“Oh, no—” I accidentally bump into another student as I walk to class. “Sorry,” I say flustered, to the guy in front of me. With his airpods in, he doesn’t give me a second glance as he walks away. I glance down back at my screen, smiling at Zach’s last message.
He’s not flirting with me. Not really. He’s just being honest and acting more like the Zach I’ve been missing since high school. Having this distance—far enough away that he can’t hover over me, but close enough that we still text—has started bringing something back between us. Something that got buried underneath all the pressure and expectations.
Our friendship.
He was right to leave me on that cruise; I get it now. We needed the space to get back to us.
Honey:This is exactly why I can’t text you before class.
Zach:Which class are you going to?
Honey:Advanced Fiction Workshop
Zach:At which school?
Honey: Zaaaach.
Zach:Don’t worry. I’ve been doing some research.
Honey:Uh, oh. Nothing good ever came from a jock doing research.
Zach:Did you know that there are 350 colleges in the country that have a dedicated Creative Writing major?
Honey:Your point?
Zach:That’s a lot of schools you could be hiding in.
Hiding.As though we both aren’t choosing this right now.
Zach:I managed to narrow it down by removing all schools in Connecticut, Indiana and Georgia.
Georgia? Why did that make the list?
Zach:Assumed you wanted a fresh start without me on your doorstep. So that leaves me with 200 schools.
Honey:Only 200? Wow. Your investigative skills are really improving, Evans.
Zach:Give me another month and I’ll figure it out.
I don’t doubt he will. I’m just not sure how he’ll react when he does.
Honey:As much as I’m enjoying this conversation, I’m going to be late if I don’t get into class in a minute.
Zach:Fine. Enjoy your class, I’ll continue my extremely serious investigation.
Honey:Go do your job, quarterback. I’ll talk to you later.
I slip my phone into my jacket pocket, hitching my laptop up before pushing through the double doors. The classroom is already half full by the time I get there, and Stevie is already in her seat, scribbling something in her notebook.
“What are you doing?” I ask, dropping into the chair beside her.
She flicks her red hair over her shoulder, tips her glasses down her nose and takes me in. “I’m ranking everyone in this class.”
I place my laptop on the table and laugh. “Based on what? Their seat choice? Because I’ve got a feeling mine might be the worst.”
“Oh, please. This is the best spot in the room. Not only, do we have the best view of the whiteboard, we’ve also got the best view of Professor McFineAsHell’s ass.”
“Stevie,” I hiss, looking around to see if anyone heard her.
