Small Town

I’m sorry,” she blurted as she took her phone.

“Pretty sure it was my fault—I was looking back and ran right into you.” He grinned, extending a hand before noticing her arms were full. “Chase.”

She juggled her things, giving him a quick, apologetic smile. “Gemma. But I really have to go—I have, like, ten minutes and no idea where I’m going.”

“Ah, a freshman,” he teased gently. “Good luck, Gemma.”

She laughed, a little breathless. “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

“Thanks, Chase—gonna need it!” she called over her shoulder as she hurried off, heart pounding, already late.

The first week was like any first week—chaos. Lost rooms, unfindable classrooms that only seemed to appear after she finally broke down and asked for directions. Snack machine doughnuts, cafeteria food that was sometimes edible, and lots of shared laughter with Freddy.

She spotted Chase only once more in passing midweek. He nodded at her with that dazzling smile, and she found herself smiling back before hurrying on to her next class.

And when they weren't in class, Freddy kept Gemma moving—clubs, freshman mixers, midnight food runs. By Friday, Gemma was running on empty.

Saturday morning, Gemma woke to her phone buzzing. It was a text from Freddy: Heading out thrifting with some friends, wanna come?

Gemma stared at the screen. She wasn’t about to crawl out of bed for a buy-one-get-one sale on used clothes. Nothing against thrift stores—half her wardrobe was secondhand—but she wasn’t going to sacrifice a slow morning for a bargain. She rolled over, ignored the invitation, and drifted back to sleep.

Freddy marched in that afternoon, a whirlwind of energy, her glitter eyeliner sparkling and a grin that spelled nothing but absolute trouble. “We’re going out.”

Gemma groaned as she sat up. “Again?”

“Yeah, again! This is college, Em, not a retirement home.” Freddy tossed her a grin that left no room for argument—they were definitely going out.

Freddy was already digging through Gemma’s closet, shoving hangers aside. “And for God’s sake,” she called from inside, “we are giving that oversized sweatshirt a rest tonight. I swear, Em, you put that on the second you walk through the door every day.”

“I can’t help it,” Gemma said, tugging at the hood strings. “It reminds me of home.”

Freddy popped her head out from the closet, one eyebrow arched in wicked amusement. “Home? Or the tattooed biker your emotional support sweatshirt actually belongs to?”

Gemma grabbed the nearest pillow and tossed it at her. Freddy dodged, sticking her tongue out. “Missed me, missed me, now you have to kiss me!”

Gemma flopped back on her bed, laughing. “Oh my god, Freddy, I haven’t heard that since like the fifth grade.”

Freddy grinned. “How about—eww, cooties? Now hand over the shirt, and no one gets hurt.”

She emerged victorious, holding up a soft, dark green crop sweater and a pair of Gemma’s favorite fitted jeans. Tossing them onto the bed, Freddy turned her critical eye to the floor of the closet, clearly searching for the perfect shoes to complete her masterpiece.

“Wait,” Freddy said, frowning at the neat line of sneakers, flats, and sandals. “You’re a country girl from Oklahoma and you don’t own a single pair of cowboy boots? Is that even legal?”

“Not everyone in the country wears cowboy boots,” Gemma replied, rolling her eyes. With a reluctant sigh, she pulled Toby’s sweatshirt over her head—only then realizing it still smelled like him. She slipped on the green top Freddy had tossed from the closet.

“I lived on the edge of town anyway, not on some big country farm with pigs, cows, and jackasses.” She paused, cocking her head in mock thought. “Well, unless you count Kyle. He’s a jackass sometimes.”

“Does it really even count as a town if you only have one grocery store and you can see all four borders from your yard?” Freddy teased.

“Hey, we had a grocery store and my brother’s bar,” Gemma shot back, sticking her tongue out. “Everybody knows everybody. It’s a small town, not the deep country.”

Freddy ignored the technicalities, finally unearthing a pair of shoes she deemed acceptable and tossing them at Gemma’s feet. “Put these on and then sit. Let me do that hair.”

Gemma obediently sat on the edge of the mattress while Freddy went to work, her fingers nimbly weaving Gemma’s dark hair into a tight, neat French braid.

“Perfect. Now, wait,” Freddy commanded, stepping back to admire her handiwork. She dug into her overflowing makeup bag, pulled out a spray bottle, and shook it vigorously.

Before Gemma could even ask what it was, a fine, cold mist of body glitter rained down over her shoulders and hair.

“Freddy!” Gemma sputtered, waving her hands through the sparkling cloud.

“The belle of the ball has to sparkle, Em,” Freddy said matter-of-factly. She looked at the can, shrugged, and then aggressively sprayed herself in a thick cloud of shimmer. “Besides, a lot of glitter never hurt anybody.”

Laughing, Freddy grabbed her phone, marched over to the door, and pulled it open, flashing a dangerous, glittering grin over her shoulder.

“Come on. Let’s go wreak some havoc.”