Dearest Clementine: Tenth Anniversary by Lex Martin EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
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- Authors: Lex Martin
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2.4 MB
- Price: Free
My pen traces mindless circles in the margins of my journal as I stare
out the window of the dusty common room.
This is what I’ve needed to find my footing, I think as I fight the nerves
taking root in my stomach.
Down the hallway, the sound of squeaky wheels is punctuated by a
groan and a thump as luggage hits the floor.
“Wait, what will happen if there’s a fire? We’re on the eighteenth floor,”
one girl says, her vowels long and polite. A Southerner.
A deep male voice reassures her. “I know it’s a hike down those stairs,
but don’t use the elevators. The last thing you want is to get stuck between
floors. I’ll check each room to make sure you’ve evacuated.”
I can’t make out the rest of the conversation until two girls shuffle by
the lounge.
“Holy shit. Our RA is hot!” a girl in a sundress tells her friend as she
lugs an overstuffed duffle bag. “I wonder if he has a girlfriend.”
“He’s a senior or a grad student, dork. He’s not going to be interested in
you,” the other one says, her accent softening her words.
Hitting on the resident assistant, the upperclassman paid to keep an eye
on all of the kids in the dorms, was never my thing. My RA freshman year,
Tao, was five two and into Jesus. Not my scene.
I can’t imagine who would want to be an RA. Tao was always rushing
some poor slob to the hospital with random broken bits. I’ll never forget the
look on his face when he found my friend Sarah passed out, piss-drunk,
with a broken ankle. How she managed to vomit on all four walls of her
dorm room before she went down is beyond me.
Tapping my pen, I shift in my seat.
I’ve spent the last three months trying to get in the zone, grappling with
ideas, but I only ended up with a journal full of manic-looking drawings.
This has to fucking work.
I breathe deeply, the smell of stale Cheetos assaulting my nose.
If I can get into a writing routine again, I can do this. I’ve done it
before.
I keep telling myself the same crap, hoping something clicks. All
summer, I’ve tried to be positive, and trust me, that’s no easy feat.
My knee starts to jiggle, and just as I’m about to go into full-out crisis
mode, a voice startles me.
“Darlin’, now you don’t look like a freshman.”
Turning slightly, I see him in my peripheral vision, leaning in the
doorway. The RA.
“That’s because I’m not,” I say flatly.
“So what are you doing in Warren Towers? I mean, why would you
willingly hang out here? I get paid to be here. What’s your excuse?”
He’s joking. I get it. But I’m not in the mood.
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