Running Away

chapter five: a list of desperate, hopeless idiots

Edited.

F I V E : A LIST OF DESPERATE, HOPELESS IDIOTS.

- Taylor -

By the time I managed to throw Derek out of Devon's apartment, it was well past ten o'clock. It'd been an excruciating hour of constant flirting and sexual innuendoes, which in my defense, I had done my best not to laugh at. Granted, I had teased Derek quite a bit about the incest thing—which, of course, was something he deserved, since he had been stupid enough to believe that I was dating my own cousin—but the amount of irritation he had caused me was just unfair.  

As soon as he left, I sighed in relief.

I grasped the straps of the duffel that I'd brought with me, and attempted to hitch it over my shoulder, but the fatigue that had set in from the seven hour drive had turned my muscles into lead, and I could barely lift the bag from the ground. Swallowing a string of hideous cuss words, I gripped the handles, gritting my teeth out of frustration, and dragged the overstuffed thing to my room. Random articles of clothing were dripping from the unzipped edges, and I had to scoop them back in before tossing the bag onto my mattress, which groaned as the weight of my belongings bounced on it.

Deciding to procrastinate on unpacking for my own sanity, I set out to explore the rest of Devon's apartment. The first door I came to belonged to the bathroom, which was tiny and surprisingly clean, considering there was a college male using it daily. The white tiles beneath my sneakers squeaked as I crossed them to inspect the bathtub, and I found myself leaning on my tiptoes so as to not smudge dirt on them. The shower curtain was patterned with small fish, and I grinned when I pulled it aside and saw the array of flowery soaps, shampoos, bath salts, and conditioners Devon had arranged in the metal rack that hung on the shower wall. Those were kept deliberately separate from his own items—a single bar of soap and a bottle of woodsy shampoo—which were stacked on the edge of the tub.

Satisfied with the bathroom, I spun on my heels and exited out into the hall. Opposite of me, was another door, propped slightly open, a sliver of the room beyond it visible from where I was standing. A laugh gurgled in my throat when I entered, recognizing it as Devon's bedroom without having to use a single brain cell.

There was a large bed crammed against the adjacent wall, decorated with a flaming red comforter that had his name printed across the front in bold, white, block letters. Like my room, there was a desk and a four drawer dresser, but his were in better condition, and painted black to match the pillows on his bed. The walls were adorned with autographed posters of various bands like Fall Out Boy and Linkin Park and Parachute.

I stared in disbelief at the curly signatures that marked the pictures, which had been taped up haphazardly. When I stepped forward to further inspect the one of Fall Out Boy's lead singer, I felt something crinkle under my foot.

It was a list—but not a list of groceries of life goals, or anything that simple and innocent. No, this was a list of girls. A list of girls paired with their phone numbers and a rating out of five—it was absolutely sleazy and disgusting, and I was furious to think that it belonged to Devon of all people.

Devon, who was always there to hear me rant about my parents. Devon, who always made fun of the desperate dumbasses he saw on campus, hitting on sorority girls and striking out. Devon, who had told me he had a steady girlfriend of five months, who he claimed he loved, who he said was the most beautiful person he had ever met.

And yet.

He had this damn list of other women and their numbers and their ratings. It was so unlike him.