Hopeless Romantic
by Julie Capulet
Chapter One
~ Millie ~
The bus drops me off next to the front entrance of the university.
I walk up to the main admissions building, where I’m given a map and a bag full of booklets and welcome materials. I make my way through the crowd of people on the campus green, keeping my hat low over my eyes, using the map to try to find my way to my new dorm.
I can’t believe I’m here.
College.
I never knew if I’d actually get this far. So many times along the way, college had seemed like a place other people went, a goal not just up among the stars, but over in someone else’s galaxy. But I’ve made it. This is real. My dream, against all odds, has come true.
I graduated from high school more than a year ago, but it’s taken me this long to save up enough money to get started. Desperate to get as far away from my hometown in Florida as possible, I applied to four schools. And I got in.
This place is like a different world. More than forty thousand students go to this university. It’s practically its own city, with top-ranked sports teams, space-age libraries and students from every walk of life you could imagine. It’s got an energetic, optimistic vibe to it that’s kind of blowing my mind.
The autumn air is crisp and cool. People are pink-cheeked, wearing colorful scarves, holding steaming cups of coffee and hot chocolate from a nearby coffee truck. Until two days ago, I’d never in my life been north of Atlanta. Everything about this place feels new and exciting and picture-perfect. I almost feel like I belong here.
Belonging isn’t something I’ve had a lot of experience with. I don’t fit in or make friends easily. Not because I intentionally try to be an outcast, but because I’m used to keeping secrets.
But not anymore.
All my secrets have turned to dust.
Here, I’m not the poor kid with a heroin addict for a mother. Or the lonely waif who lives in a trailer park and carries Narcan in her pockets. I’m not the freaky teenage girl who wears hats and oversized jackets in August to hide myself because I live alone, or close enough. My only protector was too far gone to care.
All that’s behind me now.
My mother is dead. It feels like a mercy. The needles, the wasting away, the giving up of every shred of herself just to get her next fix. I tried to save her, but she just couldn’t be saved. Grief was weaved into the painful fabric of our downward spiral. Which meant that, as soon as she was gone, it was surprisingly easy to walk away. I’d already said my goodbyes to the person my mother was, a long time ago.
Now, I’m free. Free of the pain and sadness of my past.
Today, here—right this minute—I can start my new life.
In this mini-city of forty thousand people, I know I can find my own quiet corner, where I’ll be perfectly content to watch everyone else having the time of their lives while I get to work and do what I came here to do. Kick ass, in the only way I know how.
It’s a strange thing to have a knack for. As soon as I started writing stories, something clicked. When I write, I enter this fever dream that takes me into other worlds. I use writing to crawl inside my own mind. To escape from reality. It helped, when I needed it most.
The coffee-scented air leads me over to the coffee truck. I stand in line. I’m wearing my usual loose jacket and my black sailor’s cap that I tuck my hair into. Because I actually need them in this weather, which is a nice change. People still stare at me. I’m used to it. I know what I look like.
Students are clustered into groups, talking to each other, meeting each other. I sometimes wonder, like now, what it would be like to be fun and outgoing. The girl behind me in line starts up bubbly conversations with a couple of random strangers, without even a hint of self-consciousness or turning red or stammering over her words, like I would. Shyness is a curse.
My backstory doesn’t help, but at some point, you just have to move on. That’s why I’m here, after all.
“What can I get you?” says the guy in the truck. He’s staring. I pull my hat a little lower.
“One hot chocolate, please.”
He smiles, making no move to get my order. “You must be a freshman. I’m sure I would have noticed you.”
“Yes. I just arrived.” After three days on a Greyhound bus, but I don’t bother with the details.
He pours cocoa into a cardboard cup. “I’m Mason.”
“Hi, Mason.”
I don’t offer my name in return. There’s a line behind me and I really just want to get my drink so I can go and find my dorm. But Mason takes his time. “And you are?”
I relent. “Millie.”
“Millie,” he repeats. “I like that name.”
“It’s sort of old-fashioned, but it works.”
His gaze roves across my face. “Hey, there’s a party at my place tonight. You should come.” He scrawls a number on a napkin and hands it to me, along with my cup of hot chocolate. “Give me a call.”
“I’ll see. Thanks.” I hand him my money card.
“It’s on the house,” he says. “Really. You should come. It’ll be fun. I can pick you up if you need a ride.”
“Hey, man,” says a guy behind me in line. “How about stop trying to pick up the freshman and make us some coffee instead?”
I take that as my cue. “Thanks, Mason.”
“See you tonight, hopefully,” Mason calls after me, but I let myself drift into the crowd. I already know I’m not going to Mason’s party. I’m not really the party-going type. Besides, I don’t have time. Part of being able to afford college came from the advance money for a book I wrote last year, when I was going through the worst of … the worst. By some miracle, I landed a literary agent, who got me a two-book deal with a major publisher. They said my writing was “heartfelt,” which is true enough. The money isn’t a huge amount, but it meant I could afford to start college this year, instead of waiting another year or two to save. I have no idea how I’ll finish the second book by their deadline of January 1st, but I guess I’ll figure it out. That, along with the full course load I’ll be taking, means I’ll basically be living in the library for the entire first semester.
I check my map, pretending I feel confident and ready to take my new world by storm. At least if I look like I know what I’m doing, people might actually think I do.
