Free Inescapable (The Premonition Series) by Amy A Bartol Page B

complicated, Russell. I really don’t know what’s going on. I haven’t had time to think. I just need to think,” I say as I take an aspirin, too.
    Russell stares at me for a few moments, then he says, “Okay, somethin’ happened that ya think ya can’t talk to me ‘bout…I get that…I even get that y’all were raised a bit differently up here than most of the girls I know back home. Y’all are more independent, less inclined to ask for help, even when ya need it—and ya do, Red. Ya need help badly.” I start to deny what he is saying, but he holds up his hand to stop me. His brown eyes narrow a little as he adds, “Now, I don’t know how much help I can give ya. I’m not quite equipped for what’s bein’ thrown at me. But, I’m yer friend, and I’ll do what I can and maybe… when yer ready, ya can tell me whatcha know.”
    When he finishes, I am speechless. He hardly knows me at all, and in the last twenty-four hours he has been subjected to things that would make most people run away in terror. My eyes fill up with tears. I want to hug him, I want to push him away, I want to thank him, I want to protect him, I want to tell him everything, and I want him to stay in the dark about everything.
    “Well, Red, that looks like one hell of a battle ya got goin’ on in yer head. How ‘bout we just go and see if we can get us some books at the bookstore downstairs. That’s an easy enough task to get done for now,” Russell says, coming around to my seat and pulling my chair out for me to stand.
    We walk together to the bookstore. We have little trouble purchasing what we need. It’s fortunate for me that Russell offers to help me with my books because when I have them all, I almost need a crane to get them back to my room.
    “How are we going to get all of these books back, Russell? With your books and my books, we’ll need a wagon at the very least,” I speculate.
    “Naw,” Russell says and starts putting a couple of books in each of our bags. He stacks the rest of the books in a pile haphazardly. Then he picks up the pile and says, “If ya can get our bags, we can walk across the street to Brady Hall, and I’ll run in and drop mine off.”
    I follow Russell out the doors and across the street to Brady Hall. When we arrive at the doors to the lobby, he sets the books on the ground and sorts them. He stuffs my books in our bags, picking up his pile, he asks, “Can y’all wait here while I run these to my room? I don’t think I’ll ever get used to not being able to have any females ‘round. It seems just so unnatural.”
    He’s alluding to the fact that Brady Hall is a men’s dormitory and that I couldn’t even enter the lobby during the weekdays.
    “Ah, so you’re a player,” I say, teasing him about his comment.
    “Red, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that I have two younger sisters who have a passel of friends ‘round all the time. Now there aren’t any. It’s almost disturbin’ not to hear them talkin’ a hundred miles an hour ‘bout nothin’ at all,” he says, smiling at me.
    “Ah, I see. You have sisters? What are their names?” I ask, trying to imagine Russell taking care of two little sisters.
    “If I tell ya, do ya promise not to laugh?” he asks with a quirk of his brow.
    “Of course, how bad can it be?” I ask, frowning at him.
    “Ya asked for it. The one that’s two years younger than me is named Scarlett and the youngest, who is four years younger than me, is named Melanie,” he says apologetically as he waits to see if I make the connection.
    “Russell, how did you escape not being a Rhett or, God forbid, an Ashley?” I ask as I immediately make the literary connection to Gone With The Wind.
    “Well, my dad’s a Russell, so I have him to thank,” he says in relief that I’m not laughing at him.
    “Ah, so you’re a junior,” I say, smiling as the mental image of a nice southern family begins to take shape in my mind.
    What was that like?