Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 6
Katie cranes her neck, peering back at the house, “Who’d you see him with, anyway?”
“Some Theta with dark hair and a lot of contouring,” Barrett replies as she brushes her hair out of her eyes.
“Theta…” Emma murmurs to herself, “oh, that was definitely Dacia Ferguson. I saw her go in when we got here.”
“You mean Roto Rooter?” Katie snickers.
I jerk my head up, “What?”
“Yeah,” Katie tosses her empty Solo cup in a trashcan along the curb, “I know about her. She has a system,” she nods like she’s about to impart some major knowledge on us. “Dacia’s pre-law, planning on going to Harvard or some shit, and she’s so paranoid about accidentally getting pregnant that she only takes it in the ass.”
I stop dead in my tracks, “Nuh-uh!” I shoot Katie a skeptical look.
Emma screws up her face and cringes, making her eye twitch, “That poor girl.”
“Poor girl, nothing!” Katie shoots back. “We were tailgating next to her at the Michigan game last fall and she was bragging about letting Casey Lesser, Nick Rogan, Taylor Higgs, and Jamie Hollingsworth run a train on her in her room at the Theta house the night before. Casey confirmed it. Her ass is—” Katie blows a puff of air from between her lips and splays her fingers out to imitate an explosion.
I lose it right there on the sidewalk and erupt in laughter. Barrett grabs my arm to stabilize herself as we both stumble down the sidewalk, cackling uncontrollably. Katie saunters along behind us, no doubt thinking something along the lines of, I told you so.
“If he’s hanging with Dacia tonight, maybe you dodged a bullet,” Barrett gasps.
“God...” the humiliation sets in once again, “can we just forget this?”
Barrett clicks her key fob and unlocks her red Volvo a few feet ahead of us, “Easier said than done. He’s gon’ learn,” she snickers, “Brett Sorensen doesn’t forget anything…”
●●●
It’s a curse, it truly is.
Whether minor irritations or deep disappointments, events remain in my brain long after they should’ve exited into the ether. Some people wish they could remember the fond memories that inevitably fade with time. I wish I could forget the warnings and humiliating moments my nervous system clings to without my consent. But, if I did, I might not be as discernable and I might make more mistakes. Which is why when Colson walks into class the following Tuesday, I’m prepared.
He scans the room until he sees me sitting on the opposite side in front of the windows. I know what he’ll do. He’ll walk across the room to the desk on my right, drop his backpack on the floor, and sit down.
Except this time, when he reaches the desk, I plant my foot on the edge of the metal rack underneath and kick the entire thing across the floor. It screeches across the tile, catching on the leg of another desk and spinning around before crashing into the glossy white cinderblock wall beneath the whiteboard. A few students jerk their heads up. Some continue watching to see what happens while others avert their eyes and lower their heads again in an effort to avoid witnessing a potentially awkward exchange.
Colson looks down at me, unsure of what just happened. I lean back in my chair and glare at him, tilting my head and daring him to say something. It’s much easier to look someone in the eye when you harbor nothing but disdain for them.
Choosing to say nothing, Colson reaches for a desk in the next row and scoots it forward to replace the one I launched to the front of the room. He sits down just as the next wave of students enter the room, followed by Dr. Selter, who immediately launches into a tirade about the pitfalls of film adaptations. I would be the star participant in discussion today if I didn’t want to smash my laptop over Colson’s head.
Instead, I stare straight ahead, stewing at the audacity Colson Lutz has to come in here and sit down next to me like nothing happened. I’m so busy seething that I don’t even realize it when he slides my notebook right out from under my elbow. He scribbles something at the top of the page and slides it back onto my desk, nonchalant as ever.
COLSON: Are you OK?
The answer is no. And maybe I should leave it at that—with no response. But I can’t leave it at that.
ME: Fuck off
COLSON: ?
ME: Are you that dense?
COLSON: What did I do?
