“You going out this weekend?”
“I might. Is Zoe working?”
“Yeah, I think she has the dinner shifts Friday and Saturday, then we’ll stick around to hang out afterward.”
“All right. Yeah, I’ll probably head out for a bit. I have some studying to do tonight, though.”
“It’s only the second week of classes. How can you have studying to do already?” She grimaces.
“Because I don’t want to get behind. Some of us—” I narrow my eyes at her, “—are trying to get into graduate school.”
“Graduate smaduate.”
I shake my head at her and laugh. “I’ll come out as long as you buy me a drink.”
She smiles. “Don’t I always?”
After we finish eating, we then head off to our afternoon classes. Once I’m back home, I work on the blog assignments I have for Professor Hampton, and I quickly get them done. Once I finished, I feel the urge to clean.
And by clean, I mean scrub every inch of my apartment until my fingers bleed.
I’m not always like this—neurotic, I mean. Cleaning helps clear my mind when I have too much going on to focus on painting. I go through episodes of manic behavior, but more often it’s depression that takes over.
I see my doctor regularly to consult about my medication and to make any adjustments. After six years of suffering from depression after the accident, I was told I was likely suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. Reoccurring dreams of the event, flashbacks, anxiety, depression and avoidance are all areas I suffer from. Not to mention the secondary trauma from my mother and the way she’s blamed me all this time. But no matter how much I try to get my life together and move forward, a dream or flashback will suck me back in and bring me back to the beginning again. It’s a vicious cycle and it’s hard to see any light at the end of the tunnel.
A loud beating at my door grabs my attention and when I whip the door open, Kendall is standing there with a tense look on her face.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“What the hell, Aspen? I’ve called you like four times, and I’ve been banging on your door for like five minutes.”
“You have?”
“Yes! Why is your music so loud?” she shouts, covering her hands over her ears.
“It is?”
She narrows her eyes at me and lowers her hands. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Fine. Just doing some cleaning.” I hold up the towel from my left hand.
“Oh my God…” Her eyes go wide as she pushes through and walks inside. “It smells like bleach and pine sol had a love child and then threw up all over your apartment.”
I scowl and shut the door. “I just told you I was cleaning.”
“No, you’re getting high.”
I burst out laughing. “I am not.”
“Well, between the loud rap music and toxic bleach smell, the cops will be called in no time.”
I hadn’t even realized my music was on. I walk over and shut my stereo off and then open a window. “There. Better?”
“A little, yes.”
“Sorry. I just lost myself for a bit.” She walks toward me and gives me a sympathetic frown. “I’m fine,” I repeat, hoping she’ll drop it.
“I’ll have Piper stay with another friend, okay?”
“This isn’t about Piper. I said it was fine.” I wave her off.
“Aspen, I may not have known you for long, but I know you well enough to know when you aren’t fine.”
I exhale. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Well, obviously the anxiety of having a stranger stay here is too much, and I’m sorry I even asked. I should’ve known better.”
I hate that she says that.
“It’s not about Piper, okay? My mind is just a clusterfuck right now.”
She sits down and pats her hand on the couch. “Are you sure? Wanna talk about it?”
I sigh and roll my eyes. “What? Are we going to have a slumber party and talk about all of our hopes and dreams?” I mock sardonically and sit down next to her. “Because if that’s the case, I’m going to need wine.”
Wine in hand, we both plop down on the couch and Kendall wastes no time asking me about what caused me to go crazy Merry Maid on my apartment.
Taking an exaggeratedly large drink of wine, I consider my words carefully, knowing I can’t tell her the truth of what is going on and hating that I have to evade her questions.
“Honestly, it’s just a bit of everything. My mom wanting me to come home for Spring break, my hectic school and work schedule. I’m just overwhelmed and cleaning helps me regroup.”
Nodding, she takes a quick sip from her glass. “Yeah, that makes sense. I know the pressure can really amp up anxiety, too.” She knows certain triggers can increase my anxiety.
I nod in agreement, thankful she doesn’t pry further. “Enough about my crazy life. Tell me how’s Kellan?” I empty my glass. “Coming along yet?” I tease, waggling my eyebrows. “Or rather, coming at all?” Her cheeks heat, and I know I’ve successfully changed the subject.
“You’re such an ass. You know that, right?”
“So that’s a no?”
“That’s an…almost.”
I shake my head in mock disappointment. “That’s unacceptable, Kendall. Are you sure he’s not gay?”
“He gets hard just fine, thank you very much. He just doesn’t want to screw it up by moving too fast. Even if my vagina is filling up with cobwebs.”
“Cobweb pussy,” I confirm, shaking my head. “I hear it’s a brutal disease.”
“So is too-much-cock-in-the-mouth disease.”
“Oh, but it’s oh, so worth it.” I wink and she pretends to gag.
“All right, screw this girly crap. Let’s go hang with Jack and Jose.”
“Deal.”
We run to the liquor store and grab two large bottles that are sure to keep us company.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ASPEN
Everyone starts packing up after class Tuesday night, but I stay put. My mind is focused and centered, and I don’t want to stop now.
“You know you have another week to work on this, right?” I hear him directly behind me as I stand in front of my easel. But I don’t turn around and face him.
“Yes.”
“You’re very passionate.” I smile but don’t stay anything.
He steps to the side of me, just enough where I can see him out of the corner of my eye. “You don’t have to stay. I’ll be done in a minute.”
“It’s fine. I’ve nowhere to be.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, glancing slightly to where he is. “No wife or girlfriend to get home to?”
A pleased smirk spreads across his face. “That’s a pretty personal question.”
Fear etches over my face and my fingers still. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“But…” he draws out slowly, averting my gaze back to him. “Class is over now.” Our eyes meet as he continues. “So there’s no rule against asking personal questions.” He takes a step toward me.
“You made that up.” He tries to stifle a laugh. “Even after hours, you’re still my professor and I’m still your student.” He takes another step closer.
“I’ll answer it if you answer one.”
I try to act unaffected by how close he is to me. I continue moving the brush over the canvas, veering my eyes away to break the tension.
“No, I don’t have a wife or girlfriend waiting for me,” I answer flatly. His crooked smile encourages me to keep going. “Although,” I continue, “I am known to get quite friendly after a few drinks.”
He nearly chokes on his laughter, making the tension slip away.
He’s even closer now, the only barrier between us the easel. But it’s situated more to my right so his body is in full view. He stares intently at me, his lips in a firm line.
“Husband or boyfriend?”
“Why would you want to know something like that?” I feel the heat building in between my legs, my breath uneven and raspy as I realize we’re nearly toe-to-toe.