Teach You To Love [semi on hold]

1| in the moment

After nearly twenty hours in the car together, I might be liable to strangle my mother.

Stacy Sinclair can be a lot to handle for one hour, in a group setting, when you have a million exit strategies at your disposal. She's kooky and loud, a never ending ball of energy. Some people find her "charm" endearing, but I just find it exasperating. I've officially hit my quota of what I can handle, but I have to survive until tomorrow when she catches her flight back home.

"All I'm saying is you need to be picky, Fal. College boys can be gross. Or just crappy in the sack. There's no shame in investing in a nice vibra–"

"Mom, do not finish that sentence," I warn, glaring at her over the stack of boxes in my arms. I drop them in front of my door, 4B, and fish the key that had been mailed to our Brookhaven address out of my purse.

"Other children would appreciate advice from someone with my experience," Mom huffs in disbelief.

I'm not sure any child wants to hear their mom tell them how to make sure your needs are staying satisfied, but that's Stacy Sinclair for you.

Two of my best friends, Thalia and Zoe, came with me over the summer to scout for an off-campus apartment and indulge in a little girls getaway before summer ended and real life resumed. I'd fallen in love with the place immediately and finished negotiations over email with the landlord.

The sweat on my skin instantly cools as I make my way inside–it's at least ten degrees colder in here than in the cramped hallway.

I let my mom drag in our current load of boxes while I give myself a moment to take in the space. Floor to ceiling windows, light wooden floors and a bar-style counter jutting out of the wall that separates the living room from the kitchen. To the right there's a hall that leads to two bedrooms, a hall bath, and a closet.

"This is even better than in the pictures," Mom coos, clapping her hands together to wipe the imaginary dirt off them. "I'll let you start unpacking these boxes while I grab the next load."

"Okay," I respond without looking back, grateful for the temporary reprieve as I take in my new home.

I'm going to have to begin the hunt for a roommate soon, which I'm hoping will be my ticket to making a new circle of friends on campus since I chose to forgo the dorms. But for right now, this space is all mine. Empty and in desperate need of adding some warmth, but I know once I'm moved in it will begin to feel like home.

My phone is burning a hole in my back pocket, and the silence from it is deafening. I texted Oliver to ask how his flight was two hours ago. Two whole hours, and I haven't heard a peep from him.

Oliver St. James is the paradox that has consumed most of my thoughts over the summer. We've been best friends, literally since childhood and he taught me how to hopscotch without falling on my face at recess.