As silly as it is, I feel a bit better.
At least he hasn't forgotten about me.
Sunday afternoon drags, each minute like an hour, each hour damn near another whole day. The dorm comes alive mid-afternoon as people filter back in. I can hear our suite mates through the thin walls, returning from wherever they headed off to.
I don't know.
Don't really care, either.
I'm a terrible neighbor.
I'm sitting in my bed, knees pulled up, staring down at the book propped up against my legs, when the door flings open. Melody walks in, hauling her bags along, and lets out a groan in lieu of a greeting. I glance up as she discards her things by the door to collapse in her bed.
"Oh God, I'm exhausted!" she says.
"You look refreshed," I point out. In fact, she looks different, a sun kissed glow to her. Her hair is almost platinum blonde, bleached from the sun's rays, while her skin is now a deep tan.
It's amazing how much someone can change in a week.
"Refreshed?" She rolls over onto her side to gaze at me. "I feel like I was beaten!"
"Were you?"
Valid question with Melody, one she answers with a sly grin. "A lady never tells."
Laughing, I close my book and set it aside. "Good thing you're not a lady then."
Melody sticks her tongue out before launching into it, relaying details from her trip. I thought I'd feel a twinge of jealousy, hearing all about her adventures, but I'm more amused than anything. Because nothing she says, no matter how exotic, tops my erotic.
You swam with dolphins? You went scuba diving? You sunbathed topless on a gorgeous beach? Well I ate at the finest restaurant in the city, drank thousand dollar champagne, and had my brains fucked out by the man of my dreams.
I should tell her. She's my friend, maybe my best friend, arguably my only friend... I should tell her about him. She's always telling me about her escapades, and rarely do I ever have anything to share in return.
I'm going to tell her.
I am.
I will.
"So what did you do this week?" she asks flippantly
Just not right now.
Maybe later.
"You know, little of this, little of that." A lot of that.
She scrunches her nose at my lame response and launches back into her stories. I'm vaguely listening, her week just short of something out of Girls Gone Wild, when she starts talking about someone named Paul.
"Who's Paul?" I ask, interrupting.
"Oh, you know Paul," she says, waving me off.
Paul Newman? Paul Bunyan? Peter, Paul, and Mary?
I don't know anybody named Paul.
"Refresh my memory."
Melody rolls her eyes, a slight flush to her cheeks as she rolls over onto her stomach on her bed to stare at me across the room. "He's the guy from Timbers. Remember? Mr. Top Gun?"
"I thought he was a Pat," I say, "or a Pete."
"Yeah, so did I, but no… it's Paul. He's so great. He's just… he's everything. I've never met someone like him before."
My brow furrows. I'm not sure what he has to do with anything. "He didn't stay at your resort or something, did he?"
"What? No, of course not. That would be crazy if a guy just showed up wherever I was. Stalker-y."
Tell me about it.
"He called me, though," she continues. "I told him to after that night at Timbers, but I didn't really expect to hear from him. But he called, and we talked, and he's amazing. We have so much in common."
"That's great." He rubbed me the wrong way, and I don't trust him after the incident with the drink, but my warnings fell on deaf ears to her. She looks happy, and I guess that's what matters. "So you're going to see him again?"
"Abso-freakin'-lutely." Before I can question her anymore, her phone chimes. Melody is up off the bed, all traces of exhaustion gone as she darts for her luggage and rummages through it. She pulls out her phone, glancing at it, and squeals. "He sent me a text! It says: yo, sexy, you settled in? You hear that? He called me sexy!"
She laughs giddily as she throws herself back down on her bed, her attention fixed to her phone as she responds to him. My eyes drift from my roommate to my own phone, silent and still on the desk beside me.
I'll take beautiful over sexy any day.
"Happiness."
Santino stands at the front of the classroom, holding his favorite wooden pointer stick. It's long, and thick, arguably bigger than him, with a sharp metal tip like a dagger.
I think he's compensating for something.
