Page 2 of Palm South University: Season 3

THANKSGIVING

WORST.

Friendsgiving.

Ever.

I thought it was my best idea since I’d decided to change my major, to get the gang together to overdose on mashed potatoes and red wine, especially since my original plans for the holiday had fallen as flat as my hair in the Florida humidity. I couldn’t be with Jarrett, so I’d be with everyone else I cared about. It seemed genius at the time.

But here I am, sitting in the proof that I was very, very wrong.

We’re all gathered around a long, folding table usually used for beer pong, though now it’s covered in a deep red table cloth with gold accents and several plates of food. I sayalllightly, because Ashlei is halfway across the country due to her stupid internship and Erin is MIA.

Her…and the turkey she was supposed to bring.

“Maybe we should just start,” Skyler suggests, smiling softly, though her blue eyes are strained. The bags under them tell me she hasn’t been sleeping. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon. We can at least eat the sides while they’re hot.”

Clinton scoffs, crossing his hard, dark arms over his chest as he rolls his eyes. “Oh, right, because you always know what’s best, don’t you, Sky?”

Skyler’s face crumples. “Bear, please. I apologized. Can we just… can’t we have a nice meal?”

All eyes are on Clinton, mine shooting daggers as we wait for his answer. He’s been a prick since he walked in the door, and though I have no idea what happened, I’m almost positive he’s being a little bitch about whatever is going on.

Then again, that could just be because right now every man in the entire world is the enemy to me. I hate them. I hate how they make us feel things, how they make promises they can’t keep, how they have a gift for building us up with hope only to let us down in the end.

And I’m not even on my period. God help the poor suckers who hit on me the next time I am.

Clinton picks up his fork like he’s ready to play nice, at least for a while, but then he grits his teeth and drops it back to the table again. The legs of his chair scrape against the hardwood floor of the chapter room as he pushes back and stands.

“How the fuck are we supposed to have Thanksgiving without a goddamn turkey,” he growls, and without another look at any of us, he steamrolls out the back door, letting in the tiniest sliver of the setting sun before the door closes behind him.

Skyler sighs. “He’s not mad about the turkey,” she explains, standing up for him even when he’s being a giant dick to her. “He’s just worried about his little brother and…”

“It’s fine, Big,” Cassie says, offering a soft smile. “I agree, we should just eat.”

“Yeah, who says you can’t make a meal out of green bean casserole?” Adam chimes in, and for some reason Grayson is giving him a death glare from across the table. I know they had some tension between them after the dodgeball tournament, but was it really so much that he’s still not over it? “Challenge accepted.”

Skyler nods, but she’s chewing her lip between her teeth, eyes on the door Clinton just blew out of. Adam starts, piling mashed potatoes and gravy on his plate first before passing the serving dish to Skyler. She glances at it briefly, then pushes back from the table with another sigh.

“I’m sorry, I just need to check on him. I’ll be back.”

So, she skips out the door, too, which leaves me alone with the peanut gallery: Cassie, Adam, and Grayson.

Joy.

Adam swallows, offering the dish across the table to Cassie, instead. I’m kneading my temple now, eyes closed until I hear my phone buzz on the table. My hands fly, unlocking the screen quickly and expecting to see Jarrett’s name, only to find a sorry ass excuse from Erin.

- Sorry, got caught up with some Panhellenic stuff. I’ll be there soon! -

I grumble, but before I can even text back, another chair scrapes against the floor.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, what now?!”

It’s Grayson who’s standing now, jaw all tense and chest puffed out. I’ll admit, he’s still a sexy motherfucker with that man bun and those steel eyes, but even he’s not immune to my man-hating today.

“I can’t do this anymore, Cassie,” he says, eyes hard on Adam across the table. “You have to choose. Him,” he snarls, thrusting a hand toward Adam. “Or me.”

“Andddd, that’s my cue.” This time it’s me who stands, tossing my napkin on my still-empty plate. “You guys can have your pissing match. I’m going to get a cheeseburger.”