Her Swedish Billionaire's Baby(4)
Samara thought about them now, wondered if they were still upset or if the sting was easing or if it was back to business as usual. Truth be told, she wasn’t naïve enough to believe it would actually happen, Samara’s real hope was that her leaving would get through to Dad just how bad things had been for Samara. In her private fantasies, Dad would say, “My God, I’ve made you so unhappy that you’re willing to leave everything you’ve ever known behind with nothing to your name but a couple of changes of clothes?” They would break down and have a big heart-to-heart, and Alison and Dad would drive her to UCLA and come visit whenever they were hustling near the area--even as far away as Nevada or Oregon, maybe. Maybe they’d come this far out of their way just to see her. But of course it hadn’t been like that. Of course. It would never be like that, and that was why she had to leave.
When she thought about them now, all she could imagine was them on the highway in the Cadillac, talking business. When Dad wasn’t concerned about something, he didn’t talk about it, just like he didn’t talk about it when he was upset about it, so even if she was a fly on the wall, Samara would never know how or if her leaving had impacted her dad. She knew it had impacted Alison, and she knew Dad wouldn’t let Alison talk about it, wouldn’t help her feel better about it.
So basically, the one Samara wanted to feel bad wasn’t, and the one she didn’t want to feel bad was. It hadn’t been the dramatic family-dynamic-altering exit she’d hoped for. Then again, nothing in her whole life had been what she’d hoped for ... until she got out of the car today next to the student union , looked around the campus, and knew she’d made her dream of the last four years finally come true. Was it worth it? She hoped it would be ... but whether it was or not, as Dad had made so clear, there was no going back.
Samara sat by herself in the cafeteria that night, which was how she wanted it. She was still feeling fragile emotionally, and she needed time to observe the way the students interacted so she could figure out how to fit in. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to here any more than she could with Alison and Dad, but she could probably at least appear to on the surface.
Sitting there alone, all these excited conversations going on around her, other freshmen so stoked at coming to college just like her, made her lonely. At least she had being excited to be here in common with these other students. The two girls at the next table were bashfully admitting they came from “weird” families, and Samara’s ears perked up. One was home-schooled. “Oh, mine was much weirder,” the other one insisted, finally admitting she lived in a commune. Samara felt better. At least she hadn’t grown up in a commune.
Bolstered by this, and lonely enough to overcome her natural shyness, that evening she joined the group of freshmen gathering in the common room in her dorm, getting to know each other. They were friendly and seemed eager to make friends with everyone in the dorm, welcoming her warmly. Samara sat there, saying nothing, listening closely, as everyone went around the circle answering whatever get-to-know-you question had been posed by a robust girl who had taken it upon herself to be the group’s de facto leader. Samara demurred or answered vaguely, and things seemed to be going well, even when she had to admit things like that she’d been to dozens of high schools and had never stayed in one place for more than a year in her whole life. Her dorm-mates only seemed interested.
All was going well until, talking one-on-one with the girl next to her, she missed the question, and when it came back around to her, she had to ask them to repeat it. “First-person shooters,” said a jock. “Your favorite.”
‘First-person shooters’? Weren’t they all kind of ... first-person shooters? She guessed on rare occasion they’d worked with other hustlers and used more complicated cons that required more than one person to carry out, but ... well, she certainly had sufficient knowledge on the subject to answer this one appropriately, even if she hadn’t even known what they were talking about with some of the other questions. “Um ... well, I guess the .45 I got when I was nine,” she answered, smiling shyly. This brought up a lot of memories. “That was my first gun, so ....”
Something was wrong. They were all staring at her with horror. She thought madly over what she’d said, but she couldn’t identify the problem. “But I like ’em all, you know,” she said amiably, so as not to offend anyone else’s opinions or preferences. “They’re all good for different things. I really like the nine millimeter I got when I was sixteen ....” She trailed off. There was a long, horribly awkward silence. A couple of people exchanged meaningful looks. Here was where Alison would make some brash, inappropriate joke and everyone couldn’t help but laugh, but Samara had no such skill. She looked down, embarrassed, and prayed for it to blow over quickly.