A/N: So, so, so, sooooooo sorry for the long absence! My life has been crazy. I am in the middle of wedding planning with less than four months til the big day! Which has left me with little to no time to write. I hope it will not take me too long to churn out the next chapter. But just in case it does - apologies now!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Thanks again for reading and leaving feedback. I really do love and appreciate all the support and encouragement!

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own SVM or True Blood nor am I affiliated with HBO in anyway. SVM and True Blood belong to Charlaine Harris, Alan Ball and the good people at HBO. I am only using these characters for the purpose of this story. I also don't own Felicity - so please, J.J. Abrams, be kind and don't sue!

Chapter Three: We are Young

"Miss Stackhouse? Hello? Are you with me?"

I raise my head slowly, still feeling dazed after my encounter with Eric. I'm not sure how I got here, but I'm finally aware that a man has been speaking to me for the past ten minutes.

"Huh?" I ask stupidly.

"Am I boring you Miss Stackhouse?"

I stare at him blankly, trying to find my voice. I hesitate for another moment before opening my mouth to speak. I stumble over my words a bit. "Sorry... Mr. Williams, I uh...sorry. I guess I'm just a bit... I'm just a bit overwhelmed by everything," I say, shrugging lamely.

Gran, I'm sitting in this office, somewhere on campus, and it's like I'm paralyzed. But it's not physical. No, it's... it's totally emotional. I mean, I'm sitting here, in this stuffy, hot office, staring at...at I don't know what. Cause you know, I'm not there. Not really. And there's this guy, a counsellor. He's young and handsome and he's asking me all of these questions about my plans and why I'm at NYU and I don't know what to tell him. Because... I don't know why. I don't know why I'm here anymore.

Mr. Williams stares at me, looking decidedly unimpressed with my response. He's in his early thirties, handsome, with coffee-coloured skin and shoulder length dreads, tied back neatly. His eyes are coolly intelligent, assessing. He doesn't respond – just waits for me to continue.

I take a deep, shaky breath and my voice comes out small and insecure. I hate myself all the more for it.

"I, uh... basically haven't really had time to review all the classes and schedules, but, uh... so I'm a little behind. And I guess... uh, I just need a little more time to catch up. Because there's a lot to consider. Now. That I'm here..." I trail off.

I make a lame attempt to laugh, but I just don't have it in me. Mr. Williams stares at me – long and hard.

"If you keep staring at me like that, I'm going to cry," I say. "No, really." Again, a totally pathetic attempt at humor.

"I received a phone call from your parents."

I close my eyes, trying to hold back my tears. "Oh."

"Look, you're not the first student whose parents weren't one hundred percent about their choice of school. They're concerned."

"They're more than concerned. They're insulted. They think I've ruined my life," I pause and stare defiantly at him. I can feel my anger building. But who I was angriest with – me, my parents, Eric – I couldn't tell you.

"Do you think my coming here was a mistake?" And there it is. The question I've been dying to ask, but thought I was too chicken shit to.

He sighs and a somewhat pitying look fleets across his face.

"Honestly, Susannah, only you can answer that. What I can tell you is, New York, the city and the school, it's tough. I won't lie to you. New York can easily devour you. And from my experience, it takes a certain kind of student, an independently-minded student to flourish in this place. Now your parents... well, they seem to imply that... you might not fit into that category," he shrugs, leaning back into his leather chair.

I look off and stare out of the window. A feeling of defeat washes over me. I sigh.

Gran, I feel as though I've lost myself. Like the person I always believed myself to be never really existed. More than once I've had to stop myself from picking up the phone and telling Dad that he was right all along. That I don't belong in New York and I never will. I find myself reading my acceptance letter from Harvard and wondering if it's too late to transfer...

"...they do know me better than anyone," I say.

"Do you have any other interests outside of the law?"

Disheartened, I hand Mr. Williams an old leather portfolio.

"I um... I write. A little. Mainly fiction. Short stories, poems, little observations... that sort of thing. I was in my high school writer's club. It was called Prufrock's. You know, the T.S. Eliot poem. Anyway, my gran, she kind of got me started. She's always encouraged my writing," I say, looking down at my hands. I'm rambling, but I can't seem to stop talking. "My dad... my dad hates it, but Gran... she always said I had talent, a real gift with words," I finish shyly, feeling my cheeks warm up. "That's just some of my stuff... for whatever it's worth."