He bangs it against the large chalkboard, hitting the word written in all capitals. HAPPINESS. I'm vaguely paying attention, my mind drifting, as Melody slouches in the chair beside me, doodling in the margins of her notebook. I peek her way, rolling my eyes when I see she's drawing hearts around Paul's name.
"Who wants to chime in and tell me what happiness means to them?" Santino asks, scanning the classroom for volunteers.
Hands shoot up, the do-gooders who would offer to shine the man's shoes if he hinted they were dirty, followed by a few other hesitant volunteers. The answers are expected from this bunch, a lot of idealistic bullshit tucked in with some materialism. A guy across the room shouts out something vulgar, making the class snicker, as Santino points his stick at him with disapproval.
"Getting the hell out of this class," Melody says under her breath. "That's my happiness."
"Tell me about it," I mutter. "Longest hour ever."
"Ah, Miss Reed," Santino says, swinging in our direction, his eyes meeting mine through the sea of students, like he has radar that's tuned directly to me. "Was that your voice I heard? Would you like to chime in with your answer?"
"Uh, true happiness is having a deep sense of well-being, and peace, and vitality," I say, remembering reading that in the material. "It's being grateful to be alive."
"That's true," he says, "but that's not what I asked you."
I'm momentarily caught off guard by his sharp response.
"You see, if I wanted the textbook definition, I would've read it," he continues, smacking the book on his desk with the stick. "The question was your definition. Pay attention next time instead of gossiping with Miss Carmichael."
"Sorry, sir."
He stares at me, raising his eyebrows. "Well? Your definition?"
"I, uh…" I can feel the gaze of my classmates burning through me, waiting. "I don't know."
"You don't know," he echoes. "You don't know what makes you happy?"
"Well, sure, but happiness isn't really a thing," I say. "It's a state of mind."
He doesn't look the least bit entertained. "A state of mind or a state of being?"
I hesitate before repeating myself. "A state of mind. It's just the way you look at things."
The corner of his lip twitches, but it's not with amusement. He looks like he might have a blood vessel burst if I keep speaking. "Do you pick up all of your philosophical insight from the realm of children's narrative, Miss Reed, or just your views on happiness?"
I blanch, hearing the wave of giggling flow through the room. I start to stammer out a response when he turns away, pointing back to the chalkboard, a sign that says he's done with my shit. "Albert Einstein said a table, a chair, a bowl of fruit, and a violin were happiness for him. Clearly, everyone defines it differently… those of us who can define it, anyway."
I slink down in my chair, embarrassed, as Melody leans toward me, whispering, "Please tell me you weren't quoting Seuss again."
"Walt Disney," I mutter as quietly as can be, but based on the way Santino's gaze darts to me again, I suspect he knew I was talking.
Class is over within minutes after that. I'm out of my seat as Santino shouts, "Two page paper exploring the concept of true happiness due on Thursday! I'll have your mid-terms graded then."
The class groans as we head for the door. Melody falls into step beside me, sighing as she slips her bag on. "You couldn't be normal and
say orgasms, could you?"
I laugh, shaking my head. I couldn't say that, but of course, I wouldn't refute it. The mere mention of the word causes a tingle deep inside of me, the memory of the way Naz made my toes curl as I came for him.
That was undoubtedly happiness.
That was Heaven.
I could write the next great American novel about it.
"You know me," I say. "I like to keep things interesting."
"Yeah, well, you ought to be careful," she says. "You know he gets a kick out of torturing students. It's, like, foreplay to him, and if you keep it up, you might end up being the one getting fucked."
Seems to me I'm already on that path, and have been since the first day I stepped into his classroom. He'd gone down the roster, doing his first and only roll call, acknowledging each of us individually. Scare tactic, Melody said… nothing more terrifying than having Satan speak your name. He'd reached my name that day and hesitated, seeking me out. The others he simply nodded at before moving on, but he'd stared at me that afternoon like with one look he knew I didn't belong there.
