Page 17 of Knot My Fault
I drop my shoes by the door and crawl into the corner with my knees pulled to my chest, before grabbing my spare tube from the drawer. I liberally slather it across my gland, only relaxing when my body seems to do the same.
“I should avoid them,” I tell myself. Nothing good has ever come from trying to date on campus and I don’t have time to spare for dating online or anyone outside the school.
Avoiding Bishop and Hollis should be easy. Knotlocke’s campus is huge, the athletic building has enough side entrances, and I have spent the last year perfecting the art of being difficult to find. Not to mention, even as the team’s manager, I hardly talk to anyone on the team, Bishop and Hollis included.
By lunch, I’ve already rerouted around Bishop twice, handed the splits clipboard to Maisie before practice so I don’t have to stand near lane four, and changed in the single-stall bathroomnear the old equipment hallway instead of the locker room. A few people have asked how last night went, others jab at the whole encounter, and Reece...
The problem is that Hollis notices everything with his whole face.
He doesn’t follow me. He doesn’t crowd. He doesn’t corner me by the pool or call my name when I leave practice early with a fake errand about inventory sheets. He just looks at me from across the deck like he’s trying very hard to respect a boundary and survive the experience at the same time. It’s genuinely awful. I would prefer a villain. Villains are easier. Villains wouldn’t make me feel guilty for dodging them.
Bishop is worse because he doesn’t look hurt. He looks like he knows exactly what I’m doing and has decided not to save me from my own bad coping mechanisms. Every time I glance up and catch him watching me, he turns his attention back to practice like he isn’t waiting.
By Thursday, stuffed into an art elective for my last credits to graduate, I’m exhausted from the logistics of avoiding two people who are actively giving me space.
I picked the class because it sounded like the least offensive option available. Introduction to Visual Interpretation. No exams, one short paper, and allegedly no required presentations, which I now know was a lie because Professor Albright keeps using phrases like “group discussion” and “shared analysis.” I arrive two minutes late with coffee in one hand, my backpack sliding off one shoulder, and a sincere desire to sit in the back and be perceived by no one.
The back table is already occupied with a handful of Omegas I’ve found easy to disappear around. Everywhere else, I have to perform. With them, I’m just another Omega, trying to graduate, and part of or at least hovering around a sports team. I don’t recognize two of them, but then there’s Blair who has two chairsclaimed through sheer entitlement, one boot hooked on the rung of the empty seat beside him, his lip ring catching the light when he looks up.
Granted, Blair has enough money to buy the school, and the very one who funded my escape from auction night, so he’s alright in my book.
His eyes find me, then the chair. “Sit down, swim tragedy. We need a fourth before Milo tells the professor the blue in this painting represents tax fraud.”
Milo points the pencil at him and immediately drops it. “It does feel financially haunted.”
Parker covers her mouth, laughing into her sleeve. “It’s a still life of pears.”
“That’s how they get you,” Milo giggles.
Blair nudges the chair out with his boot, and the professor glances at me from the front of the room, already annoyed by my hesitation. I plop into it before I get yelled at. “Terrible sales pitch,” I mutter, setting my coffee down.
Blair smiles like that was a compliment. “Still worked.”
Parker leans around Milo, her expression warm enough that I immediately distrust it. “I’m Parker. Milo. Blair, obviously.”
“Condolences,” I say.
Milo grins so hard his whole face gets involved. “Oh, I like him.”
“You like everyone,” Blair says, reclaiming his pencil from the table and passing it back to him.
“That’s not true. I didn’t like Chad.”
Parker bursts out laughing before slapping a hand over her mouth. “No one liked Chad. No one likes anyone when they’re snooping around our mates.”
There seems to be a story I’m not privy to there but I rarely ever ask when they get into it. I’m just happy to disappear into the background. Once I get my degree, I won’t have to look backat any of the horrid experiences here. Graduation can’t come fast enough.
The professor starts talking, and for about ten minutes, the class almost becomes survivable. We’re supposed to analyze a painting of a woman standing in a doorway, one hand braced on the frame, her body turned slightly away from the room behind her. Light falls over her shoulder but doesn’t quite reach her face. The whole thing is too on the nose for my current emotional state, and I resent the artist personally.
Parker studies the print with her chin in her hand. “She’s deciding whether to leave.”
Milo tilts his head. “Or whether she’s allowed to stay.”
Blair taps his nail once against the table, eyes still on the painting. “She’s waiting for someone to make staying worth the risk.”
The table goes quiet for half a second as we all look at him, surprised. Blair lifts one shoulder. “What? I contain more than money. I have emotional depth. It’s very inconvenient for everyone.”
My phone buzzes against the table before anyone can answer. I glance down on instinct, and there’s Hollis’ name on the screen. I completely forget that the swim team had my number, which meant the two men I spent the night with a few days ago also have it.
