For some reason, I expected a better line of bullshit from him, but maybe he’s losing his touch. "Oh, I’m sorry that you’re a compulsive cheater," I retort sharply. "But she’s my mother. I think that has everything to do with me."

There's a brief moment of silence between us before I say, "So, are you living at home again?" While I was home for summer break, he’d spent maybe a total of seven days at our house. He had girlfriends, and yes, I do mean in the plural sense, and since I’d gone ahead and blown the whistle on his first affair, he didn’t see any point in hiding that truth any longer.

Growing up, it was never a secret that Mom favored Lily and Dad me—my mother and I seemed to clash at every turn—but after the last several months, I couldn’t be in the same room with him without feeling bitter.

“Did I lose you?” I say through clenched teeth, half-hoping that he did hang up on me.

To my disappointment, he says, "Let's talk about you instead. How are you liking the place so far?"

"It’s fine.” When he sighs, frustrated at my short response, I add, “What do you want me to say? That I'm settled in? Or that I'm all ready for my classes tomorrow morning and I have every intention of going this year? Or, even better, that I'm not hung-over?"

"Do you have to be so sarcastic about everything?" he demands.

"But it's all true. Besides, you’ve been quick to remind me about all my shortcomings whenever you want to get your point across.”

"I've apologized to you, Evelyn." As soon as I remind him about the text he sent me not even two days ago, he quickly corrects himself. “I’ve apologized to you about what happened with your mom.”

But you’re still seeing other women behind her back, I want to say. There’s no point in arguing. He’ll just feed me the same lines of crap he’s been doling out to her. I slide off the bench and to my feet. “Look, I’m currently in a bathroom talking to you because everyone in my suite is asleep. I should probably get to bed too because I have a nine AM class, and I really, really don’t want to be late on my first day. If you are with Mom, tell her I said goodnight and I love her.”

As I walk back to my room, the next thing my father says makes me consider turning right back around just to argue with him. “It’s complicated. I know you don’t understand, but it is.”

I've always loathed that word. When I was a kid, and Dad wanted an easy out on something he couldn’t explain or didn’t want to deal with, he was quick to throw it around. Back then I had no problem accepting it, but now not so much. I stop right outside my door, placing my forehead gently against the wood.

“Complicated, huh?”

“When you’re older you’ll understand.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah, sure. Goodnight. I'll call you ... soon, okay?" I don't give him the chance to stop me before I disconnect the call.

After I’ve once again deactivated my Facebook account and put my laptop back on my desk, I lie in bed reflecting on all the things I’ve screwed up over the last year. For starters, there’s my parents’ marriage—but of course, that was broken long before I found out about all the affairs and told my mom. She deserved to know, deserved better. And yet, she would’ve preferred to remain oblivious. I’d seen that much in her eyes as she avoided my gaze all summer long.

And then, I’d wrecked what was left with James. Don’t get me wrong, we were never perfect—we had a relationship that began in high school and was based around too much sex, smoking pot, and drinking ourselves into oblivion—but the end still hurt. When I’d retaliated after our breakup, I only managed to damage myself.

Even if my grades hadn’t gotten me kicked out of school, the slut shaming I faced from James’ fraternity after that “retaliation” probably would have sent me on my own way.

Yawning, I roll over on my side and face the wall.

Screw Dad.

Screw James.

And most of all screw Rhys Delane.

Chapter Five

Last year, I was sure I lucked out with my relatively light class load. During first semester, I only took fourteen credits and second semester, due to my already failing grades, I enrolled in even fewer—twelve in total. Thinking back on that now, as I rush to get ready for my first day, I decide that maybe so few classes was a curse. Maybe if I’d registered for as many courses as I’m taking this year—eighteen credit hours just this semester—I might have had a little less time for messing up.

“No point in worrying about that right now,” I tell myself as I shimmy into the longest pair of shorts I can find in my wardrobe, which, thanks to my long legs, barely graze my fingertips. Taking a swig of the Red Bull sitting on my desk, I pull my flowy, Bohemian-esque shirt from the back of my computer chair and drag it over my head as I shove my feet into a pair of plain nude flats. Grabbing the same messenger bag I used last year from the center of my bed, I drop my phone and two textbooks inside as I head out the door.

I race across campus to make it to my first class, which to my extreme displeasure is Professor Cameron’s Sight Singing and Dictation course. Although the whole tardy and absent thing is an entirely different ball field in college, I absolutely don’t want to be late to a class that is not only taught by my advisor, but is also my worst subject in my major.

I’m early—the class is only partially full when I walk in—and I let myself relax. I take a seat a couple rows from the front, beside a freckled, shaggy redhead who automatically makes me think of Ed Sheeran, and behind a girl who smells like the perfume department at Sephora threw up on the front of her bright pink hoodie.

Turning his head to look at me, the redhead gives me a smile. “Nathan Stone.”

“Evie Miller, nice to meet you.”

Pulling out his laptop—which I doubt he’ll need in this particular class—he asks, “You liking it so far?”

“Not sure.” Grinning, I lay my hands down flat on my desk, rubbing my thumbs together. “I’ll tell you how I feel about it after this class is over, though.”

Chuckling, he moves his head to either side. “No, I mean the first real weekend back. This place can get a little crazy.”

“Oh ... this isn’t your first year?”

“Nope, I was here last year.” He drags a bottle of green tea out the side of his laptop bag and downs a quarter of the contents before adding, “I decided in the middle of March that I wanted to screw myself and double major, so here I am.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah, I—” His gaze leaves my face for a second, looking over my shoulder, and he lifts his eyebrow. “I swear that guy makes the rest of us look like ass. I’m glad my girlfriend doesn’t go here,” he jokes.

Oddly enough, I already know precisely who Nathan is referring to without having to look behind me, and I automatically feel my body go taut as my mind wraps around thoughts of Rhys Delane. Since half those thoughts are the kind that will easily get me in trouble, I squeeze my hands together and give a noncommittal shrug.

“He’s alright, I guess.”

“Well, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard that happen,” Nathan mutters, shaking his head incredulously. He looks over my shoulder again, and this time when our eyes meet, he gives me a serious look. “The succubus is here. She’ll go Leonidas on us if we’re talking while she’s explaining the fifty page syllabus.”

Between Mac’s description of Professor Cameron as the mega bitch and Nathan now referring to her as the succubus, I’m seriously ready to pre-empt the pity party for myself for the next several weeks.

Giving me a little wink, Nathan turns forward in his seat. When Professor Cameron starts to talk a moment later, her tone just as crisp and detached as it was during our meeting last week, I have no choice but to follow suit.