Mr. Williams flips through the pages in my folio. He looks up and his lips twitch slightly. "I think that's it for right now Miss Stackhouse."

"Right," I say, gathering up my bag and standing awkwardly from my seat. I turn round and head for the door. As I reach for the handle, his voice stops me.

"And Miss Stackhouse," he calls out.

I turn around and face him.

"You're here. You could have taken the road all mapped out, gone to Harvard. But you didn't. You made a choice and that takes guts. It's pretty brave. But hey, that's just my opinion... for whatever it's worth." He leans back in his chair and smiles. "Let's set-up a meeting for early next week. I'll get back to you on this," he says, holding up the folio of my writing samples.

I nod and open the door. "Thanks Mr. Williams." He gives me a final salute and I head out the door.

The rest of the week passes by in a blur. I try and stay busy with official registration stuff. I buy my books and meet with some of my professors. I buy little things for my side of the room: a lamp, a pillow for reading in bed, a shower caddy and flip flops.

I meet people in my dorm. Have conversations. I smile. I hang out with Pam. I laugh. And somehow, I manage not to think too much about Eric, but…

Night is the hardest part of the day. Late at night, when the excitement of the day has passed, lying in bed, alone, with just my thoughts, the pain... Gran, the pain is overwhelming. The heartache, the self-doubt, the sense of failure – it's all there, just under the surface, waiting to devour me. Gran, it cripples me.

So the week passes and before I know it, my first official day of classes has arrived. And despite everything, I'm excited. Well, as excited as a girl racked with self-doubt and numerous insecurities can be, I guess. And you know, the more I think about it, it seems silly to spend so much time languishing over some boy I've only ever spoken to three times in my life (but have been totally infatuated with since I was thirteen). It's like Mr. Williams said, I made a choice – perhaps a rather fool-hardy and impetuous choice, but a choice nonetheless. I could have gone to Harvard, but I chose NYU. More to the point, I chose Eric. And yeah, so he didn't choose me back and it sucks... but, for better or worse – this is my choice.

So I finally stop the pity party. I get out of bed, get showered and dressed. I take one last look at myself in the mirror, take a deep breath and head out the door.

I reach the lecture hall a few minutes before class begins. It's pretty colossal. There are about a hundred seats, maybe more. Students are spilling in from entrances on both sides of the room. I look around searching for a seat when I spy Pam waving at me from a seat in a row near the center of the room. I totally forgot she'd decided to take this class too. I smile and make my way over to her. She scoots over one seat and I sit down.

"Thanks," I say, dropping my shoulder bag and pulling out my notebook and pen. I open my notebook and stare down at the empty lines, letting my mind wander, completely zoning out. It's only when Pam nudges me on the shoulder that I realize the lecture hall is pretty packed and that class is about to begin.

Dr. Winston Keeble, is an affable fifty-something English lit professor, sporting possibly the worst toupee in history. Think Donald Trump and then multiply that by three thousand and you'll get the idea.

"...after we get through with him, Alexander Pope will become your favourite diminutive Catholic English hunchback poet in the whole world."

The entire class breaks out in laughter. Pam chuckles loudly and looks over at me but I'm not laughing. I've just spotted Eric. He's sitting two rows ahead. Pam follows my line of sight and looks at me questioningly.

I feel my heart expand and break all over again. Emotions quickly overtake me and I even try to force myself to look away from Eric, but I can't. I need to, but I'm not able. And despite my little pep talk from this morning, the sight of him sitting there, laughing and carefree, flirting with the busty brunette on his right, completely and utterly oblivious to me, absolutely destroys me.

Soon, the tears come hot and heavy and I drop my head and silently sob.

Alarmed by my sudden breakdown, Pam writes something on a piece of paper and passes it to me along with a tissue.

I look at her for a moment then take the note and tissue. There's concern, but also determination in her pale blue eyes. As if she's made some sort of decision.

Slowly, I open the note and read it.

It says, "YOU OK?" with three check-mark options: "YES", "NO" and "I WILL BE".

I manage a small smile as I blot my eyes. I check two boxes, "NO" and "I WILL BE", then I write "THANKS" and pass it back.

I try to stem the tears, but they continue to fall as I watch Eric whisper something to the brunette. She whispers something back and he rewards her with a flirtatious smirk.

Sensing my increasing dejection, Pam passes the note back. I read it, "DOLLY, IS OUR TEACHER'S HAIR... ON BACKWARDS? WTF?"

