On the walk away, I try to diagnose the feeling. Maybe he’s just… not my type. Although, I didn’t realise I had a type.
Blonds are your type.
No, they’re not. One blond is.
I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and aim for the library lights, telling myself I’m choosing work because I want to, not because I’m constantly panicking about falling behind. I’ve found the step up to university work harder than I realised I would, but everyone else just seems to take it in their stride.
On the way up the hill, I fish my phone out. The message I ignored was from Flo, and I try to ignore the twinge of disappointment that it’s not from Sam.
Flo:How’s Cam? Don’t pretend you’re not on your phone.
I send back a photo of my nose going red in the cold and type:He’s nice!Then stare at the exclamation point like it’s the kiss of death.Niceis a terrible word.Niceis a tepid bath.
But, it isn't always a bad word. I always describe Sam as nice. But he’s nice likesteady, like he remembers how I take my tea and knows exactly what song to play when I can’t find the words for how I’m feeling. Nice like the hug you want at the end of a hard day. Cam’s nice likepolite, like a well-written email.
The library’s warm and smells faintly of dust. By some miracle, I find a fabled level three booth and spread out my stuff like a tiny empire: laptop, highlighters, a stack of papers with corners chewed by my backpack. I set a timer for twenty-five minutes and open the document, but my heart’s not in it.
Do you have hobbies?Cam asked.
I imagine telling him the whole truth instead: Yes, I obsessively watch competitive swimming, including races that are going on in America. Yes, hanging out with my best friend when he’s in the country. Yes, sometimes my ‘hobby of the day’ amounts to the number of flashcards I can cram into a brain that’s startingto feel overfull.
Sam?Cam asked.
Yes, my best friend with hair the colour of honey and a life an ocean away. I miss him so much.
Timer: 11:36.
I shake myself out of the thought spiral. I can’t believe I’ve been staring into space for the last fourteen minutes.
I start formatting my document and get irrationally pleased when the columns line up properly.
I set another timer because the first one ended and I still haven’t finished this paper.
By the time the lights flicker, I’ve written the methods, half the results, and convinced myself I can be the kind of person who does everything. My eyes burn. I save the document three separate times because I don’t trust any of my devices or myself.
My phone buzzes as I’m zipping my bag.
Sam:If you’re still up, go to bed. Imagine how much of a gremlin you’ll be if you have less than 7 hours sleep.
I huff a laugh.
Me:Who told you I was still in the library?
Sam:Any good pirate knows.
Me:Bossy.
Sam:Got to make sure other pirates get enough sleep. Rule 76 of the pirate’s code.
I smile.
Me:Since when did the code gain 50 more rules? And where can I find an updated copy for my records? Though we both know it’s more of a guideline.
Sam:If I can get it through airport security, I’ll bring it to you the next time I see you. Night, KitKat.
Sam:Proud of you.
I stare at the screen a second longer than I should, warmth uncurling under my ribs.
