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The month of poems

"Excuse me?" I gasp in sudden shock.

I'm not sure whether my body is wet from the sweat that arises on my skin, or rather the wave of heat that unexpectedly flushes all over me.

He doesn't know. There is no way. Or maybe Rayna has told him? But why would she do this–

Connor's voice emerges, conceited and confident. "It took me a while to grasp it, but I finally did." He gets up to his feet. "When you spoke up at the party, I just knew that I've already heard your voice somewhere. Turns out I was correct."

Rayna hasn't told him then.

His lecherous smirk makes me nauseous, evoking the memory of the day I served him on the sex phone.

I've got to stay calm. I've got to act confused.

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

Considering that I only spoke with two men on that app, and one of them was old, Connor must happen to be my first customer, the one that kept groaning and moaning all the way through, and eventually made me throw up.

"Don't play dumb. We both know what I'm talking about. The sex app that you use to get some extra cash? What is it called again? Sweet and Sour?" He chuckles humorlessly, making my twisting stomach leap up to my tight throat.

"I've stopped using it ages ago," I respond confidently, hoping that my answer will put an end to this conversation.

A devilish smirk creeps upon his lips. "But it doesn't change the truth."

"Which, please, enlighten me, is?" I arch my brows, folding my arms across my chest. I can feel my heart thrash against them.

"The fact that you had a phone sex with your best-friend's current boyfriend."

My stomach plummets to the floor. I know Rayna too well. It would upset her so much, regardless that it all had happened before she started being with him.

"But you two didn't even know each other back then." I play this card anyway. It might forestall him from ruining my friendship.

"And you really think that it makes it any better?" He gives a bitter laugh. His light, brown eyes bore through the green of mine. "She'll never forgive you if she finds out. I mean, you've already ruined one of her attempts of having a boyfriend, haven't you? You know, when you caused a scene at that party–"

"She told you about Liam?" My brows shoot to the roof of my forehead.

"She told me much more, but don't worry, Davina, or Emily, whichever you prefer. I won't breathe a word. For now at least." He smiles menacingly.

My mouth dehydrates in fear. Then the door handle slowly goes down, and Rayna appears at the threshold with two steaming mugs poised in her hands.

"Oh, you're back." She smiles at me.

My stomach feels tight. I scuttle over to the hooks and grab a jacket.

"I'm actually going out again. I'll see you later." My voice is evasive. I dress up as quickly as I only can.

"Wait," she says.

Another wave of heat flushes over my body, but then I exhale in relief when she hands me my phone back.

"I took it with me after the party. Sorry for that."

I only flash a weak smile and nod my head thanks.

I shoulder my way into the jacket and walk out the room. I rub my pulsating temples, loitering in an empty hallway. Why does everything always have to go wrong? This question roams inside me.

I groan in frustration and make my way down the stairs. I find myself outside the building. Cold air of the evening helps me calm down.

You know that Connor is correct, right? My subconscious looks at me knowingly. You've already ruined things between Rayna and Liam. If she finds out that you had a phone sex with her current boyfriend, she'll hate you for it. There is no way she'll just shake it off like it's nothing.

