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“It seems like something one would remember.”
A pause, and then: “Fine.” He nods toward my phone. “What are we supposed to do?”
“It says you’re not supposed to rub your eyes, for one. ‘Wash your face with running water and non-abrasive soap for at least fifteen minutes,’?” I read from Google. “I guess milk can also help with the irritation, or, um, diluted baby shampoo?”
“Perfect, I’ve got a whole case of that back in my dorm. For all the infants living on my floor.”
I fight rolling my eyes. He’s just gone through a traumatic experience. He’s more than earned the right to be sarcastic.
I scroll through a few more pieces of advice before typing in Can you go to jail for pepper-spraying someone? Not that I’m worried. It’s just good to know these things.
“Let’s go back to the dorms,” I say. “We can grab some milk from the dining hall.”
“I’m in Olmsted. Down that hill.”
“Oh. Me too. Guess I haven’t seen you there.” Then again, we did only just move in. “Can you walk okay?”
“Well, I can’t see.”
“Right. Right.” A shaky breath. I don’t need to have one whole panic about touching a human male, even if he’s the only one I’ve touched since Cole Walker on prom night. I definitely didn’t think the next time I touched a guy, it would be because his eyes were burning so badly, he couldn’t walk. “If you put your arm around my shoulders, then I can put mine around your waist? Is that… okay?”
I’m shorter than he is, but my frame is what some might call sturdy and certain members of Zeta Kappa would call thick, so I imagine I can easily support his weight.
“I don’t see another option.”
I decide to interpret that as a Yes, Barrett, please valiantly carry me to safety; I am but a helpless man. And then I realize I haven’t actually told him my name yet.
“I’m Barrett, by the way,” I say as I slide my arm around his back, a couple inches above his belt. It’s a chilly night, but his skin is warm through his T-shirt. Navy, same as yesterday. If the situation were reversed, I’d probably have already soaked my shirt with sweat. “And I really am so, so sorry.”
Miles drapes his arm over my shoulders, though I can tell he’s not putting as much weight on me as he could. I’m not sure whether that means he doesn’t trust me to support him or he doesn’t want to hurt me, or maybe something else entirely. “You’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He shifts against me. And then, after a moment: “Thanks.”
Together we hobble down the hill, our hips knocking together with every step. If I’m not muttering “sorry” between huffs of breath, then he is.
“Partied himself out already, poor thing,” I tell a group of passersby, all dressed up for what looks to be an eighties-themed party. Sweatbands and knee socks and neon. “And before nine thirty!”
“Kicking me when I’m down, huh?” Miles says, but I might hear a half laugh somewhere in there. In between the distaste and humiliation.
And then, an awareness so startling that I nearly drop him: his scent, something fresh and woodsy with just a hint of citrus. I’m not sure what I expected—eau de physics? Does being infuriating have a smell?—but it’s not this.
By the time we arrive at Olmsted, I’m starting to think my sturdiness was not, in fact, doing me any favors. I’m going to be sore tomorrow, I just know it.
Tomorrow.
Please, god, let me have tomorrow. Let it be normal.
I push it away. Focus on helping Miles, righting this wrong, doing this One Good Deed. Based on everything I’ve learned from pop culture, that’s what unsticks people when their timelines hit a snag, right? I can’t linger on that thought for too long without hitting a mental panic button and spiraling into the depths of whatthefuckville, but if that’s what’s happening here, I will good-deed the shit out of this.
After depositing Miles on a couch in the lobby, I rush into the dining hall and buy three bottles of milk, a bottle of water, and a salted chocolate-chip cookie as big as my face as an I’m sorry I sprayed you with a toxic substance gift. Then we shuffle into an elevator, Miles cracking one eye to hit the button for the seventh floor.
“Do you need help?” I ask before he goes into the communal bathroom. For his sake, I hope it contains far fewer opportunities for fungal infection than the one on the ninth floor.
He lifts his eyebrows at me, made all the more menacing by the puffy redness around his eyes. “I think I can manage.”
While I wait, I lean against the wall next to a bulletin board that says JUST KEEP SWIMMING—AND STUDYING! It’s adorned with Finding Nemo cutouts and study tips. Every floor has a different theme, and on the ninth, Paige went all out with candy. On my door, my name was bubble-lettered onto a green Sour Patch Kid. I wonder if she spent time making one for Lucie today. Being an RA seems to involve a very specific skill set: mediating roommate disputes and making construction-paper art.
Ten minutes later, I’m well acquainted with what have turned out to be the most obvious study tips on the planet—#5: Study with friends!—when Miles reemerges, the skin around his eyes less angry. Some of his dark hair is damp, mussed, I assume from all the washing, and when he combs a hand through it, he only succeeds in making it messier.
“Better?”