I burst out laughing – way too loudly. Everyone looks, including Eric. I try to cover up my laugh with a cough, which sets Pam off and she starts cackling hysterically, which makes me laugh even harder. Tears are streaming down my face, but this time for a totally different reason. It's a struggle for us to keep the laughter down, so in the end we give up. We grab our things and run out of the lecture hall, with Dr. Keeble glaring at our retreating forms.

We step out into the fresh New York air – well, as fresh as a swelteringly hot September day in New York can be – and Pam grabs my hand.

"Come on, Dolly. I'm going to take you to the happiest, most magical place on earth..."

Something tells me she's not talking about Disneyland.

Forty minutes later and we're walking through the shoe salon at Bergdorf's. Pam sighs happily as we plonk down on a soft velvet chaise lounge. She's trying on yet another pair of shoes that cost more than my entire wardrobe. I've just finished giving her the CliffsNotes version of my non-existent romance with Eric Northman and how I ended up at NYU.

"Of course you were crying! How could you not. The guy totally blanked you. I mean, what a knobhead! Seriously, who the fuck does he think he is?" Pam says, outraged on my behalf. The sales assistant gasps at Pam's use of the F-word.

I shake my head, unsure. "Pam, I don't know... I..."

"Here's the deal, Dolly," Pam says standing up and walking to the mirror. She's wearing the Ondine from Charlotte Olympia's spring/summer collection. What? So Pam may have left the latest Vogue lying on her bed and I may have flipped through it while she was in the shower. So sue me...the shoes are pretty... whatever!

"I know you think this Eric guy is the absolute bollocks and all, but he's just a guy, Dolly," she says. "Hot, sure, but totally replaceable." She admires herself in the mirror and looks at the shoes from every angle. Finally she turns round and faces me with her hands on her hips. "Look, I'm not trying to be mean or anything, but you've barely been here a week and you've already decided to chuck in the towel. I mean, WWDPD?"

"Huh?"

Pam rolls her eyes and shakes her head impatiently.

"WWDPD," she repeats. "What Would Dolly Parton Do? Come on get with the program. I thought she was like your hero or something."

"Wait? What? I never said Dolly–"

"Look, Susannah, do you think Dolly Parton would be sitting in Bergdorf's looking like a sad Minnie Mouse?" Pam asks motioning to my outfit.

I look down at the black jeans and red and white polka dot blouse I'm wearing. Paired with my white and red striped Tom's and the black headband in my hair. She sort of has a point. I do kind of look like Minnie Mouse.

"Oh my God," I say, totally embarrassed, hanging my head in shame. "You're right. I'm a sad Minnie Mouse. I'm totally useless," I half whine, half sob.

"Stop that," she says without any pity. "You've wasted enough time and tears on the fucktard. So come on. WWDPD?" she says looking at me expectantly. I open my mouth to speak, but she cuts me off. "I'll tell you what she'd do. Dolly Parton would hoist up her plastic fun bags, put on her tartiest dress, slap on a ton of make-up and hit the town Big Business style."

"I think that was Bette Midler," I say.

"What?" Pam asks, looking at me as if I've completely lost it.

"Bette Midler? I think it was Bette Midler in Big Business, not Dolly Parton."

"Really," Pam asks, surprised. I nod.

"Are you sure? I could have sworn it was Dolly Parton," she mumbles to herself.

"Yeah, definitely Bette Midler. Unless you're referring to Lily Tomlin, but again, not Dolly Parton," I say.

"Really?" I nod again.

"Bette Midler? Really?" she asks again, still disbelieving.

"Yes. Bette Midler," I say exasperated.

"Bette Midler?"

I just stare at her.

Finally catching on to my mood, Pam turns her attention back to the topic. "OK, OK, whatever. The point I'm trying to make here is that you're young, free and in New York City. And despite the fact that you're currently dressed like you're auditioning for the Glee Project, you're actually pretty hot."

"What? No. Hot? No... no way.." I say shaking my head and blushing furiously. But Pam's having none of it. She grabs me by my arms and forces me onto my feet. She pushes me forward and makes me stand in front of the mirror while she stands behind me.

"God! Has it really come to this," Pam sighs heavily. "OK, we're totally about to have a Rom-Com moment here and I will kill you, Dolly, if you tell anyone we did this... but you need it, and I'm trying to be a good friend, so here goes." Pam's eyes lock with mine in the mirror.

