Part Eleven

You Will Find Your Way

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Part Eleven of You Will Find Your Way
Welcome to Tate College

Present Day

“And what the hell is this?”

Giselle snorts, punches Dallas’ arm, “It’s our house!”

Dallas turns her scowl to the three-story townhouse that Tate College has allocated for Giselle to live in. It’s massive—befitting someone who has two or three PhDs—light walls and dark accents, and surrounded by an iron fence that reminds her of that house from the television show where the irresponsible law students keep killing their classmates and their terrifying professor overworks herself trying to keep them out of jail.

Or something like that.

They never really used their mediocre Wi-FI access to watch TV back in Blythe.

“It’s,” still glaring, Dallas flaps a hand in the general direction of the monstrosity. “It just, it is.”

It’s difficult to make words work when all Dallas can think of are the memories of the searing pain between her legs, the blur of mouths biting into her breaths, and Dallas shudders hard, crosses her arms over her chest and counts ten leaves and ten branches on the giant oak tree that someone decided it was a good idea to plant out in the front yard.

Because of the aesthetics, probably.

Giselle drops their duffel bag on the sidewalk next to Dallas, snorts and rolls her eyes, “That made less sense than you usually make. Than I usually make. What’s with you?”

Dallas is sure that the baleful glare she sends Giselle’s way explains exactly what’s with her, and when Giselle frowns and shrugs, she figures she made her point, “Yeah,” she mutters, turns her narrowed gaze back to the house. “That.”

“Have I told you today that I appreciate you coming? I really do.”

Dallas sighs.

It’s easy to ignore the gaggle of movers that are heaving heavy boxes from the moving truck and into their freaking house, and Dallas shrugs, grabs the duffel and flings it over her shoulder. It’s heavy, probably full of the books they picked up from Giselle’s storage unit in Culver City, and Dallas lists to the side a little before she regains her balance, sets her feet a little further apart, “They really expect you and me to live here?”

Giselle grunts as she hefts their suitcase from the back of the car, “They expect me to live here, and because you came with me, you get to live here too. You know off-campus housing is shitty. I can’t believe you don’t remember that they have allowances for the staff and administration.”

“Yeah well, the only times I forget things are when I actively try to do it. Like all of this,” she mutters, and then yelps when Giselle accidentally—well, it was probably an accident—rolls the suitcase over her foot. With a roll of her eyes, Dallas shifts her grip on the duffel and follows her inside, “Sometimes, I really miss my tent.”

The inside of the house is just as Dallas thought it would be, full of rich, dark wood accents and comfortable but simple furniture. She glares down at the patterned carpet that stretches from one end of the foyer to the entrance of the living room, just because she can.

Giselle’s snort echoes from the direction of the kitchen, and it’s going to take Dallas a few days to figure out how the vibration patterns rattle through the rest of the house. She probably won’t settle until she does.

“You talking about the tent in the scary alien dimension that tried to kill you on a daily basis for what, seven years?”

“It was only five,” Dallas grumbles, looks around and glares at the tasteful art lining the wall behind the staircase that leads to the second floor and beyond. “No one judged me this much in that tent.”

Giselle pokes her head into the hall, “Are you sure you haven’t gone senile? Because I’m worried about you,” she says, but she’s definitely grinning, so it’s not like it’s real concern.

“You know what they say about distance from an event making the heart go fonder, or whatever the saying is.”

With a roll of her eyes, Giselle walks over to a box labeled ‘Books! One of Twenty Thirty?’ and tears it open, “That’s not even close to what the saying says.”

Dallas’ scowl remains firmly planted on her face and she is not about to do a damn thing about it, “Whatever.”

After a second, Giselle drops a heavy reference book back in the box and walks over to her, “Look,” she puts a hand on Dallas’ arm. “I get it, it’s going to be tough. Just do us both a favor and pull your head out of your ass.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dallas crosses her arms tight over her chest. “I think I need some time alone.”

Giselle’s face softens, and she nods with her chin to the stairs, “There’s a bedroom in the attic.”

“Then I’m going to the attic. Dibs.”

You Will Find Your Way continues with Part Twelve

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Author: TheFakeRedhead

A life-long college sports fan and forever bitter about the country's east coast biases, Kathryn, the Fake Redhead, graduated from the University of Arizona with a BA in Creative Writing, emphasis in poetry because she felt the fiction studies emphasis was too pretentious. She is currently helping other writers hone their craft while she pursues her dreams of becoming a published novelist.

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