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My chest squeezes at her concern. It’s nice to have a friend who actually cares.
“Kens, it’s really okay. I hope Levi shows too.” My lips curve into a weak smile.
She sighs, hugging me. “Men are wretched. If he doesn’t show, I’m giving up. We can live together forever, and everyone will say we’re lesbians. We won’t care because then all the men will leave us alone. We can buy a big Victorian house, paint it blush pink, and host spa days on weekends. Okay, maybe I want to do this even if he does show up.” She giggles at herself, and I can’t help but join in.
“Okay, deal, except for the pink house. Let’s buy a vineyard. That’s what I want to do for real,” I say.
She nods her head vigorously, curls bouncing. “What about a pink house on a vineyard? Compromise?” She laughs, waving as we split directions.
I’m still smiling when I walk into Horticulture. I don’t see a blonde head sitting on a broad set of muscles. Maybe he won’t be here. Even if he is, I can sit where I prefer. Claiming my old seat on the front row, I start to unpack my notebook and pens. Maybe I’ll go price refurbished laptops this weekend during the dorm party.
The adorable professor walks in front of the class, and I can’t help but smile at his red-and-white polka-dot bow tie complementing his usual suspenders.
Someone walks up beside me, claiming the seat connected to mine on the right. My skin prickles as I smell the familiar cedar and earth. A flush begins seeping over me, nerves lit up like hot coals in a breeze.
My eyes stay trained toward the front.
After ten minutes, I can’t take it anymore. I release the pressure tensing my muscles, leaning back in my chair. I haven’t taken any notes the entire class, but I begin scratching my pen over the paper, nearly cutting through it. I shove it to my right.
did you have to sit right beside me?
Eyes still trained on the board on the wall, I feel him leaning over the desk, then the paper is pushed back to me.
no.
My gaze zips to his face, and I lose my train of thought.
Honey eyes, dense lashes, and a razor-edge jawline are facing the speaker up front. He looks like he’s been in the sun, skin a shade darker than last week. He’s got on the T-shirt I wore at the beach party, a soft emerald green, molded to his muscled form like icing on a birthday cake. He flexes his jaw, not looking at me. The action sends a bolt of lightning through my body, and I feel an overwhelming urge to touch him…with my tongue.
I bend over the paper instead, scribbling.
then why are you sitting here?
He takes his sweet time responding, apparently enraptured by the lesson about pruning trees. Ages later, he calmly writes on my paper, slowly pushing it over.
because I want to.
Focusing on keeping my breathing under control, I count all the way to one hundred, like the social worker taught me after the first time I had a “violent outburst.”
why?
He must be messing with me, or he genuinely is engulfed in the techniques of treating oak wilt.
A thick, corded arm finally reaches over for the paper, eyes staring at it for a while, before writing. This time, his pen scratches for several endless minutes. He pushes the paper toward me without hesitation.
It’s at least five more minutes before I have the courage to read it, and the professor has just announced next week’s test, gathering his materials to leave. Students are rambling around us, feet shuffling down the aisles.
I like being near you, I like the way you smell, and I ache to feel your body heat. Your skin is magnetic. All I want to do is touch you, but since I can’t do that, I’ll take any opportunity I have to be close to you. I’m addicted to your eyes, your hair, your ink, your mind, your words, even your rejection because at least you still feel something for me. All I do is hurt, knowing you’re not mine. But I can’t force myself to stay away from you. So, if I get the chance to sit by you, I’m always taking it.
My mind is a jumbled tangle of incoherent thoughts.
If I owned one of the smart watches fitness freaks wear, it would show me pitter-pattering into an explosion at any second.
Who spews their feelings out like this, especially after my cold rejection in the alley? Is it truly only the physical desire, or can I believe that he isn’t like every other man who’s attempted to get close to me?
He’s still sitting beside me, and we are the only two left in the room. Head cradled in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, shoulders steadily rising and falling with his breath, he portrays the ultimate picture of vulnerability. I feel overwhelmed with the power I have over his emotional state.
As difficult as it is to admit, his parents are right about one thing. He has the right to be with someone who isn’t running from a past that’s starting to catch up.
