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  I didn’t fill the silence that followed, content to dwell on my own thoughts. My phone pinged when we’d walked a city block.

  “Are those license plate numbers?” he asked, not the least bit embarrassed about reading my texts over my shoulder.

  I nodded. “Jules isn’t coming home tonight,” I told him, content to leave it at that and not explain the safety measures she took when finding male companionship.

  Another text followed.

  Jack Phillips. 25. Brown hair, brown eyes. About six foot or so. In case he’s a serial killer or something. Apartment on Oak Street.

  Ben’s chuckle met the cool night air.

  Let me know if I need to call and fake an emergency.

  Roger that. Over and out.

  “So y’all do this every time you go home with someone?” Ben’s question pulled me away from my phone as I figured out how to answer.

  “Well, Jules does. I never really need to.” His smile made me stutter, just a little. “It’s just a safety precaution, like pretending to talk on the phone while getting gas at night or walking down a street by yourself.”

  “So if I wasn’t with you right now, you’d be pretending you were on the phone?”

  “Possibly, if I saw someone creepy.”

  “Huh,” he said, looking around at our surroundings. “You should put that in the paper.”

  “You know I write for the paper?” I didn’t really think anyone knew that. It wasn’t like I used a pen name or anything, which was unfortunate because I had a great one picked out, but I wasn’t known around campus like Ben. Even among the few who were interested in collegiate journalism, I doubted they knew who I was.

  “Of course,” he answered simply, as if it were obvious. “You’ve written for it since freshman year.”

  I didn’t have anything to say to that, so I ignored it, filing it away for future contemplation. When in doubt, control the word vomit.

  “Yeah, it would be a good topic. One-night stands are so common in college, but they’re really dangerous when you think about it.” I said it in all seriousness, voicing a thought I’d always wanted to broach in the school paper. Unfortunately, sex wasn’t usually a subject The Dixie Chronicle welcomed in its articles. When they say sex sells, they don’t mean in a paper parents of prospective students like to check out before handing over a small fortune for tuition.

  Meeting my eyes, he tilted his head at me, an invitation to continue.

  “College has somehow made it okay to go home with someone you just met, basically a random stranger, and sleep with them.” He didn’t say anything, so I kept going. “But really, you are putting a lot of trust into a person you know nothing about, not to mention you’re basing your decision off a first impression that is probably clouded by alcohol.”

  He was quiet for a while. The only sounds were our breathing and our steady footsteps along the sidewalk. He was probably thinking about his own one-night stands. I wasn’t trying to offend him, and I didn’t think he should lose sleep over past choices. Besides, over six feet of muscles probably had a little less to worry about than a medium-build tipsy girl looking for affection—just another one of those gender inequalities running rampant.

  “College is the best years of your life, or so they say. For some people, that’s probably true. Minimal responsibilities and more time off.” I shrugged, inviting him to explain further. “It’s a time for experimentation. Society accepts, and even almost expects twenty-somethings to be wild and uninhibited. For some people, that leads to a fearlessness that means they just do things for instant gratification.” In response to my silence, he added, “A little too much fearlessness can be dangerous, though.”

  “I fall into a more cautious lifestyle,” I admitted. “I’d rather spend a lonely night in solitude than risk my life for fleeting affection with no emotional connection.”

  “You’re smart. Usually people don’t feel that way until the next morning.” A small laugh fell from his mouth as he walked me all the way to the back entrance of Lola’s, our private staircase separated from the business. It was black iron and wobbly.

  “Thanks for walking me home,” I told him when I hit the bottom step. “Though I didn’t need it.”

  “Well, I had to make sure you made it home safe. Jules would be all over me tomorrow if you didn’t, because I’m sure you texted her and told her you were with me—for safety precautions.” His smile was open, knowing, and when I didn’t deny that I had in fact texted Jules to tell her Ben was walking me home, it grew wider. “I’m six two with brown, almost black hair, by the way, and my eyes are green, in case you need to inform her.”