We make our way to the dorm, strolling along in no rush, the ten-minute trip taking double that. As soon as we make it to our room, Melody flops down on her bed, while my eyes are drawn to the room phone, the little button on it blinking red. We never use it, only ever remembering it's there when the school calls the number to leave a message. I pick up the receiver and press the button to hear the automated message.
"Please come down to the building resource center this afternoon for a pickup. Thank you."
Sighing, I hang up the phone and turn for the door. "I'll be back."
"Where are you going?"
"There's a package or something waiting downstairs."
I head right back down to the lobby, waiting my turn at the resource center window to pickup whatever was left there. As soon as it's my turn, I step up to the woman working the desk and hold my school ID out to her. "I received a message to pick up something."
She punches it into her computer. "Ah, yes, 1313."
I lean back against the wall beside the window, waiting for her to retrieve the package, when she sets a sparkling vase filled with long-stemmed roses on the counter.
"Here you go," she says, smiling sweetly. "Karissa Reed."
My eyes widen as I stare at the flowers. They're in vibrant shades of pink, three dozen of them from what I can see. I'm thinking there has to be some sort of mistake, some sort of mix-up. "Are you sure these are for me?"
"Uh, yes," she says, double-checking. "Positive."
Slowly, I reach out and take the card from where it sticks out in the center of the arrangement. I pull it out of the small envelope and open it, seeing what's undeniably male scribble.
A dozen for every night you've spent with me.
-Naz
I'm stunned. I just stare at the card for a moment before glancing back at the roses. The lady at the desk is eyeing me cautiously, like she's afraid I may pick up the vase and chuck it at her head. I mumble my thanks, grabbing the vase to leave.
It's heavier than I expect.
I carry them upstairs, dazed, just smiling politely when a girl in the elevator comments on them. When I reach the room, Melody is standing in front of her bed, holding up a familiar black sweater dress. "Hey, do you know what happened to my—?"
She doesn't finish her question, but I know what she's asking. I ruined it. Or Naz did. My cheeks flush. Oh shit.
Melody's eyes seek me out, and she tenses as she stares at the ostentatious flowers in my hand. "Shit, it's not your birthday yet, is it? Please tell me I didn't forget your birthday."
"No," I whisper, pushing stuff out of the way to make room to set them on my desk beside my bed. "Just a gift."
Melody watches me incredulously, dropping the dress onto a pile of dirty clothes, forgetting all about it. "The perk of having a Mom who owns a flower shop, huh?"
I shrug noncommittally.
I don't correct her.
I'm a terrible friend.
Her eyes drift back to the flowers on my desk, and she's quiet for a moment. I wait for her to question me more, but she doesn't, a smile lifting her lips. "Lucky bitch."
I laugh. Lucky? Maybe.
Naz certainly makes me feel that way.
Melody flops down on her bed again, cuddling up with her pillow to take a nap after a morning full of classes. I sit down with my philosophy book, hoping to get a start on my paper on happiness, wanting to impress Santino after the disaster class turned out to be.
I try to focus—I try, and try, and try—but my attention keeps drifting to the flowers. The sweet fragrance swirls in the air around me, tickling my nostrils whenever I inhale. My lips keep twitching as I fight off a grin. I feel like the truth is written all over my face, glowing like a neon sign in the flush of my cheeks.
Melody's soft snores fill the quiet room after a while. I glance over at her, making sure she's fast asleep, and contemplate for a moment before grabbing my phone.
My finger hovers over Naz's name in my contacts. I press it, my heart beating wildly as I bring it to my ear.
It rings.
And rings.
And rings.
I'm close to hanging up when the line clicks and he greets me with an exaggerated sigh. "Well hello there."
His voice is rough—grittier than usual.
"I didn't wake you, did I?"
"You did," he confirms.
"I'm so sorry," I say. "I didn't know. I got your flowers and wanted to thank you."
"Ah." I can hear him yawn through the line. "So they made it?"
