“If all you wanna do is read, why’d you come?”
Silence greets my question and I think he’s ignoring me. That’s fine and dandy. Not everyone is an open book like me. Grabbing my phone to play a round of Tetris, my hand stalls when he speaks again.
“My roommate brought me. His cousin’s graduating and we came for that.” He doesn’t glance up as he’s talking.
“You don’t go here?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Where do you go?” How far can I poke at this guy before he either gives in or finds somewhere else to read? He closes his book, probably to do just that, but instead he rises, up, up, uplike an oak tree. Slowly my head tilts to follow his movements. Damn, he’s tall.
“Mind if I sit with you? If we’re gonna talk, I’d prefer to be closer.”
My jaw goes slack and I nod.
He strides across the room to the couch and folds his tall frame onto the other end. Once settled, he leans across the arm and flips on the floor lamp.
“I’m from a tiny town you’ve never heard of in Texas. I go to UT. My roommate dragged me here. He and his cousin wanted to come and they thought it would be good for me to get out…any other questions?” Tilting his face toward me, his brows rise, punctuating the question with a half-realized smile.
My second guess was correct: Texas. I fall silent, dozens of other questions buzzing in my mind. Why would it be good for him to get out? What’s he majoring in? I’ve always been called nosy, but I like to think of myself as endlessly curious. I love learning about people and have no desire for surface-level talk. Words of wisdom your grandmother spoke on her deathbed? Spill it. Your thoughts on string theory? I’m all ears.
Finally, I land on a safe question to get him talking. “Tell me about the book you’re reading. What’s it about?”
He closes it, eyes roaming the front cover. “It’s about a World War I defector and his love for his nurse who winds up pregnant.”
“So it’s a romance?”
“Definitely not. It’s actually a tragedy…and quite sad.”
I pull a face. “That doesn’t sound fun.”
“Not everything has to be fun.”
“Said every person who doesn’t know how to have fun,” I tease.
Another one of those low chuckles rumbles, wrapping around me like velvet and something warm unfurls in my belly. He turns to face me, and with the lamp on I can see him clearly. I do adouble-take at what I see. Behind those thick-framed glasses are the most unusual eyes I’ve ever seen. Not quite hazel, not quite green. Like honey shot through with sunlight, speckled with a forest floor. My fingers itch for my paints, to mix various shades and paint them to canvas until I’ve committed the color to memory. Maybe I’d use a golden ochre mixed with burnt umber. And once dry, I’d add in striations of olive green. Also, they’re unfairly framed by lashes so long I’m shocked they don’t brush the lenses.
He sets his book down between us like he’s willing to chat, so I take another stab at conversation.
“What’s your major? Wait, wait, wait—lemme guess.” My lips purse and I tap my chin. “Accounting.”
He shoots me a flat look. “Accounting. Really?”
I gesticulate like his very presence explains that assumption.
“I see. You assume I’m boring?” Again with the teasing tone.
Gasping a laugh, I say, “I didn’t say that, you did! But,” I add, tapping his book with my index finger, “you’re reading a sad book about war. At a party.”
He lifts a shoulder. “I can assure you, I’m not boring. This just isn’t my scene.”
That’s fair. A frat party isn’t for everyone. Feeling bad for the insinuation, I rush to bring the conversation back on track. “Well, tell me what it is then.”
“Music management.” He delivers this response with a smirk.
Well, shit. That’s not at all what I expected. English or history even, but not music management.
“But I did start off in accounting,” he admits, a sheepish grin pulling at one corner of his lips.
