No hello. No greeting at all. I'm stunned. Beautiful? Where did that come from?
My eyes are drawn down to myself. I haven't even changed out of my old ratty pajamas in what I think might be two days. "How do you know?"
"I saw you."
My stomach is in knots. He saw me? "Where?"
"In my dreams."
The moment he says it, a smile lights up my face. "Are you just fucking with me?"
"No, but I'd like to be fucking you."
I laugh sharply. My body heats at those words. How does he do that, his responses so slick, so quick?
"I do know you looked beautiful today, though," he says. "I wasn't lying."
"How?"
"Because you always are."
I'm not sure how to respond to that. I start stammering. Thirty seconds on the phone and I've turned into a blubbering fool because of this man.
He laughs, genuinely amused. "Goodnight, Karissa."
Before I can respond, he hangs up. I stare at the phone, biting my bottom lip, as I whisper, "goodnight," into the quiet room.
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?"