The Impact of You

Avery
Thirty minutes into my first college party, and I’m ready to smack someone in the face with a shovel. My first problem is that I’m
wearing the most ridiculous shade of pink. Madison’s doing, of course. Tugging at the hem of my hideous shirt, I plaster a fake
smile on my face and try to act as if I own this new look.
Compared to Madison in her tight jeans, low-cut black top, and sexy three-inch heels, I look cute in my pink outfit. And I hate that
word. Cute is what you use to describe a teddy bear or a three-year-old, and it only demonstrates that I don’t belong at this frat
party filled with gorgeous half-dressed girls grinding on the dance floor. Fuck my life.
Sighing, I push a chunk of hair behind my shoulder and take another sip of the now warm beer in my hand. Madison thrusts her
arm around my waist, bumping her hip against mine in time with the music. I smile at her attempt.
“Need more to drink?” she asks above hip-hop music so loud I can feel the beat vibrating in my chest.
I look into my still full red plastic cup. “I’m good.” I hate the taste of beer, but manage to take another sip. Tonight is all about
blending in. And something tells me being the stone-sober girl with a perma-frown etched into her face isn’t the way to do it.
Madison and Noah are convinced this will be my year. They have grand visions of me loose and carefree, thriving in the college
social scene despite the contrary evidence I’d presented them as a freshman last year. When they’d dressed me in this pink top
earlier – which Noah claimed was actually rosy coral – they’d declared me a ripe peach, ready for the picking. I’d barely kept the
scowl off my face at the euphemism.
“Mancandy, two o’clock,” Madison announces over the music.
I take my time, subtly turning in the direction she indicates. A group of three guys stands talking near the DJ and, honestly,
they’re all cute. Either that or my mind won’t let me distinguish individual features since my body has no plans of getting involved
with anyone. Ever.
“Which one?” I ask, playing along with Madison so I don’t disappoint her yet again. I know I make a terrible wing-woman. Noah
fills the role a heck of a lot better than me. A fact he’s super proud of.
Madison glances at the group of preppy college boys. “The pretty one.”
Pretty?

Noah steals a glance at the group of guys too. “Damn, that boy is fucking delish.” He shakes his head.
“Major player, though.” Madison rolls her eyes.
“The pretty ones always are,” Noah adds.
I can’t resist looking again for this so-called pretty boy, and when I do, icy blue eyes meet mine and he zeroes in on me with a
smirk. His lingering gaze rakes boldly over my body, and I feel the nervous lurch of my stomach. The sights and sounds of the
room fade away. Yeah, he’s pretty. That’s the only way to describe him. He’s roughly six-feet tall and lean, but with a hint of
muscle. His hair is a warm mix of brown and blond, and his eyes are such a striking blue, it shouldn’t have been possible without
colored contact lenses. Not to mention the ridiculously long eyelashes that I’d happily murder him for in his sleep.
A warm tingle creeps up my chest. It’s a decidedly unwelcome feeling and I swallow a large gulp of beer hoping to extinguish
whatever the hell that sensation was. I want to look away, but I can’t. He has on dark jeans that fit his lean frame perfectly –
slouching a bit on his hips but held in place by a worn leather belt. His T-shirt is plain and navy blue. I like that he isn’t
overdressed for this thing, like some of the other gel-haired, button-up-shirt-wearing guys circling us. His hair is unruly and
rumpled like he’d been in a fight with his comb. I have the urge to brush the strands out of his face. Or use it to tug him in to kiss
me. Where did that thought come from?
Pretty Boy’s eyes stay locked on mine. One corner of his full mouth pulls upward. Crap. He caught me staring. I can feel my fake
smile wavering. As my cheeks heat up, I look down at my feet that are squeezed into Madison’s heels. He has to know how
gorgeous he is. Guys like him always do. And he is firmly in male-model territory, so he can’t fault me for looking.
“C’mon, Avery, dance with us. You’re being a downer,” Madison whines. When I blow her off a second time, she gives up and
drags Noah to the center of the living room. She sways and grinds to the beat, obviously hoping Pretty Boy will notice. They
gesture for me to join them, but as much as I love them both, this is so not my scene. Noah and Madison are both theater
majors, so to say they are dramatic is an understatement. Sometimes I wonder if I cling to them because their flamboyant
personalities mask my non-existent one. I watch them shimmy and shake for a few minutes before sneaking another glance at
Pretty Boy in the corner.
He’s still watching me, so I give him my best attempt at a smile. I’m pretty good at hiding that I’m wounded, that my life blew up
in a spectacular scandal my senior year, and that I still walk around fearful what happened that night will be uncovered. I hold the
I-could-care-less-smile in place. I’m just a regular college sophomore in a hideous pink shirt. Move along folks. Nothing to see
here.

My cheeks still burn and my heart pounds in time with the music. It’s too damn hot in here. Too hot to be wearing jeans and a
three-quarter sleeve top. Pushing a damp tendril of hair from my face, I pull a breath into my lungs. It only confirms what my
body already knows. Even with the show going on in front of him, Pretty Boy is still closely watching me.
The way his eyes lock on mine from across the room holds the promise of something much more intimate than two random
partygoers. His deep blue gaze penetrates me and eats away at the calm, cool demeanor I fight to maintain. He looks at me like
he knows me all too well, like he sees I’m an imposter. Maybe it’s because he’s hiding something too. His friends laugh around
him while he looks on, bored and unimpressed. I snap my gaze away.
Guys like him bug me for numerous reasons. I hate his overconfidence and the way he’s completely ignoring the girl grinding up
on him. Like he couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to anyone he deems unworthy of his affections. Cocky bastard. If he
doesn’t want her he should send her on her way, put her out of her misery. Blond bimbo or not, she’s still a person.
Watching the poor girl conjures up memories I can’t deal with. I hate that I was once that girl. Pretty Boy continues to rake his
gaze over every inch of me. Well, if this jerk thinks I’m an easy conquest, he’s sadly mistaken. Lifting my chin, I avert my gaze
and force my smile to remain in place. I throw a glance at Madison and Noah who are full-on impersonating Lady Gaga at this
point, and deciding my friends won’t miss me, I make my way through the crowd toward the back door. And freedom.