I want to disagree with my inner me and maybe kick the nearby bin to defuse my anger, but I know that I can't. I just have to wait and see what exactly Connor is going to do with the information that he's got.

~~~~~~~~~~

Monday morning starts off with another class pertaining to literature, which shouldn't surprise me by this point because I have consciously chosen creative writing as my major.

It's been already half an hour since the lecture started and Will hasn't made an appearance yet. I must admit, his absence makes me a little bit worried after everything that happened yesterday; him telling me the truth about Beverly, then us walking in on his father whilst he was making out with a woman that used to be his son's therapist. I mean, it must have been a bit too much, even for Will.

"Miss Dale, do you really think that I can not see the phone under your desk?" Professor's firm voice startles me out of musing.

Rayna locks her cell and slumps in the chair. "Sorry."

"Oh, and good morning, Mr. Reyman. Late again. Looks like this is becoming some habit of yours," the professor complains.

My heart skips a beat when I turn my head to look at Will. He takes a seat beside me.

"You okay?" I ask.

He says nothing in response. His hard eyes focus on the black board in front of us.

"Will–"

"Isn't it enough that I'm late? Now you're trying to get me in trouble for talking?" he snaps.

I'm caught off guard. His unexpected bitterness causes me to bite on my lip in sudden anxiety.

Alright then. Nice to see you, too. I think to myself and divert my sight back to the professor.

"Considering that we're into the first week of April, I can now announce that we're starting a month of poems, which means, that at the end of it, all of you, and no excuses, will have one poem written and ready to be presented in front of the group."

"What's the topic?" Will, who never shows any interest, asks.

I wrinkle a brow, confused.

"You can write about anything you want, Mr. Reyman. Even your late arrivals," the professor makes this snarky remark.

Will remains unfazed. "Wonderful," he responds politely, and clicks his pen, turning all of his attention to the notebook he begins to sketch in.

Minutes elapse. The frustration of him not talking to me for some inexplicable reason becomes way too much for me to handle on a Monday morning. Feeling my head hurt from overthinking, I get off the chair, hurriedly discarding my stuff into my backpack.

"Miss Nash, the class isn't over yet," the professor reminds me, as if I wasn't aware at all.

"I know. I'm just not feeling very well," I mutter in excuse, ploughing through a row of pulled back chairs, apologizing to everyone who had to push themselves closer to their desks in order to let me out.

I finally manage to escape the lecture hall. I sigh heavily and start walking down the corridor. The only places that I can think of going now are either: my room, which considering that I've spent last three months in there I'm not really having it as an option, or the library; somewhere where I can contemplate in peace and maybe find some inspiration for writing the poem that I'll have to present at the end of this month.

I reach the library. A soothing smell of books eases my frustration. The sound of people flipping through pages is somehow calming.

Then, as I'm about to head towards numerous rows of tall, dusty bookcases, my feet come to an instantaneous halt. My heart starts fluttering in sudden joy of recognizing Nathan among the studying students.

What is he doing here so early, and more importantly, why is he here? He studies digital art, not literature.

I swallow hard, fiddling with the straps of my backpack as I perceive his handsome visage. My heart goes up to my throat in sudden excitement but also anxiety. The last time I saw him seems like eras ago.

He hasn't changed at all; he still wears his silver chains around his neck and wrists, his grunge-ish clothing, which today consists of black, cargo trousers, a dark, checked shirt with a loose T-shirt underneath it, and his characteristic heavy boots.

He's slouched in his chair, shoes planted heavily on the floor. One of his elbows is propped on a table, his fingers as usual covered in signet rings. He taps against the pages of the book he's reading, listening to some song, which I'm sure of because there is an earphone in one of his ears, pierced with dangling jewelry.

Stop staring and just go talk to him. My subconscious prompts.

Okay. I respond more to myself than her, giving my trembling hands a little shake before I let out a short breath of nervousness. This is it. You can do this. He's your ex-boyfriend. It's not like you can't be friends or anything. Just talk to him. I chant this encouragement in my head.

Having gathered my wits, I decide to start a conversation. I ignore the crazy pounding in my chest and tear my foot off the floor, but momentarily place it back down. A pang of disappointment stings me in the heart like a hornet. I feel this sudden emptiness at the pit of my stomach when I notice a girl that's just approached Nathan. His eyes instantly glimmer with admiration as he smiles warmly at her — the same way he used to smile at me.

I guess I should've just gone straight to my room. I realize, my chest feels oddly heavy at the sight of Nathan playfully kicking her shoe with his own, chuckling at almost every word she says.

I glue my eyes to her back. Then my stomach sinks in stress when Nathan unexpectedly glances up at me, his grin shrinks within seconds, his face becomes unfathomable.

Not knowing what to do, or where to hide, I swallow hard, trying my best not to let the sudden feeling of panic take over me. I start stumbling backwards. My heart beats in my ears and throat as I keep making my awkward escape, and then, I simply die on the inside because I accidently ram into someone. Regardless of who it is, the person must have been standing right behind me and watching me this whole time.

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