Peeking from my dorm window, I check to see if the quad is well and truly empty. Almost, but there’s one frat stand still up, and I can see smoke wafting from the grill. If I can just snag a hotdogor a burger, I’ll be set. I don’t have the cash or the energy to hit the cafeteria, so this is my only chance.
Pulling on a cardigan, I leave my room, the familiar hallway smell of microwave meals and the faint tang of condoms in the air. It only makes me glad that graduate students don’t have to share their dorm rooms. I don’t think I could take another semester of roommates bringing over strange guys and making animal sounds when I’m trying to sleep. Not that I’m a prude in the strictest sense. I just prize sleep above all else.
If I don’t get eight hours, I can’t seem to function. It’s as if I’m drunk or high or just all-around out of my mind. I’m crabby and rude to the point I’ve often wondered if I have some sort of multiple personality issue. But my shrink assured me I’m just your run-of-the mill high anxiety creative, that my mind feeds on dreams and needs rest.
The funny thing is, she’s right that I need my sleep, but I never dream.
I take a left out the front doors, past the parking lot and onto the path between two hedges. The college isn’t exactly Ivy League, but they manage to keep up appearances by constant landscaping and building every new structure with a Georgian façade. It’s a running joke in the architecture department, apparently.
A few students pass by, most of them laden with backpacks and headed home to the dorms for the evening. I pick up my pace, hoping against hope that there’s at least some sort of food left for me at the quad.
My stomach growls again, and I curse myself for not looking at the time sooner. When I turn past one of the old oaks that linethe large rectangle of perfectly-kept grass, I catch the scent of barbecue in the air. God, yes. Only a few frats are left standing, and I make a beeline toward the one with the grill.
“You pledging?” One of the frat guys snickers as I blow by him.
I would retort, but he’s not the frat guy with the food, so he doesn’t matter to me in the least. I keep going, crossing the center of the quad until I’m standing at the Alpha Psi table.
The guy behind the folding table gives me a look up and down, no doubt taking in my messy bun, reading glasses, and the general disheveled appearance I pride myself on. “Uh, hey.”
“Hey, is there food left?” I’m a cut to the chase kind of gal, apparently.
“We’ve got a few hot dogs. Thick ones,” he says with the required frat boy smirk.
I roll my eyes. “Two please.”
“You can handle two?” His smirk only grows. “At the same time?”
“Just give me the hot dogs, man. I didn’t come here for the sausage fest you’re implying.”
A snicker to my right has me turning quickly. Then I sort of stand still—everything does—because the guy beside me is clearly not a frat boy. He’s more man than boy. Maybe a professor? His dark blond hair and dimples along with deep brown eyes are enough to make anyone stop in their tracks and gawk. And I’m not above it.
“She’s taking the last of the dogs. Sorry, man.” Frat Bro grudgingly serves up the hotdogs for me and points to a sidetable with condiments. “Ketchup and shit’s over there. Hurry up. We’re done for the night.”
I’m still staring at the man who appeared at my elbow, and he’s staring right back at me. This should be awkward. Instead, it’s like two explorers meeting each other in the wilderness, both surprised and somewhat elated to find each other. He’s older by a good bit, the laugh lines etched in his skin somehow at odds with the youthful glitter in his eyes.
“Um, hi, did you want one of my hot dogs?” As usual, I manage to say the absolute dumbest thing possible.
He shakes his head, his hair tousling perfectly as he does it. “I don’t eat dog.”
I roll my eyes. He’s tall and gorgeous, and ofcoursehe’s a total asshole. He’s probably the president of one of the frats with his button-up shirt done casually, the sleeves rolled up, his jeans perfectly ripped at the knees. I bet he models or something. What am I even thinking?
“Excuse me, but I have papers to grade.” Bristling, I brush past him to snag some ketchup before Frat Bro can take it away from me.
“You teach?” He doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by my short tone.
“Yes.”
“What do you teach?”
I squeeze the ketchup onto my hotdogs while I glare up at him. “Composition.”
“Music then?” he asks.
“Are you fucking with me? You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” I slam the ketchup bottle back down on the table. This is why I keep to myself and don’t waste my time with men, even attractive ones.
“No, I’m not.” He keeps looking down at me, and the earnestness in his face makes me reconsider. Maybe he’s just … slow?
I grab the mustard. “Well, I majored in American and British literature with a creative writing concentration, and I minored in Renaissance studies.”