  His playfulness was infectious, and I couldn’t deny myself the charm that was all Ben. When I finally laughed, his eyes lit up in victory.

  “Well, I would push my luck for a goodnight kiss, but I’m afraid you’d give me a black eye.” My smile dropped instantly.

  “The throat is my preference, actually—severed windpipe and all,” I revealed, turning to continue up the stairs.

  “You look nice tonight, by the way,” he called from the bottom, smile still stuck on his face.

  “Good night, Ben,” I said without turning back.

  CHAPTER 2

  The ache in my leg muscles had yet to be defeated, probably because my time spent outside of class was shamelessly filled with napping. One painful step after another led me down the empty hallway. It was a long, slow walk. It felt like I was on the way to my execution, not headed down a dimly lit hallway toward the office of a short, plump, curly-haired woman who smiled like it was her calling in life. For someone who exuded happiness from her pores, making me uncomfortable seemed to come so easily to her.

  “What do you want to be, Lex?” I hated when she asked me that. I hadn’t had an answer the other two times she’d asked in the last thirty minutes, and this was only our first session. If she just added the ‘when you grow up’ part, you would think I was five, not twenty-one. It wasn’t that I didn’t need a reminder that, according to society’s standards, I was already supposed to have grown up. I had, in a lot of ways. I wasn’t immature. I showed up when I was supposed to. I treated people with respect. I managed my responsibilities the best I could, and I was eight months away from graduating college with mostly decent grades.

  The problem? I had no employment prospects, which was why I was having to attend mandatory employment counseling my senior year of college. Really they just helped you improve your resume and gave you tips on networking with potential employers. I had made the mistake of telling Sherri, my appointed counselor, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my creative writing degree.

  Consequently, she’d now decided we should embark on a mind-numbing journey of obligatory self-discovery. It was excruciating. Sherri, with her curly hair and always smiling face, had now poked and prodded my resume until it was flawless, at least as flawless as it could be for someone who’d never had a paying job. Her words, not mine.

  “Okay, so a little homework for you.”

  I blinked long and hard at her. Not only was this not an actual class, it was only the fourth week of school. I hadn’t even unpacked all my toiletries yet. I hadn’t flossed in days because it was still packed away in some mislabeled box. Okay, so I probably wouldn’t have anyway.

  “I want you to make a list of your short-term and long-term goals and apply to three jobs or internships before our next meeting.”

  That sounded worse than the history paper I’d already been assigned. I mean, come on, classes had barely started; my short-term plans were lunch, and my long-term plans were dinner. When I said future, I meant tomorrow morning’s breakfast.

  “You want to be a writer, I’m assuming, since you have a degree in creative writing?”

  When I didn’t answer out loud, she looked up. I nodded. She hummed, and though I’d never thought I could be confused by a single sound, I was. Was that a good hum? A bad hum? A ‘you’re failing at life’ hum?

>   “How would you describe yourself, Ms. Baxter?” My confusion must have been apparent on my face. “Are you free-spirited, uptight, stubborn, picky? Patient? Selfish? Giving? To help you, I need to know you.”

  I felt like I was on a first date—a very bad first date, according to her pursed lips and furrowed brow. My hand immediately went to my messy brown curls pulled into a sloppy bun. It wasn’t like I had dressed to impress. My yoga pants were almost threadbare, and my t-shirt was two sizes too large. At least I had thought to put on foundation and some mascara. Why I suddenly cared what Sherri thought of my appearance, I had no idea. It wasn’t like I was actually trying to date her. Besides, the ring on her left hand probably meant she wasn’t interested.

  “Well, I’m free-spirited enough to get a degree in writing but practical enough to worry about it.” I fake-laughed. It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard the long-winded speeches about responsibility and finances. My mother thought I was crazy. My father, a lawyer, insisted I should choose a plausible, ordinary career, preferably one that made money, he’d hinted. After a while, they had relented, and eventually even supported me. I was grateful for their encouragement, even if it did come with occasional remarks about financial stability that they tried to pass off as jokes.