I don’t know what’s so difficult to understand. If I specifically invited someone to a party, saw them there, and just ignored them, I don’t think I would be confused as to why that was bothersome. Did he forget? Who forgets something like that? Does he slight people all the time and that’s just how he rolls? Is he a fucking sociopath?
ME: Idk, acted like I didn’t exist on Friday?
COLSON: You left before I could talk to you
I clench my jaw, his response scrawled in blue pen sending a lightning bolt through my chest. What fucking arrogance. As if I bailed on him. As if he didn’t convince me to go to Cade and Anderson’s destroyed house with the collapsed porch, decaying carpet, furniture that may or may not have had dead animals hiding inside them, and linoleum that felt like it was lacquered with caramel.
ME: We were there for an hour. In the same room. You seemed busy.
I pause, turning over the words in my head. What am I debating? I can see the writing on the wall, so I might as well just say what I have to say even though I’m the most avoidant person ever. If Barrett was sitting next to me, she’d die of shock at what I’m about to say. I wiggle my purple pen between my index and middle fingers before putting it to the paper again.
ME: Do your friends ever ask why you sit with me or do they already know you just use me when you get bored?
This time, Colson stares at the notebook for much longer.
Before he can write anything else, I reach over and swipe it off his desk. I flip to the next page and began scribbling notes from the PowerPoint slides on the board. For the remainder of class, I stare ahead, refusing to look at him.
After dismissal, he stands up and steps in front of my desk, casting a shadow over me as he leans on the edge of my desk. That’s another thing, he’s also really tall, and now he’s hovering over me like a giant fucking umbrella that smells like peppermint and fabric softener.
“Brett?” His voice is soft, like he’s figuring out how to diffuse a bomb. I hope he blows both hands off.
I still don’t look at him, “Yeah?”
“Have you started your paper yet?”
“A couple pages,” I deadpan.
“Want to go to the library and work on them?”
I toss my notebook into my tote and look up. He’s looking at me intently while his fluorescent blue eyes wait for a response. “No,” I growl before sliding out of the desk and swinging my bag over my shoulder, refusing to look at him as I saunter out of the room.
Thursday is much of the same, and this time I keep my elbow planted firmly on my notebook because I don’t care what he has to say, written or otherwise. I stare at Selter’s PowerPoint comparing Dracula and Twilight while he interrogates some Junior over whether or not it’s acceptable for vampires to be sparkly emo kids. Selter’s going to lose. Once a girl in ripped jeans and crop top brings up Jacob Black and starts in on the modern relatability of werewolves and the duality of man, it’s over.
Meanwhile, all I feel are Colson’s eyes on the side of my face the entire class period.
Why does he even care what I think? He sure as hell didn’t last Friday. But for two hours straight, my left cheek tingles each time he triggers my gaze perception. I always thought that kind of thing was hokey, but I can feel him just like if he were to reach out and poke my shoulder. Maybe Colson is a vampire, with his telekinetic energy and stupid blue eyes that glow when the light hits them just right.
They’re not stupid. You love them, just like everyone else.
OK, fine, maybe I do. But he’s still a fucking prick.
Finally, the goddamn class ends and I can escape, if only to the virology lab for work. But by the time I pack up and rise from my desk, Colson is already standing in my path, blocking my exit. I remain motionless, glaring at his chest, and then realize he’s holding something at his side.
“I brought you something,” he lifts his arm and offers me a book.
I glance up at him with disdain, then at the cover. And when I do, I have to steel my reaction, clenching my jaw so that it doesn’t fall onto the floor.
It’s a first edition of Carrie, with original artwork, from back when Stephen King wasn’t Stephen King and the title on the cover was larger than his name. It looks old, the spine cracked and the pages feathered and worn with time. This book has gone through decades of redesign, where did he find an original one in short order?
It’s beautiful. And I love it. But I don’t like Colson. So, that’s a problem.
