Page 6 of Brat Baby (Sugar Life #1, #3)

Emery

The resounding thud of the dorm room door slamming shut as I use my sneaker-clad foot to close it is oddly cathartic.

Fuck today.

Fuck them.

Fuck this heavy-ass backpack.

Fuck these textbooks.

Fuck the long-ass walk back from the library.

Fuck my nonexistent laptop.

All the fucking fucks.

Dumping the textbooks that didn’t fit into my backpack and my actual backpack onto our tiny dining table—both with audible thumps—I head to my bedroom, ready to cash in on the promise I’d made to myself as I’d lugged approximately one thousand pounds of textbooks across campus—a face-first flop onto my bed. I’ll deal with the books later.

Oakley has been texting since about fifteen minutes into my macro class, a constant stream of observations about her classes and the people in them.

Her messages were confusing at first, because why would one person want to be in contact with another person that much?

But then, as Hudson continued to ignore me for the rest of his class, I came to depend on Oakley’s messages.

The distractions helped to remind me that I’m not actually invisible.

Even though that’s what Derek and Hudson apparently want me to believe.

Pushing my bedroom door open, my plans for a face-plant into the pillows dissolve when I see all the unpacked bags still scattered around my room. And I do mean all of them.

Black lingerie bags from my Friday shopping spree. Baby blue duffel stuffed full of the Saturday shopping spree. And Oakley’s rolling suitcase. Not to mention all the gifts that I dumped from my backpack and left on my bed in my haste this morning, so I could use the backpack today.

Shit. How had I forgotten about all of this?

My heart pangs painfully in my chest at all the reminders of the weekend and the future that I lost today.

Instead of my promised face-plant, I sit on the side of my bed, one foot tucked under my ass, and stare at the bags of clothing that I literally have zero places to wear and even fewer people to show them to. If I could trade them all away to have my daddies back, I would. Faster than a heartbeat.

Wearing it all just for myself seems like such a waste. I’m happy with my thrift store finds. Besides what I’m wearing now, I didn’t really purchase that many everyday outfits.

Maybe I could find new daddies so that I have a reason to wear them? Or even just one?

Something about the idea makes the already twisted emotions in my stomach turn over in a sickening way.

Nope. That’s a pass.

They are my one and done. If not them, then no one.

I lean forward and hook a finger into the handle of one of the lingerie bags and gently drag it toward me with the care of someone handling a bomb.

The contents of the bag haven’t changed. It’s all the things I didn’t take with me to their apartment. Lace, satin, little flower patterns, sheer, snaps, hooks. What the hell am I supposed to do with all this now?

I shove the bag aside and reach for the other lingerie bag and then dump the contents of the second into the first, just so that I feel like I’ve accomplished something with all this mess.

Reaching for the duffle bag and unzipping it, seems to cause the mental load of the day to slam into me while I stare down at the plaid mini skirt I wore for Hudson’s free use scene. The weight of the day is so heavy that there isn’t even a trickle of heat accompanying the memory.

With a sigh, I look at the mess scattered across my bed. As much as I want to forget everything and curl up under the covers, I need to normalize all this shit as mine or get rid of it.

I readjust on the bed so that I have one leg hanging off the side and turn to face all the gifts that are scattered over the comforter. Well, all of them except my phone, bracelet, and backpack. And the clothes still in the duffel.

My graphite pencil set and sketch pad.

The gift card for more art supplies.

There is also a purple… wait, is that the vibrator from the fitting room? And restaurant? And car?

A closer inspection confirms that, yes, it is the vibrator that Hudson controlled with his phone. I drop it into the lingerie bag and try to forget that it even exists.

Just thinking about the fitting room, the restaurant, and then the car ride home hurts.

And the Build-A-Bear box from Xavier.

He bought me a bear. A bear for me to keep.

Everything inside of me tightens, my throat aches, and my eyes well with another round of fucking tears.

What the fuck even happened this morning?

Like… why couldn’t they give us a minute to talk? Why was Derek so angry? If being a student was such an important piece of information, why didn’t they just ask?

I… I don’t get it.

Sure, I tried to hide the fact that I grew up in the system from them, but that was purely self-preservation. My status as a student is way less interesting and a much easier piece of information about myself to give up.

Like, sure, now that I know they work at the university, I’m a thousand percent sure that there will be something somewhere that says teaching staff can’t conduct an illicit relationship with a student. And I’m doubly sure it would be even worse, given I’m their student.

Surely something like this has happened before, right? There is absolutely no way that a member of the teaching staff hasn’t had a fling, a relationship, or something else with a student. NU is hundreds of years old. There is zero chance of it being scandal free.

But what were the consequences? Were those relationships ever found out? And if yes, who took the bullet? The teacher or the student?

Reaching for the Build-A-Bear, I run my fingers over the odd-shaped box. It’s kind of like a milk carton and has a house drawn on the outside with a little viewing window for the bear inside.

Carefully, I open the top of the box and peer inside.

All I can see is wiry gray fur. Reaching in, I pull the softness from the box and then stretch it out over my lap.

Once I have it all kind of anatomically correct, I can see that the bear has patches with stitches on it, like it was a well-loved toy that needed mending.

The heaviness in my chest swells impossibly as I trace the patch over the heart.

Grabbing the box again, I pull out a bag of fluff, a little cardboard box, a sewing packet, and then a… birth certificate?

Discarding the first few items, I scan over the certificate, my throat squeezing uncomfortably tight as I take in all the details, like the date of birth—Saturday. Full name—Theodore Nicholas, (Teddy). Height, weight, eye color, fur color. Belongs to—Emery Nicholas. And then the last line.

Stuffed with love by—Emery Nicholas.

I flip the card over and there is a handwritten note on the back.

For the nights that I can’t be with you.

Xavier.

My throat burns with more unshed tears.

Fuck, I need to get a grip. It was just a weekend. One mind-blowing, eye-opening weekend. But that’s all. Like, it wasn’t even forty-eight hours. They don’t love me, and I don’t love them. All we have is a bunch of shared orgasms and a shopping spree.

Eyeing all the parts that I’m now realizing I need to use to build this bear, I carefully pick up the little cardboard box, since the stuffing and sewing kit seem pretty self-explanatory.

Cracking open the plain white cardboard, I find instructions.

You can choose to place your bear’s heart with its recorded sound wherever makes sense to you. We suggest a paw before you add the stuffing or the chest after the stuffing.

Well, hearts go in chests, so that’s where this one is going.

Five minutes later, I have a stuffed bear with the heart shoved unceremoniously into the chest through the slit in the back and I’m slowly stitching the opening shut. With only one pricked finger, I finally use the tiny little scissors to cut the thread.

Turning Teddy over, I stare down at his little gray face with all his patches. He gives me zero clue as to what to do now. So, I do the only logical thing.

I bring him up to my chest and give him a squeeze and then freeze as the quiet thump thump of a heartbeat emanates from his chest.

Moving only my eyes, I seek out the handwritten note from Xavier.

For the nights that I can’t be with you.

Is this… is this his heartbeat?

I bite my lip to try and stave off those fucking tears, but it’s no use. They roll down my cheeks like waterfalls I shouldn’t be chasing.