After downing the rest of my shot—because I needed all the liquid courage I could get—I staggered down the hallway, fingers gliding against the wall to guide me toward Trevon’s office. I still didn’t know what I was going to say to him. Hell, maybe he wouldn’t even want to talk to me since I reeked of alcohol and was a tiny bit tipsy.
By the time I made it to his office, I was rubbing Mom’s pendant between my sweaty palms and breathing heavy. Scenario after scenario was playing out in my head of how this could all go. Some were bad: Trevon yells at me for being immature by drinking before we talk. Most were really, really bad: I tell him I was going to give him another chance and spend the rest of my life feeling like s**t.
So much for drinking to calm my nerves. That plan went right out
