Chasing Serenity (Seeking Serenity) Read Online Free
Author: Eden Butler
me.
“I know,” Layla says over our friends’ loud protests. “I told him he was an idiot. He didn’t like that, started lecturing me about what’s best for the squad. That man doesn’t care about anything but getting to regionals. If that means putting Tucker back in as captain, he’ll do it.”
“No loyalty in rugby, I suppose,” Mollie says.
“You’re too quiet,” Sayo says to me. There is a smile on her face and faint creases wrinkling her mouth. She had been the first person I called the night Tucker left. She was at my apartment within minutes and vowed that if she ever saw Tucker Morrison again, she’d knock him out. It’s something best friends do. Especially when their friends have their hearts ripped out of their chest by their boyfriends.
“I’m fine. It’s been a year. I’m over it, really.” I don’t know if she believes me and I wonder if Sayo remembers that night as clearly as I do. He’d been demanding, much more than normal and in my mind I hear him, expecting, assuming. “You need to pack. We’re going to Europe so I can try out for Nationals.” He never asked what I wanted. My life was secondary to his. Always. When the wrinkles amplify around Sayo’s mouth, I smile, try to reassure her that I am not still pining over my ex. “Hell yes. I want to beat that smug bastard’s time.”
“Sweet.” Sayo’s smile is wide and we all become a collection of happy, confident laughs.
“Let’s get to it then,” Mollie says and I follow my friends as we continue down the road.
My steps are slow, but I fight through the limp and the searing cramp that threatens to stagger me. I wince each time my foot lands on the street, but ignore the pain, the aching thud that runs up and down my calf.
The climb ahead of me will be slow, stinging, but I’ve got my girls, I’m stubborn as hell and no amount of limping or drunken rugby assholes or returning ex-boyfriends is going to stop me.
Two
Dr. Nichols is a pervy sadist. My thesis advisor is so near to retirement, so uncaring about his obligations that he’s loaded me with his morning classes three weeks in a row. It’s an eight a.m. class. I don’t believe “covering for your hung-over adviser” is a part of my assistantship responsibilities. In fact, I’m certain it isn’t. Still, I’ve discovered that letting him have his mornings gives me a reprieve from his attentions. It’s preferable to him being in and out of my office all morning.
He cornered me last night just as I was leaving campus to ask if I’d take his morning class. He stared at my face for a full minute, then he ogled my breasts. He does that even when I’m not half naked.
I don’t mind taking his classes in general, but I prefer Shakespeare and Fantasy to Nichols’ World Lit class. Besides, the fraudulent air of the students doesn’t make me eager to enter the classroom early. They speak in half-truths, with mock sincerity as though every syllable that leaves their mouths is littered with lie after lie. I remember what it was like to sit in front of a teacher. Uncomfortable, frustrating, sometimes boring. Though, my experience was a bit different.
Sayo and I competed academically. She focused on Library Studies, her dream to be Library Director before she was twenty-five, easily accomplished earlier this year. I finished my B.A. at twenty, am still working through my M.A. in English Renaissance Literature while my best friend gloats about being done. This group of students, though, never pays attention, never gets excited about the work and even if I am complete fraud, teaching a subject that isn’t my concentration, I’m capable enough to get the point across. But it’s not like they’d notice.
Nolan Hall makes the sting of waking up this early less biting. This building is at least a hundred years old. Ornate wood paneling surrounds the walls and plush red runners cover the marble floors. It even smells old, not like the bitter stench of
“I know,” Layla says over our friends’ loud protests. “I told him he was an idiot. He didn’t like that, started lecturing me about what’s best for the squad. That man doesn’t care about anything but getting to regionals. If that means putting Tucker back in as captain, he’ll do it.”
“No loyalty in rugby, I suppose,” Mollie says.
“You’re too quiet,” Sayo says to me. There is a smile on her face and faint creases wrinkling her mouth. She had been the first person I called the night Tucker left. She was at my apartment within minutes and vowed that if she ever saw Tucker Morrison again, she’d knock him out. It’s something best friends do. Especially when their friends have their hearts ripped out of their chest by their boyfriends.
“I’m fine. It’s been a year. I’m over it, really.” I don’t know if she believes me and I wonder if Sayo remembers that night as clearly as I do. He’d been demanding, much more than normal and in my mind I hear him, expecting, assuming. “You need to pack. We’re going to Europe so I can try out for Nationals.” He never asked what I wanted. My life was secondary to his. Always. When the wrinkles amplify around Sayo’s mouth, I smile, try to reassure her that I am not still pining over my ex. “Hell yes. I want to beat that smug bastard’s time.”
“Sweet.” Sayo’s smile is wide and we all become a collection of happy, confident laughs.
“Let’s get to it then,” Mollie says and I follow my friends as we continue down the road.
My steps are slow, but I fight through the limp and the searing cramp that threatens to stagger me. I wince each time my foot lands on the street, but ignore the pain, the aching thud that runs up and down my calf.
The climb ahead of me will be slow, stinging, but I’ve got my girls, I’m stubborn as hell and no amount of limping or drunken rugby assholes or returning ex-boyfriends is going to stop me.
Two
Dr. Nichols is a pervy sadist. My thesis advisor is so near to retirement, so uncaring about his obligations that he’s loaded me with his morning classes three weeks in a row. It’s an eight a.m. class. I don’t believe “covering for your hung-over adviser” is a part of my assistantship responsibilities. In fact, I’m certain it isn’t. Still, I’ve discovered that letting him have his mornings gives me a reprieve from his attentions. It’s preferable to him being in and out of my office all morning.
He cornered me last night just as I was leaving campus to ask if I’d take his morning class. He stared at my face for a full minute, then he ogled my breasts. He does that even when I’m not half naked.
I don’t mind taking his classes in general, but I prefer Shakespeare and Fantasy to Nichols’ World Lit class. Besides, the fraudulent air of the students doesn’t make me eager to enter the classroom early. They speak in half-truths, with mock sincerity as though every syllable that leaves their mouths is littered with lie after lie. I remember what it was like to sit in front of a teacher. Uncomfortable, frustrating, sometimes boring. Though, my experience was a bit different.
Sayo and I competed academically. She focused on Library Studies, her dream to be Library Director before she was twenty-five, easily accomplished earlier this year. I finished my B.A. at twenty, am still working through my M.A. in English Renaissance Literature while my best friend gloats about being done. This group of students, though, never pays attention, never gets excited about the work and even if I am complete fraud, teaching a subject that isn’t my concentration, I’m capable enough to get the point across. But it’s not like they’d notice.
Nolan Hall makes the sting of waking up this early less biting. This building is at least a hundred years old. Ornate wood paneling surrounds the walls and plush red runners cover the marble floors. It even smells old, not like the bitter stench of
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