- Present Day -

I am frozen to death.

Why does New York have to be so cold?

I mean it's autumn. Like really?

I'm running across campus in sweatpants, boots, and a puffy sweater. I don't even care if I look stupid. Being late is one of the things I absolutely do not tolerate.

I rush into building 8 to start my late day.

I've been living in New York for only five months now, and my mother still thinks I should've stayed cooped up in that boring ass town I grew up in. She calls me once a week, mostly to make sure I'm staying on top of my work as if I'm still a child.

Our phone calls are never more than 20 minutes. She tells me how work is, asks me about school, and that's it.

"Good morning," Chloe whispers to me as I sit next to her towards the back of class.

Chloe lives in the dorm adjacent to mine, but she constantly comes over and hangs out quite a bit. She's shown me a lot around New York, which has been extremely helpful. What bars are the best, how to get to Central Park with smooth flowing traffic, and even which coffee shop near campus doesn't run out of scones.

She grew up in Jersey and said she used to sneak out of school a lot and take the subway into the city. Mostly for lunch.

"Hey Chloe," I whisper back, shoving my backpack under my desk and pull out my notebook. "What's happening?"

I glance over to the white board and see my professor scribbling things with black marker.

"Um," Her blue eyes go wide. "To be honest... I don't know," She shrugs her shoulders giving me an apologetic smile.

"Lovely," I say sarcastically.

"He told us in the beginning of class we're reading Pride and Prejudice next week, so you missed that," Chloe says, adjusting her gold-rimmed glasses and writing whatever crap is on the board in purple pen.

I roll my eyes.

I was placed in this literature class because I had to take it for elective credits. I never wanted to write twenty-five page essays and read books that are fifty years old. I chose to go down the therapist career, not reading.

Although, I don't hate reading. I just prefer reading a specific genre of books, that's all.

But here I am after spending two hundred dollars in books and materials for a class I not only don't care about, but one that I am normally late to.

Like today.

My professor stops talking and turns around, making direct eye contact with me.

"Miss Ivy, glad you could make it," he says with a smile. I plaster a fake smile back to him, "Hi Mr. Henderson."

"Can you answer my question about the significance behind Gatsby's death?"

I freeze.

Shit. I forgot we were reading The Great Gatsby...

"Well," I start. Wasn't this rich guy shot or something after sleeping with someone's wife? "Gatsby's death is...um..."

"Gatsby's death is symbolic of the American Dream," a guy interrupts me, "Even though George murdered him, Gatsby still carries some of the blame for his death. He took responsibility for Myrtle's death in order to protect Daisy."

My professor's eyebrows raise, "Very well put." My mouth drops. People actually pay attention here?

I lean over to Chloe, "Who's this person?"

She looks over to me, "You don't know? How have I not told you this?" She sighs.

"Carter Osteen. He's insanely rich," she pauses again, "and insanely hot."

I feel my eyebrows raise. "He seems like a kiss-ass," I whisper. Chloe snorts next to me and her eyes widen looking at me again. "He's pretty infamous I heard. And smart. " She flips her auburn hair over her shoulder and scribbles stuff on her paper.

"Are you blushing?" I ask, noticing her pale cheeks turn pink. "No!" She whispers. I put my hands up in surrender looking away. Chloe's dating life was pretty quiet. She appeared timid and shy to outsiders, but around me, she was outgoing and overly positive. I needed her around for my own mental sanity.

"When's lunch?" I whisper. This time she looks annoyed, "thirty minutes. Can you wait that long?"

"No," I mutter under my breath. I start to write down the quotes on the board in my notebook.

"I knew it was a great mistake for a man like me to fall in love." - Gatsby