Page 16 of Palm South University: Season 2

I AM FREAKING OUT.

Erin Xander does not do well with freaking out.

I am in control of all things at all times. My planner is color coordinated and scheduled through the end of the year, with very few dates to spare. I’m already three weeks ahead in my classes, and even still I’m meeting up with Cassie in less than an hour to study. Because I need to be in control, and I’m running out of things I can hold onto.

It’s only Sunday, the auction isn’t until Saturday, and yet I’ve already handled every aspect of it — the food, the drinks, the paddles, the emergency kits, the girls we’ll auction and the transferring of the donations. All done. Handled. As if that wasn’t enough, I’ve also planned half of Spring Break and hand-crafted mason jars for the sorority council meeting at the Kappa Kappa Beta house this Wednesday.

And yet, I’m still freaking out.

Because no matter what I do, I can’t control what will happen after I pee on this stupid stick in my hand. The stick that will tell me if I’m carrying Clinton’s child.

Oh God.

Burying my face in my hands, I drop the stick onto my lap and focus on my breathing. I need Jess, since she’s the only one who knows about my… situation, but she’s not answering her phone and I’ve barely seen her since she walked in on me vomming my brains out at the O Chi party. I can’t tell any of the other girls — especially not Skyler — and yet I can’t wait any longer to take the test.

Chewing my lip and knowing there’s slim to no chance in hell he’ll answer, I thumb through the contacts in my phone and hover over his name. Just seeing it on the screen makes my heart jump and my breath accelerate — even after all these years. Before I can talk myself out of it, I let my thumb drop, dialing his number.

Ring.

Ring ring.

Ring motherfucking ring.

Hey, you’ve reached Kip Jackson. Sorry I—

“Gah!” Hearing his voice springs more memories on me than I’m equipped to handle at the moment. Why did I think it was a smart idea to call the blue-eyed boy who stole my heart so many years ago? Tucking my phone into my small purse, I lift myself from my bed and stare at the pregnancy test. Sighing, I slip it in next to my phone and give myself a once over in the mirror. My eyes are tired, my skin ashen, my hair greasy. I do not look put together. I do not look in control.

At this point, I have no choice.

I need to tell Clinton.

I don’t want to stress him out with thinking about the possibility of a baby if there isn’t one, but at the same time, I need him right now. If there’s one thing Clinton Pennington is good at, it’s being a friend. We both agreed that our little hook up was just us having too much fun that night at semi-formal, and something inside me just knows he’ll be calm and collected through this. He’ll be able to soothe me, tell me it’s okay, and make me feel like whatever the test says — we can handle it. Together.

I walk slowly down Greek row to the Omega Chi house, focusing on my breaths with every step. I’m wearing my favorite Kate Spade high heels, trying to grasp the part of me I feel quickly fading away, and I listen to them click and clack on the pavement as I near the house.

The boys welcome me in, offering me a beer even though it’s only eleven in the morning on a Sunday. I shake my head. “You boys need Jesus.”

“Hey, Jesus liked red wine,” one of the pledges retorts.

He’s got a point.

My throat swells as I make my way down the hall to Clinton’s room. I try to swallow, but there’s nothing there to aid in the process. My mouth is dry, my heart hammering. How the hell do I have this conversation right now?

Loud music is spilling from his room, which brings me some relief because at least he’s awake. I can’t imagine having to stir him from a slumber to deliver this news. Steeling myself at the door, I tap on it lightly with my knuckles.

“Bear? It’s Erin. Uh, can I come in?”

No answer.

The song blaring from inside his room is slow, rhythmic — a sultry R&B song with lyrics crooning how they could fuck the subject of their affection all the time. Growing anxious, I push through the door without another knock.

“Bear, this will only take a min—”

Clinton doesn’t hear me, thank God, because he’s currently buried beneath a pile of sheets and blankets. A girl is leaned against his headboard, her eyes downcast at the movement between her legs. One of her hands is locked on his headboard, the other is tangled in the purple ends of her hair, and if I had to guess, the moans drowning under the loud bass of the music are courtesy of whatever Clinton is doing beneath those sheets.

My cheeks burn as flashes of our night together hit me with rapid speed. Slamming the door closed as quickly as I can, I adjust my purse on my shoulder and storm toward the exit, desperate for fresh air. The girl didn’t see me, even though I was standing right in the doorway. She was preoccupied. As was Clinton.

And I was just about to tell him I need him to be with me while I take a pregnancy test.