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“I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank you, too.” He turns serious, and he might even be inching closer. I wrench my gaze away from his collar and up to his eyes—but that might be worse. His eyes are fixed on me, sweetness and gratitude and something I can’t name. “It’s possible I’ve been… a bit stuck in my ways.”
I hold out my thumb and index finger. “Just a little.”
But what he said—I’ve noticed the shift in him. He’s less stiff, and he doesn’t fiddle as much. He’s still attached to his shell, but occasionally he forgets that he’s lugging its weight around with him. Like maybe he’s needed all of this as much as I have. Maybe more.
His shoe finds mine again, this innocent warmth that I like a little too much. For all I know, he thinks my shoe is the table leg. For some ridiculous reason, I think back to what he said this afternoon. About wanting to make love to someone. My first instinct was to tease him for calling it that, but there’s an undeniable tenderness to it.
Because here is something I’d never admit to him: I might want to make love to someone someday too.
When he half smiles at me, there’s a different weight to it. Now the way he’s looking at me feels heavy, laced with anticipation. My heart is in my throat, thumping an unfamiliar rhythm, and I’m afraid to know how I’m looking at him back.
“I should go,” I say quickly, three words that don’t make sense unless you consider the complicated Miles feelings swirling through my mind.
“Oh—okay.” A furrow of his brows, but he doesn’t question it. He just waits for me to collect my keys and my bag, then follows me to the door like a good host.
“Tired,” I say by way of explanation. It’s a terrible one. “All that scooping took a lot out of me.”
“It should be an Olympic sport.”
“And Ankit will probably be here soon,” I say, because what I really needed was to give Miles another excuse.
“Right.”
I fight a momentary pang of regret as I open the door and glance down the hallway, abuzz with post-dinner activity as people get ready for parties and other college adventures. I’m suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. What do people do with their hands? Just let them hang there? That seems wrong, so I brush an imaginary crumb from my striped sleeve, then reach for the top of the door, even though I’m too short and end up awkwardly grabbing air instead. Jesus, get it together.
I don’t want him to think I’m eager to escape, but he must know me well enough at this point to know my idiosyncrasies, too. Oddball, unpredictable Barrett!
If I stayed, I’d have to unpack what that look might mean, and that’s something better left unpacked, stowed in an overhead compartment, and sent on a red-eye to Switzerland.
“Well—good night,” I say.
“Good night, Barrett,” he says, the words as soft as starlight.
And for the first time, I find myself wishing today didn’t have to end.
DAY NINETEEN
Chapter 25
EVERYONE CALLS DRUMHELLER FOUNTAIN IN the center of campus Frosh Pond because of a decades-ago prank that sparked a tradition of sophomores dunking freshmen in the water. My mom claims she saw it happen one night when she was walking home from a concert, but I’ve never believed her.
I wait across from the fountain, outside the computer-science building. With her flash of blue hair, Christina is easy to spot. Naturally, her gaze sweeps right by me.
“Are you Christina?” I ask, leaping off my bench and hustling to fall in step with her. Bless her for mentioning her three-hour coding class yesterday today, which took five seconds to find online. She nods, dyed-blue eyebrows furrowed. “You’re good with computers, right?” I fight a grimace—this makes me sound like my grandma Ruth asking me to help install Skype on her ancient desktop.
But Christina doesn’t flinch, just stops walking and narrows her eyes. “Who told you that?”
“I, um, heard it around campus,” I say. “I need some help. With a computer issue. An internet-search issue, to be specific.”
Finally she softens, looking pleased that word of her genius has spread. “What are you trying to find? I don’t do anything, like, super illegal.”
Briefly, I wonder where the line is between illegal and super illegal. “Can you find out if something’s been scrubbed from a website?”
“Might be able to,” she says. “I was on my way to the counseling center, but I could be persuaded.” Right—she’d mentioned something about waiting in line. Given it’s two thirty now and I saw her at the Washingtonian at four thirty, it must be one hell of a line.
“For a hundred dollars?”
She grins. “Why don’t you step into my office…”
