Naomi Collins used to be adventurous. She used to be able to live life in the moment. She used to be, well.. happy.
She went to college at one of the top universities in the country, where she wanted to be her best self. She left junior year realiz...
Oops! Questa immagine non segue le nostre linee guida sui contenuti. Per continuare la pubblicazione, provare a rimuoverlo o caricare un altro.
They say life's about the journey, not the destination. I call bullshit. Yeah, sure maybe sometimes the journey is all shits and giggles but right now I am ready to drive off a cliff.
My heart is still pounding through my chest and my ears are still ringing from the adrenaline high. I wince as my eyes attempt to squint closed. The last thing I need right now is to have a panic attack on the road. Taking in a deeper breath to ease my nerves, I roll the windows down in my car, letting the cool June air whip around me.
Sitting in a car for the past three hours really has turned my mood even more sour than before. And yet I still have two more hours to go.
Two.
Kill me.
Long.
Kill me.
Hours.
I finally worked up the courage to dial my brother's number on my phone. My thumb lingers over the call button as I suck in a breath.
The phone rings a few times before I hear my brother on the other line, "Nomi? What's up?"
And just to make my mood even better, my brother uses my childhood nickname that I strongly dislike. Scratch that, I hate it. When we were younger, he couldn't pronounce Nay-omi, so he just said Nomi. Personally I think it was just his plan since birth to annoy and embarrass me. Thus, the name stuck and at the wonderful age of twenty-one, the nickname I have sounds like the garden ornament with a red hat. Even though I want to shave off his eyebrows every time he calls me Nomi, I still would do anything for him and vice versa. Hence, why I'm hoping he is cool with me barging into his and his friend's summer plans.
Growing up we were each other's rocks and still are. Mostly. This past year has been difficult. I hope Cameron doesn't hate me for the distance I have put between us. It wasn't entirely my fault yet I still feel the overwhelming, crushing weight of guilt resting on my shoulders.
"Cam, I need you to listen, it's important." I said, the other side of the phone was silent so I continued, "I left Stanford."
Silence.
"Cameron?"
"Wait, sorry it sounded like you just said you left Stanford?" Cam recites on the other line.
"I will tell you more in person but I need to ask you a huge favor. I know you and your housemates are staying in your house over the summer and the next school year." I say as my fingers nervously drum against the steering wheel, "I need somewhere to stay, I promise I'll move out as soon as I find an apartment but I- I'm two hours away."
I can practically hear the thoughts racing through his mind, only to hear him stutter, "Wha- wait, did you transfer? What did mom and dad say?"
Oh yeah, mom and dad, otherwise known as Esther and Mark Collins. Esther, a big time fashion entrepreneur and Mark, a hot-shot Hollywood director from Malibu, California. Both extremely rich. Both extreme socialites in the snooty society. They couldn't be bothered by their two children, even if I had called, they probably wouldn't have answered. They would have either sent a text that read, Can't talk. Busy. Love you! or they would send a transfer from the bank. They are known for only being parents when in the public eye and send checks to us every month. Cameron and I weren't raised by our parents. We were raised by said piece of paper with numbers on it, and the occasional live-in nanny.
