Page 3 of When We Were Young

I want to leave the small town where Landon and I grew up. Start a new life. One that I control.

I hope I get the chance, because I would be a fool not to consider that my future lies in the hands of how my mom is doing. I’m not sure she can make life work without my sister and me around to help her. After all, we’ve been doing it since we were kids.

Dreaming is the easy part. Whether I can break free of what awaits me back home in Hollow Hills remains to be seen.

Chapter Two

Lizzie

I’m certain tonight is the first time I’ve ever seen him. He’s the beautiful boy—well, technically he’s a man—pacing in the stacks of our university library while talking to himself. He alternates between looking upward and walking with his eyes closed.

Both unwise.

It would be his business, and I could admire him from a distance, except I work here, and it’s time for me to close for the night.

So, I have two choices. Option one: The fastest way is to approach him now and let him know it’s time to pack up for the night. Option two, which logic says is the safer option, is to call campus security and ask them to come hang out while I let the guy know it’s time to leave. The problem with that is it’ll take them twenty minutes to get here, and that’s if there’s no emergency elsewhere on campus.

I’m too wiped out to wait.

Since I don’t know him and he’s acting atypically compared to most college students, it’s a little nerve-wracking. Still, I’ve seen a lot of odd behavior here over the last few years, and I want to get back to my off-campus apartment and crawl into bed. I want to forget this day and my run-in with Landon.

So, I force my feet to move. I head toward the man and approach gingerly as I draw near. I have time to really take him in. He’s tall, well over six feet, with a lean build and tousled brown hair with that slightly wild look many women find hard to resist.

I’ve always been a sucker for a messily attractive man who seems like he isn’t trying too hard. Give me that any day over a man who is well put-together. Maybe it’s because I feel pretty much anything but put-together most days.

Kindred spirits and all that.

When I’m ten feet away from him, he veers off his path. I see what’s about to happen, but I can’t get the words out before he barrels into the display of romance books I set up yesterday. The metal shelf topples over, crashing into another, taller aluminum shelving unit. The air fills with the clash of metal against metal and the thuds of books hitting the ground.

I try not to laugh. I really do. But I fail spectacularly.

“Dang it!”

The words sound like a mixture of frustration and pain, and I finally process that he fell and may have injured himself. God, I’m a jerk for laughing. I rush the rest of the way to him and kneel.

“Shit, sorry. Are you okay? I didn’t mean to laugh. I’m awkward, and I crack up at the most inappropriate times. Probably nerves⁠—”

He pops his head up and looks at me with huge, intense green eyes. Something inside me wants to pause and take a few moments to look deep into them, but I force myself to focus on the situation at hand.

“I’m okay. Shoot, you saw me talking to myself, didn’t you?” He drops his head onto the floor for a minute, then mumbles, “I figured no one would see me back here.”

Before I can respond, he springs off the ground and rights the metal shelves. He must be okay based on how nimbly he rises, though I see him wince for a second as he presses his palm against his hip.

“So, you were aware you were talking to yourself?” I offer him a smile.

I should probably remain cautious, but something about his eyes and his relaxed posture, now that he isn’t wearing a hole in the carpet, increases my comfort level more than it should with a stranger.

He covers his eyes and shakes his head as he releases an exaggerated groan. When he lowers his hands, the sheepish expression he wears is disarming.

“Uh, yeah. God, this is humiliating. I’m sorry. I have a big test tomorrow, and I prepare best by closing my eyes and seeing the material in my head, then repeating it to myself. It’s how I study, but it’s hard to do that at the house.”

His words register in my brain, and alarm bells warn me to distance myself. He lives in the house. I should ask for clarification regarding what he means by “house.” Does he rent a house with a few buddies, or is he talking about a frat house like the one Landon lives in? Because it matters.

My experience in school so far has been that men who live in frat houses, at least the ones I’ve been around, tend to be a bit wilder and freer, less focused on the intellectual side of college. I know that’s probably not fair. But when I was dating Landon, I got my fill of frat life. Landon’s one of the wild ones. I shake my head as if it can make thoughts of him go away.

“Are you okay?”

I peer at him and find him staring at me, concern etched on his face. I have to get better at guarding my facial expressions. I suck at it.