Eighteen-year-old Nat falls for five different boys during her first month at college, but never openly admits her crushes - until one night she drunk texts all five of them. She finds her freshman year turned upside down as she navigates the world...
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Nope.
My stomach churned, and not in the I-ate-a-bad-burrito-way, but in an ohmysweetgoodness-I-can't-do-this-way.
This was not happening. I totally didn't agree to do this when my shocked brain went into autopilot, must-be-polite mode.
I bounced a curled knuckle against my mouth as I glared at the Summit University dry erase calendar tacked up above my desk. A big, fat red X stared back, mocking me.
No way, José.
Not a single universe existed where I, Natasha Chabra, would take my butt out of this chair and go ask Tyler Sawyer to do the interview.
I swallowed, throat dry. After I procrastinated all day, I had to rip off the Band-aid and just do it.
A pro/con list wasn't even necessary, this was a no-brainer.
I made a commitment to the paper to get this article done, and in order to get the article done, I had to interview him.
But first, I had to convince him to do the interview.
I had to convince him, the star hockey player who Pablo couldn't persuade.
I had to convince him, the guy who made up one half of The Bathroom Incident™️.
I had to convince him, the person who lived two doors down from me that I barely talked to for the three whole weeks we'd been living in the dorms, despite running into him everywhere.
And, to squirt a dollop of Cheese Whiz on top of these stale nachos, I told Pablo I would send him the first draft by the weekend.
So, here I was, sitting at my desk on Thursday night, the deadline in two days.
With restless legs, I pushed my chair back and went straight for my closed door. I grabbed the handle, then drew back.
I blew out a series of short breaths to gain control of my spiralling thoughts.
Just do it, Nat, I played on a repeating loop in my head. Soon, Nike would be calling me for copyright infringement.
In one decisive motion, my sweaty hand wrapped around the metal handle. Before I knew it, I stood in their empty doorway, the door already open, like usual.
I poked my head in, eyes travelling from the patterned carpet with muted stains to the dings and scuff marks on the walls. On one side of the room, clothes were thrown in a clump bed and lying on the floor. The other side had a made bed with extra blankets and pillows folded on a shelf.
Across the windowsill sat an impressive collection of empty tequila bottles for only three weeks of being here.
But, there was one key thing missing. Or rather, one key person.
