the region. Mindless, fun, no-hurt-feelings stuff like that.

             
“I think I’m supposed to say something about how I had a really great time tonight, and how I’d like to do this again, and how I’ll call you if that’s okay,” Jackson said, a hint of his former smile coloring his face.

             
“And I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to thank you for a lovely evening and agree that we should definitely do it again,” I said, relieved that he didn’t seem to hurt by my lack of enthusiasm for his dad’s career path for him. He stepped closer to me and kissed me very gently on the lips, lingering there for only a second, kissing me a second time, and then a third. He smiled and stepped back, then gave me a small wave and walked away up the street, much like he had the night of my pity party.

             
And I had felt nothing. Zilch. Not so much as a lingering temperature change on my face to show that someone else had been there in the last few seconds.

             
I felt exactly what I expected to feel after kissing a soon-to-be tax accountant. Nothing. If it was possible, I might have actually felt less than nothing, since the lack of any kind of romantic feeling had been replaced by a supreme feeling of guilt for not feeling anything. This is me, overthinking it again. Maybe this is what Mom had meant when she said that love had to be planted from a tiny seed and nurtured carefully. That kiss could have been only the tiniest of seeds, and I could try really hard to make it become something more. I could give Jackson a fair chance and see if love isn’t something like the movies made it out to be, that it’s really a long-term, ongoing project.