Cole didn’t ask my name. He just leaned against the wall next to me and said, “You look like trouble.”
I nodded along. Took notes in my phone. Packed my pepper spray next to my extra-long twin sheets.
But nobody warned me about him . His name is Cole. Junior. Rugby player. Has that effortless messy hair that looks like he just rolled out of someone else’s bed. He was my RA’s friend—which should have been my first red flag. RAs are supposed to be the fun police, not the pimps of the third floor. College Rules - Lucky Fucking Freshman
“So,” he said. “Am I your first college… thing?”
“What’s your biggest fear?” (Spiders. And graduating with no plan.) “What’s a memory you’d relive?” (My dad teaching me to drive stick shift.) “Who broke your heart first?” (A boy named Liam. Sophomore year of high school. Cliché.) Cole didn’t ask my name
“I look sober,” I said. “There’s a difference.”
I met him at the “Welcome Back” house party during syllabus week. I was nursing a truly disgusting hard seltzer, wearing a sundress that was probably too short for September, and trying to remember the name of the girl from my Psych 101 lecture. Packed my pepper spray next to my extra-long twin sheets
It’s about knowing when trouble stops being fun.