"Yes." I peek across the room, making sure Melody's still asleep before I continue. "We only really spent two nights together, though."
"You're forgetting about the first night," he says. "Not surprising, though, since you were out of it."
"But we didn't..." My voice drops even lower. "...you know."
He exhales again, loudly, but this time it's not from his exhaustion. It's frustration. "I didn't send them to you for sleeping with me, Karissa. Don't degrade yourself thinking that's your worth. I sent them because I'm grateful."
"Grateful for what?"
"For you."
"Well, thank you," I say. "So how did I give away that I liked flowers? Did I wear a flowery shirt, or smell like roses or something one day?"
He laughs. "No, it was just a guess this time. Most women like flowers."
"I probably like them more than most," I say. "My mother grows flowers for a living."
"Is that right?" He sounds genuinely interested. There's a lot about men that I find attractive, but a man who actually listens is in an entirely different league.
"Yeah, so I sort of have a soft spot for them, I guess. Makes me a little homesick."
"And where's home, anyway? The post office in Syracuse?"
I laugh, pushing my philosophy book aside to lie down. "Close enough. Home is… well, I don't know. We moved around a lot when I was growing up, so it's not really a place to me. It's more the people. Or the person, anyway."
"Your mother," he guesses. "The florist."
"Yes."
"I'll have to keep that in mind," he says. "I'm glad you like the flowers."
"They were a nice surprise." I stare at them on my desk. "I was starting to think maybe you forgot about me."
"Why would you think that?"
"I haven't heard from you," I say. "Haven't seen you."
"That's not from lack of remembering," he says. "I've been busy with work, but you've been on my mind. And you can see me any time you want, Karissa. Anytime. Just say the word and I'm yours."
"Tonight?" I whisper.
"How about right now?" he suggests. "I can be there in an hour."
My eyes dart to Melody, still fast asleep in her bed. "Can you make it two?"
"Whatever you want," he says. "I'll see you then."
He ends the call, and I set my phone back down, unable to fight the smi
le this time. It's building up inside of me to the point that I feel like I'm going to explode. I let out a silent scream, kicking my legs in my bed and clenching my fists, unable to contain it. I jump up and scan the room anxiously, grabbing my robe before jetting to the bathroom, careful not to wake Melody.
I shower, and scour, and shave, and stress, the giddiness making me edgy. I stay under the hot spray until my fingertips prune. Getting out, I slather on lotion, making every inch of my body silky smooth, coated with a touch of fragrance. Heading back into the room, robe on, towel on my head, I find Melody sitting up in her bed, awake again, searching through her bag.
"Hey," she says without even looking up at me. "Paul called, wants to meet up. Our next classes are side-by-side."
"Really?"
"Yeah, isn't that something?" she says, smiling. "So we're going to walk to class together and then get some dinner afterward."
"Awesome."
"You wanna come with?" She raises her eyebrows as she casts her eyes at me. "Would be nice to get something not out of a can or from the dining hall."
"Yeah, I'll pass this time," I say. "Thanks, though."
"You sure?"
"Positive. You and Paul have fun."
She stands up, grabbing her things and getting them together. "Well, let me know if you change your mind and we'll meet up somewhere, okay?"
"Okay."
I won't change my mind, but I don't tell her that, relieved I won't have to try to explain why I'm getting dressed to leave in the middle of the afternoon. I know I should tell her the truth—I'm breaking every rule my mother ever taught me and violating the friendship code by sneaking out like this. Always make sure someone knows who you're with and what you're doing, how they can find you, and never—ever—go somewhere without a friend knowing. It's an unspoken pact, one I've violated again and again, and I don't even know why.
But I can't say anything.
I'm not ready to tell anyone.
There's something thrilling, something chilling, about having something that's all mine. I've lived a life of secrecy since I was born, a life of uncertainty because of my mother's quirky ways, but this is another level I can't even explain. It's having a different world to step into, a world so much unlike my own—a world where I'm not just another person… I'm a treasure.