“Well,” I scowl, hiding my excitement as I study the cover, “I guess I should be grateful there wasn’t a prom for you to invite me to.” Then I shove the book into his chest and brush past him, getting angry at him all over again because I can’t keep the book purely out of principle.
It does, however, make a good story for when I tell Barrett about it in the coffee aisle at the grocery store that evening.
Barrett pushes her cart past me, stopping in front of the sugar-free syrups, “Man, you really shat him out like a goose crossing the road.”
“And the book was so cool, which of course just pissed me off all over again. Like, you blow me off to get laid and then gift me a rare book in class the next week?” I screw up my face and chuck a bag of dark roast into my cart, “Psycho…”
While scrolling through my shopping list, an Instagram notification pops up on my screen. I examine the preview, trying to register whose face I’m seeing, and stop dead in my tracks.
“Hey,” I call up to Barrett, “come see this.”
Barrett backs up her cart and peers over my shoulder. A second later, she arches her brow at Colson’s face staring back at us from the icon next to the message.
COLSON: I’m really sorry about the other night. I was a huge dick to you. Can you please talk to me?
“Well, well, well…” a sardonic grin creeps across Barrett’s face, “I think you should ignore him until tomorrow.”
“He can see I read it.”
Barrett snickers, “Even better.” She’s pretty wily when it comes to doling out punishment for social indiscretions.
“Really?” I still need her to convince me, which I feel incredibly stupid about.
“Yes!” she snaps, “He can sit there and wait. See how he likes being ignored for a while.”
She has a point, and the wound is still raw. He knew I was there, but said nothing while some rando chick hung all over him right in front of me. The only feeling I can compare it to is when I was in 8th grade and my “friend”, Ally Dishong, said she would go “talk” to Eli Scalise for me at a party. She did, and somehow returned 30 minutes later as his girlfriend.
But I didn’t say anything back then. I was too timid and too much of a people-pleaser. I don’t know what changed, but now I don’t seem to have a problem kicking Colson’s desk across the room and telling him to get bent. Once I recall a few mortifying memories from middle school, it’s not too difficult to ignore Colson’s message.
I assume that’s the end of it, for the time being. But when Barrett and I arrive at the front door of our apartment, there’s a plastic shopping bag hanging from the knob. She sets down her bags of groceries, looks inside, and lifts out a book—the first edition of Carrie—and looks over her shoulder at me, eyes wide.
“Girl,” she chuckles, “he brought this back here for you.”
“How does he even know where we live?” I hiss, grabbing the book from her.
Barrett shrugs, “I guess he could’ve just asked someone we know. It’s not like it’s a secret.”
Her words aren’t very comforting. But before I can respond, I notice there’s a bookmark stuck in the front cover that wasn’t there before.
When I open it, my jaw actually does fall open this time, “What the—”
The title page is signed by Stephen King, himself. I’m no expert, but it looks like it’s real. On the back of the front cover, I recognize Colson’s handwriting in black ballpoint pen.
You’re right, the book is better than the movie.
“Is it signed?” Barrett leans over my shoulder, peering at the page, “Is that for real?”
The bookmark also isn’t actually a bookmark. It’s an index card with a phone number written on it—Colson’s phone number.
Barrett jerks her head up, eyes still bulging, “Are you going to respond to him now?”
I might’ve been rendered speechless at our front door, but if I need to make an important decision, standing under a showerhead and soaking myself in scalding water usually does the trick.
My phone sits on the edge of the sink, the volume turned all the way up so my playlist reverberates through my impromptu sauna. After five minutes of standing in front of the mirror, staring at the screen while towel scrunching, I pick up the phone and text him.
ME (8:32PM): Fine. When and where?
I’m still not about to engage in some lengthy, overly emotional exchange with Colson. A few minutes later, as I’m pulling a t-shirt over my head, my phone vibrates.
COLSON (8:39PM): Friday at the library. I get off work at 6. I’ll text you when I’m on the way.
Again, with the library. And on a Friday night? He’s either really lame or has something else in mind. Either way, I still want to find out.
