FOURTEEN YEARS AGO
It’s an unusually warm night—even for mid-May in Alabama—the air thick with the acrid scent of beer, sweat, and bad decisions. Sweat causes my tank top to cling to my skin while my hair sticks to the nape of my neck, tendrils springing to ringlets despite the hour I spent straightening it. The opening line of “TiK ToK” by Ke$ha blares through the speakers, and before I’m able to protest, Amanda grabs my arm. She drags me toward the fraternity house patio, where a swarm of bodies dance under twinkling string lights.
While getting ready for the party, I didn’t consider the weather or the amount of bodies that’d be grinding against each other. Here I am, wearing an open-weave sweater with a tank top underneath and a ruffled skirt I borrowed from Amanda. I look and feel cute; however, the sweater is entirely too hot for this weather—plus, the strap of my shoes keep digging into my heels, blisters no doubt forming. I’m dying to slip them off to give my poor feet a break, but I’m already caught up in the movement of the crowd.
Honestly, I shouldn’t even be here. I’m three days out from anasty sinus infection, still popping antibiotics like candy. Graduation weekend means it’s the annual farewell breakfast for the Kappa Pi Art Honor Society, and I need to be up at the ass crack of dawn. But there was no way I could miss one final party. This might be the last time most of us see each other, turning the page of this chapter, moving on to the next phase of life.
When the song ends, another begins, but my feet make themselves painfully known.
“Amanda!” I shout over the music. “I need to rest.”
“What?” she yells.
“Water!” I mime drinking, and she nods, throwing her hands in the air when the chorus hits.
Weaving through the sea of drunk frat guys, one grabs my arm, a cloud of Axe body spray wafting off him. He shouts, “Jo Jo!” but I shake him off.
Nope. Not today, Satan. I’m on a mission to rest my dogs. ’Cause these dogs? They’re barking.
In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water from the cooler and press it to the side of my neck. It feels heavenly against my sweaty skin. Pain twinges in my foot again, interrupting the moment between me and this bottle of water, so I head toward the stairs. I’m here often enough with Amanda to know there’s a library on the second floor where the guys supposedly study. If I’m lucky, it’ll be empty.
Slipping into the room, I plop onto the worn-out couch with the grace of a baby elephant, immediately shedding my sweater, leaving me to cool off in my tank top and skirt. After undoing the tiny buckles on my wedge sandals, I prop my legs on the coffee table with a groan. Eyes closed, I lean back. But when I hear a chuckle, my lids snap open.
Shit. I’m not alone.
So focused on finding a spot to rest, I completely overlooked the fact that in one corner of the room, draped across an oversized leather chair, lounges a guy. And from what I can see of hisprofile, he’s kinda cute. A mop of dark hair looks messy and unkempt, like he’s been running his hands through it. Thick tortoise shell glasses are perched on his nose, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think the library conjured him out of thin air. One long arm is thrown over the back of the chair, a book in his other hand. Every few seconds he turns a page, bringing my attention to his forearms beneath the rolled sleeves of his navy button-down.
I think he’s actually reading the book while the bass notes of “Thrift Shop” by Macklemore thump through the walls. This guy’s totally giving anI’m too cool for this partyvibe.
“You okay over there?” he asks, not looking up from his book. His voice, deep with a southern lilt curling around the edges, has me trying to place where he might be from. Georgia, maybe? Texas?
“I’m fine. Don’t mind me. Carry on.” I wave a dismissive hand. “My dogs were barking, that’s all.”
A beat passes and finally he lowers his book, gaze flicking my way. Okay, wow. Maybe he’s more attractive than I realized. Like nerdy-cute—but cute all the same.
“Your what?”
“My dogs.” Why am I explaining myself to this stranger? Still, I motion to my feet anyway. “My feet hurt.”
Amusement lines the corner of his mouth and he raises his book back up, obscuring most of his face.
I pull out my beat-up Blackberry and type out a text to Amanda, telling her where I am. Once I hit the send button, I set it on the side table next to me.
Heels still throbbing, I slip the sandals off, throwing my feet back onto the coffee table.
“Much better,” I say, my words a sigh.
A short, low laugh sounds from behind the book. Does he want to be left alone? He probably does, or he wouldn’t be up here reading with a full-blown rager downstairs. That’s the polite thing to do, right? Falling silent, I try my best to leave himalone, but dammit, I’m feeling chatty. Sitting quietly has never been my strong suit. Eventually, chatting wins out.
“So…what book ya reading?” I ask, craning my neck to see it more clearly.
Wordlessly, he holds his book so the cover faces me. He’s a good ten feet across the room, but with squinted eyes I can make out the title. It’s an Ernest Hemingway book I was supposed to read for English Lit class, but it was a snooze fest. I’m pretty sure it had something to do with World War I. Honestly, though, I lost interest two chapters in and bought the Cliff’s Notes. I remember exactly none of it.
My idea of a good book includes a happily ever after and a sweeping grand gesture at the end. Being a hopeless romantic, I’ll take Mr. Darcy saying, “You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love you, I love you, I love you.” Give me Gilbert Blythe proposing, not one, but two times to Anne. Hand me a letter with the romantic prose of Wentworth to Anne. But, for fuck’s sake, don’t make me read about war.
“You sit around at parties reading classic literature?”
“That’s what I’d be doing if someone weren’t talking to me.” His eyes are back on his book, but I’m pretty sure he’s teasing. It’s hard to say.
