Dead If You Do

Chapter Two

Ancient trees form a thick line along both sides of Woodcreek's drive, stumbling and splitting to form an archway above the road. Streaks of evening sunlight filters through the green canopy, streamlining its way straight to my eyes. The leaves are so thick that the light is clingy, but the little I do get feels warm and golden against my skin.

As we crawl closer to the wide iron gates, I can't stop my foot from tapping against the taxi's grey carpet, and every couple of minutes I have to wipe the sweat from my palms. Too dazzled to care, though, I roll down the window and breathe in the fresh mountain air, trying not to think about all the ways this can go wrong — like how I may have left my welcoming letter on my bedside table this morning.

Somehow, the air's different here than home, where sea salt is encrusted in the wind. Here, as the breeze breathes through the long strands of my newly-dyed brown hair, I can smell a whole magnitude of different things: the sweetness of roses, damp soil beneath the tyres and an earthly scent that tells me it's going to rain.

Something swells in my chest – whether it's a good feeling, I can't tell.

The car rolls past and through the gates – an array of iron bars that raise from the ground to form the image of an angel. I only get a glimpse of it for a second — at the teardrop falling from its eye and the wings that seem disjointed, broken at the ends — before we roll out of sight and up to the main building. That's where I see it.

Banners decorate the space between buildings, welcoming the new Freshman Class, and bright-eyed faces of the welcoming committee smile when they see my taxi appear. I take a deep breath and gnaw at my tongue. In the short gap between entering the driveway and turning up here, I momentarily forgot the distance separating me from home.

Two thousand, one hundred and eighty-three miles, to be exact.

When we first booked the tickets, Mom offered to come with me. Looking back, it would've been nice to have company during the long flight and, if she were here now, she'd know exactly what to say to calm my nerves. I've never been outside my state line before, you see. I'm used to beaches and lakes, so this mountain land is foreign to me.

In fact, the only three things I know about Colorado is what I found on a small pamphlet in the airport: the sun shines three hundred days of the year (clearly this day is not one of them), it is the only state to turn down hosting the Olympics and, last but not least, it lays claim to the invention of the cheese burger. So, all in all, not a bad place to be.

But my heart is still racing, and if this car rolls over one more bump, I'm definitely going to be sick. It's true I didn't want Mom to waste her money. Things are tight enough as it is, with Elliot in NYU and me now at Woodcreek. But right now, as the taxi jolts to a stop, I suddenly want nothing more than her warm presence beside me, telling me what to do and leading me from one place to another.

I step out of the car and look around. Woodcreek College appears just like it did in the brochures, and I take a second to appreciate its elegant stone buildings. In every other college I visited, the buildings overtook the natural site. With silver, metal blocks towering up to the sky every ten steps, you'd be lucky to even see a tree.

But here, up in the mountains, it's the complete opposite. Birds sing from every branch and green ivy climbs up the main building, making it look like an ancient temple, as though I've stepped through a portal to another world.

Turning away, I walk to the back of the cab and open the trunk, pulling at my luggage with a big tug. Dad already paid for the ride, but clearly it wasn't enough for the driver to feel designated to get my stuff out.

The suitcase is heavier than I remember as I pull, almost losing grip of the handle as it flies through the air. My stomach drops as the disaster plays before me; a broken suitcase, clothes splattered all over the ground, and me having to explain why there's a teddy hippo in my bag.

That's if it weren't for a pair of steady hands suddenly gripping the bottom.

Together, the stranger and I place it by my feet. I release a heavy breath, heart pounding against my chest as I look up to say thank you. But whatever words I was going to say die in my throat at the pair of green eyes shining back at me. With hair so dark it's almost black, the guy standing in front of me looks like he belongs in a vampire novel.

Chiselled jawline? Check. Long lashes? Check. Sparkly skin? Well, not exactly.

Spots of rain begin to fall and, out into the mountain, a distant fog climbs over the rocks. Its sombre shadow slowly slides down the hill and, as raindrops seep into my jacket, I pull on my waterproof coat, trying to ignore my racing pulse.

'Welcome to Woodcreek,' the guy says, a ghost of a smile on his lips. 'The weather's usually better than this.'