  Of course, if I had really been concerned with stability, I would have changed my degree to something like investment banking or nursing. Now, my degree was almost complete. Senior year was here, adulthood was knocking on my door, and I was still sitting in the dark pretending not to be home. I didn’t even consider myself an adult, not really. Maybe by age, but not by action. I could vote, go to war, get married, but the thought of actually doing any of those things made my skin jittery. I practically broke out in a rash when registering to vote. Thank goodness there hadn’t been a presidential election yet. I’d probably have to be severely medicated just to make it to the polls.

  I stared out the window as she continued to talk about possible fields in which a creative writing degree could be practical. The leaves hadn’t yet turned, but you could tell fall was coming in slowly. The seasons were one of my favorite things about South Carolina, but I always got a little emotional at the end of summer. The loss of sleeping late and no homework deserves an adequate mourning period. My afternoons and weekends were free from all responsibility. No homework, no studying, no stressing over grades. Summer had always been my favorite. My hair stayed wildly natural and my feet bare. Autumn always came too quickly, pounding on the door, demanding entrance, and summer snuck out the back, gone before I’d had a chance to say goodbye. The days were so long but the season so short. Now, with the start of semester, my time would be filled with writing articles, taking notes, and listening to mind-numbing lectures on information I would likely never use again. October would bring crisp air and my car would get whiplash from trying to keep up with the fluctuating weather.

  Dixie College was beautiful all year, but when the summer days grew shorter, it was even more alluring. My view through the dirty window showed the quad littered with students sunbathing and playing frisbee, and there were even a few committed ones studying. I wished I were out there as I sat trying to ignore the insecurities Sherri seemed to be a pro at pointing out. The university itself was located in Sparksville, between Crave Lake and my internal urge to drop out pre-degree. It really was a beautiful campus with equal parts greenery and old brick buildings. Strategically placed trees provided shade on the hottest days, and faraway parking lots encouraged involuntary exercise.

  Was senioritis fatal? Because it felt like it. The disease had taken away all motivation. There was no hope, no incentive, but if you’d weighed my grades against the unrelenting urge I had to skip class, I’d have said I was still doing pretty well, at least for the time being.

  This was my last year, though. I had a minimal class load, so most of my free time would be spent scouring career websites for future employment, no matter how unattainable that goal seemed to be at the moment. At that point in the economic recession, it would probably have been easier to change my major.

  Hearing my name brought me back to the conversation I was supposed to be having. Sherri waited patiently for me to answer a question I hadn’t heard. When she realized I had no response, she repeated it.

  “What do you want to write about?” Even after hearing the question, I still couldn’t find the words to formulate an answer.

  “I’m not sure.” I shrugged, going for honesty, even if she was mentally doubling the number of counseling sessions we’d need. It wasn’t a copout. I really didn’t know.

  “You don’t have a genre in mind? Romance? Crime? Nonfiction?” I shook my head. “Journalism?” she tried again. Another shake. I was more concerned with the effect I had on society and less with what category it fell into. “So if I gave you a blank page, right now, you don’t know what you’d do with it?”

  I continued my nonverbal denial and just shook my head. I wasn’t sure why I wanted to be a writer. It was more of a feeling I didn’t know how to explain, an urge I didn’t know how to contain. I didn’t know how I could ever do anything else. I didn’t know why everyone in the world didn’t want to be a writer. I wondered why we weren’t all ignoring our responsibilities to read every new bestseller and craft stories out of thin air.

  When I picked up a book, I traveled through times and adventures and dimensions. Books hold so much power. The words stay with you, affecting your identity just slightly so you’ll never be the same again. You read, you experience, and every once in a while—or even more frequently if you venture into fictional worlds as often as I did—your life is altered by the words on the page, and you can’t go back to who you were before. Your perspective has been altered, and your view has expanded, making you feel like you were blinded before. When you come across words that describe the innermost desires of your heart, opinions you haven’t yet voiced, or feelings you could never quite put into words yourself and you then realize you’re not the only one, you don’t feel so alone in this crowded, superficial world.

