The Longest Ride

immigrants. Her mother was French, her father was from Slovakia, and they’d arrived in the country with little more than the money they had in their pockets. Though educated – her father was a chemist, her mother a pharmacist – their English skills were limited and they spent years working menial jobs and living in tiny, run-down apartments until they saved enough to open their own delicatessen. Along the way, they had three more kids – Sophia was the oldest – and Sophia grew up working alongside her parents at the deli after school and on weekends.

The business was moderately successful, enough to provide for the family but never much more than that. Like many of the better students in her graduating class, until a few months before graduation she’d expected to attend Rutgers. She’d applied to Wake Forest on a whim because her guidance counselor had suggested it, but never in a million years could she have afforded it, nor did she really know much about the place beyond the beautiful photos that were posted on the university’s website. But surprising no one more than her, Wake Forest had come through with a scholarship that covered tuition, and in August Sophia had boarded the bus in New Jersey, bound for a virtually unknown destination where she’d spend much of the next four years.

It had been a great decision, at least from an educational standpoint. Wake Forest was smaller than Rutgers, which meant the classes were, too, and the professors in the Art History Department were passionate about teaching. She’d already had one interview for an internship at the Denver Art Museum – and no, they hadn’t asked a thing about her role at Chi Omega – which she thought had gone well, but she hadn’t heard back yet. Last summer, she’d also managed to save enough to buy her first car. It wasn’t much – an eleven-year-old Toyota Corolla with more than a hundred thousand miles on the engine, a dent in the rear door, and more than a few scrapes – but for Sophia, who’d grown up walking or riding the bus everywhere, it was liberating to be able to come and go as she pleased.

At the railing, she grimaced. Well, except for tonight, anyway. But that was her fault. She could have driven, but…

Why did Brian have to come here tonight? What did he think was going to happen? Did he honestly believe that she’d forget what he’d done to her – not once or twice, but three times? That she’d take him back just as she had previously?

The thing was, she didn’t even miss him. She wasn’t going to forgive him, and if he hadn’t been following her, she doubted she’d be thinking about him at all. Yet he was still able to ruin her night, and that bothered her. Because she was allowing it to happen. Because she was giving him that power over her.

Well, not anymore, she decided. She’d head back inside and hang with Marcia and Ashley and those Duke boys, and so what if Brian found her and wanted to talk? She’d simply ignore him. And if he tried to interfere with her good time? Well, she might even kiss one of the guys to make sure he knew she had moved on, period.

Smiling at the image, she turned from the railing, bumping into someone and almost losing her balance.

“Oh… excuse me,” she said automatically as she reached out to brace herself. As her hand met his chest and she looked up, she felt a burst of recognition and she recoiled.

“Whoa,” Brian said, catching her by the shoulders.

By then, she’d regained her balance and she assessed the situation with a sickening sense of predictability. He’d found her. They were face-to-face and alone together. Everything she’d been trying to avoid since the breakup. Great.

“Sorry about sneaking up on you like that.” Like Marcia’s, his words were slurred, which didn’t surprise her – Brian never missed an opportunity to tie one on. “I didn’t find you at the tables, and I had a hunch that you might be out here —”

“What do you want, Brian?” she demanded, cutting him off.

He flinched visibly at her tone. But as always, he recovered quickly. Rich people – spoiled people – always did.

“I don’t want anything,” he said, tucking one hand into the pocket of his jeans. When he staggered slightly, she realized he was well on his way to being falling-down drunk.

“Then why are you here?”

“I saw you out here all alone and thought I’d come over to make sure you were doing okay.” He cocked his head, trying