On Friday, at exactly 5:00, there’s a knock at the door. Katie and Emma don’t wait for anyone to answer before strolling into the apartment with tote bags full of curling irons, clothes, and makeup bags to prepare for a routine Friday night of dinner and bar crawling.
“Brett!” Emma calls from the bathroom in the hallway, “What are you wearing?”
I glance up from the sofa, my feet propped up on the coffee table, and then look down at myself, still wearing black leggings and a grey Columbus Clippers V-neck t-shirt.
“I’m not going,” I call toward the bathroom.
“Why not?” Katie emerges from the kitchen, peeling a banana.
Suddenly, Barrett leans out of her bedroom doorway like a snake slinking around a tree, “Tell them where you’re going,” she smirks, “who you’re going with,” her mouth slowly stretches into a toothy grin, “and why.”
Goddamnit…
Emma eyes me from the bathroom doorway, holding a curling iron to her honey blonde hair. Katie props her knee up on the arm of the sofa, chewing a mouthful of banana.
I clear my throat, “I’m going to the library.”
They both glance at one another in confusion and then stare at me in silence. Emma looks at Barrett for an explanation, but she’s busy eyeing me mischievously.
“What?” Katie scoffs.
I avert my eyes, “With Colson.” I glance up quickly and then pretend to check my phone.
“What?” Katie repeats, struggling to speak through her mouthful of banana, “You’re going to go out with him after what happened last week?”
Barrett raises her fingers into air quotes, “Going out…” she chortles from the hallway.
“So…” I sigh, trying to think of how to explain the situation without sounding like a desperate idiot with nothing better to do, “after I ignored him for most of the week, he gave me a first edition of Carrie signed by Stephen King.”
Katie and Emma go silent again, eyes darting back and forth between one another.
“He left it at our door,” Barrett croons from the bathroom.
“Holy shit,” Emma finally blurts out.
Katie swallows her mouthful of banana and straightens up, “You know,” she narrows her eyes with a coy smile, “I didn’t tell you this, but I knew about Colson before we went to that party.”
I clasp my hands over my stomach and squint at her, “I got that much, but what do you know about him?”
“Dominic knows him,” Katie replies, referring to her boyfriend, “he street races with him—or used to. Definitely ran from the cops, might’ve been involved in a high-speed chase…”
Emma pulls the curling iron away from her head, letting her hair spring back against her face. In her other hand, she furiously swipes her thumb across her phone screen.
She sets the curling iron down on the vanity and scurries around the back of the sofa, “Is this him?”
She leans over my shoulder to show me the screen. I recognize Colson immediately in the photo posted to a stranger’s Facebook page. He’s clearly at a Halloween party, dressed like an airline pilot in a white button-down shirt, black tie, and aviators with a pair of gold wings pinned to his collar. He’s sitting in the middle of a dingey maroon futon with a girl on each knee and three more sitting on either side of him. They’re all dressed as flight attendants, each in a short, skin-tight Navy-blue dress with a plunging neckline and silk scarf tied around their neck.
Colson looks like a douche. Much like he did at the last party I saw him at.
I nod in confirmation, “Yup, that’s him.”
Katie cranes her neck to examine the photo, “Lovely,” she says with a roll of her eyes, “oh, and I’m pretty sure Dominic said Colson spent last summer in Alaska out in the middle of nowhere—like, by himself—and he might’ve gotten attacked by a bear.”
“What?” I scrunch my face up, completely confused.
“Oh yeah,” she adds, “and he sleeps with all the Deltas.”
I blink, unsure of what to do with such a random smattering of information. Then again, I did ask what Katie knew about Colson. And the university rumor mill is alive and well, so accuracy cannot be guaranteed.
“So, let me process this,” Emma plants a perfectly manicured hand on her hip, “this guy, Colson, captain of the friendly skies, who also sleeps with all the Deltas—”
“Delta Airlines…” Katie interrupts with a snicker.