  I didn’t understand how we weren’t all addicted to the flow of words. An idea that starts in the mind, beaten into a story, bent to invoke feelings and influence opinions and promote change. They give us so much power: the power to hurt and heal, to dominate or rebel. We can inflict pain or soothe a wound. We can make something great or destroy it.

  Did I tell Sherri Cummins that while she sat across from me with judgmental eyes? Nope. I just continued to shake my head, unable or unwilling to explain why writing appealed to me.

  “Well, I’m giving you a blank page,” she told me, literally sliding one across her desk. It was a clean white sheet, a stark contrast against her dark wooden desk. “This is your senior year, Lex. You can fill your blank pages however you want to.” With that, I was dismissed, and although I dreaded spending more time in employment counseling, I couldn’t ignore the clarity brought on from Sherri’s gift. If my days so far were blank pages bound together into a hardback book, no one would bother opening it. No one would want to read it.

  Every day was a new page, though. My senior year was starting. It was a clean slate. No marks, no ink, no remnants of past mistakes. Turning to a blank page is like the sunrise of a new day. I was staring at a new set of blank pages, unmarked white space waiting to be filled with meaning and color, waiting to be crowded and overflowing with charismatic doodles, meaningful quotes, sticky notes of memories, postcards with handwritten scrawl, typed words on heavy cardstock, faded ink on old bar napkins. In this life of content mediocrity, I wanted a beautifully written story. I wanted words in typewriter font inked on old tattered paper, elegant calligraphy written on an old black and white picture. I want something that was uniquely mine, and breathtakingly beautiful, and ragged and raw.

  Our days are blank pages, and our lives, stories. When we die, all that’s left is the story. There are no more blank pages, just filled pages handed down from generation to generation with unprofessional words and
half-forgotten details. We’ll be lost in time, and that’s normal, but I wanted more. I didn’t want to be tattered edges and faded emotion. I wanted to impact so many lives that my pages wouldn’t be easily forgotten.

  CHAPTER 3

  MY INSECURITIES WERE proved correct when I received rejections from two of the three internships I applied for. I forwarded the rejection email to Sherri, proof that I’d done my homework. See, Sherri? No one wants to hire me. The second letter, typed on formal letterhead, had me pulling a tub of chocolate icing out of the fridge. Apparently, I didn’t have enough life experience.

  Life experience? Life experience? Were they joking? Of course I didn’t have life experience. I’d literally spent my entire life in school—when did they expect me to go out and get experience? In between studying for tests and writing articles and wasting hour after hour completing mandatory homework? Didn’t they realize I couldn’t get experience until they gave me the job that would provide experience? It’s seriously some kind of twisted egg or chicken joke. Should I have reminded them that this was an entry-level position? An internship, nonetheless? One that specified it was for seniors or new graduates?

  I had the strong urge to reply with a rejection letter of my own. I wanted to write them in the most polite, condescending tone telling them although they were a good company, they were just not what I was looking for and I’d be taking my lack of life experience elsewhere. Let’s see how much they appreciate a hundred words of rejection printed in flowy script on flowery paper, maybe even scented. Yeah, I’ll definitely spray it down with some floral perfume—or better yet, I’ll probably just rub some on it from a sample out of a magazine. No reason I should be wasting money on them.

  By lack of life experience, I assumed they meant the absence of any prestigious awards or admirable honors. It wasn’t like there was a place on my resume to post past travel itineraries and food eating contests—not that I had those things. I spent most of my days trying to remember to change out of my pajamas and make sure all the zit cream was washed off my face before venturing into society, but they didn’t know that. It wasn’t like I advertised my inability to function in the early morning hours.