"You're gorgeous. OK, like seriously gorgeous. Even though your clothes are awful and you could do with a better haircut and–"

"Pam!"

"Right. All I'm saying, Dolly, is that you're an attractive girl. You also happen to be smart and oddly funny. And the whole southern belle thing you got going? Total hard-on for guys. I mean seriously, Dolly, have you seen the amount of guys that have come sniffing round since the semester started? They're not all there for me, I'll tell you what."

"You're nuts," I say, but a small part of me really wants to believe her. "I know you're just saying these things to be nice and make me feel better. And I appreciate it... really, I do, but–"

"Hey," Pam interrupts. "I know we've only known each other like a week, but I think you've been around me long enough to know that I don't do nice. I don't lie and I definitely don't do gushy girl moments in Bergdorf's. So if I tell you that you're hot, then you're hot."

I just look at her for a moment in the mirror and the look on her face says it all. She means everything she's just said. I turn suddenly and hug her tightly. She's stiff at first, but slowly, I feel her arms go round my back.

"Thanks," I whisper, before pulling away. "You are a good friend. The best."

Pam looks away slightly embarrassed before speaking. "Yeah well….enough…OK," she says, laughing nervously. "So this is what's going to happen. We're going to head back to campus. I'm going to lend you something fabulous to wear and doll you up. There's a party over at some senior's apartment tonight and we're going."

"But Pam, I have class tomorrow," I protest weakly, already feeling the excitement building.

"Class my ass! We're going out, no excuses. You're in New York, Dolly. Live a little."

%%%

My dearest Sookie. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you. My old bones ain't what they used to be and it takes me a little longer to write out what I want to say to you. You know, honey, when your heart gets broken... you start to see the cracks in everything. When your Grandaddy was taken from me, I hated the world. The love of my life was gone. I was a young woman, barely thirty. I had two small kids to care for. It didn't seem very fair. I was so angry, for a long time. When heartache comes, it's so easy to lose yourself. To let your heart harden. But I say, my beautiful girl, don't you let it... don't you let it...

"I don't know about this Pam..." I say, staring at myself in the mirror. "I mean, I don't even look like me."

Pam has spent the last four hours primping me and it shows. I'm wearing a little white number that Pam pulled out of her caravan of dreams, formerly known as our closet. The dress is tight across the body, one-shouldered and hits just above my knee. My hair, which I normally wear pulled back in a neat ponytail, has been curled into fat waves and spills loosely down across my bare shoulder. Pam has kept my make-up minimal but dramatic: barely blushed cheeks, nude gloss on my lips and dark eyes for maximum impact.

Pam is standing beside me. She's wearing a tight, red body-con dress and lethal looking gun-metal stilettos. Her hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail and her lips are painted blood red. She looks amazing, definitely like someone who knows what they want and aren't afraid to get it.

"Nonsense, Dolly," Pam says. "You definitely look like you...just a... sexier, slinkier version."

"You mean better," I counter.

"No," she says. "Not better. Just different. Good different, confident different." She disappears into the closet.

"Well, I don't feel confident," I mumble fidgeting with the hem of my dress.

"That's because..." Pam says stepping out of the closet with a pair of candy apple red peep-toe heels with wide red crystal stems in her hand. They look absolutely beautiful and definitely deadly. "You haven't put these on yet."

"Uh-uh, no way," I say shaking my head vigorously. "I'm not... Pam... I can't wear those!"

"You can and you will. They're Brian Atwood and they are fabulous."

"I don't care how fabulous they are. I'll fall on my ass – or worse, break my neck trying to walk two steps in those."

"Dolly, you aren't going to fall. Do you honestly think that I'd even let you touch my clothes or shoes if there was even the remotest possibility that you could ruin them?"

I realize that I'm not going to win this argument, so with a defeated sigh I say, "No."

"Well, OK then." Pam says, smiling brightly. "Look, everything's going to be OK. We'll have fun, dance, hopefully pull a couple of smokin' hot guys. By then end of the night you won't even remember Fuckface."

Pam's trying so hard to pump up my confidence that I can't help but laugh at her.

"You know what? You're right. Fuck... Fuckface!" I shout.

"Fuck him!" Pam answers.

"Tonight's about me… and New York… and being young and… having fun!" I say, more to myself than Pam. "So, I'm going to go out and have fun."

"That's the ticket," Pam says smiling. "Now let's get smashed!"