Cinna and I barely make it out of Whitmore Hall when a voice cuts across the courtyard.
“Finally! I’ve been waiting for like ten minutes. My coffee is basically ice at this point.”
Aubrey is sprawled on one of the stone benches near the fountain, her combat boots propped on the edge like she owns the entire courtyard—which, knowing Aubrey, she probably believes she does. Her dark hair is in its usual messy bob, the orange streaks looking like tiny flames, and she’s wearing a vintage Chanel jacket over ripped black jeans because Aubrey has never met a fashion contradiction she didn’t want to commit to.
“You could’ve texted,” I say, dropping onto the bench beside her.
“Could have. I chose drama instead.” She takes a pointed sip of her iced coffee, amber eyes flicking between me and Cinna. Those eyes make me think of a wild fall meadow, the way the green undertones shift under the yellowish hues depending on the light.
Cinna settles on Aubrey’s other side, graceful as usual. “We got caught up talking.”
“Oh you always do, Cinna.”
Cinna sticks out her tongue and Aubrey laughs.
“It’s a compliment,” Aubrey says.
“Is it, though?” I ask.
“Yes, take it,” she says to Cinna.
I met Aubrey freshman year, in the campus dining hall of all places. She’d been in a loud argument with some guy about whether theater counted as “real art” compared to visual mediums, and I’d accidentally made eye contact while trying to find a seat. She’d immediately pulled me into the debate as her witness. “You. What’s your major?”
I glanced around, hoping she was jabbing her finger at anyone else. She wasn’t. “Um, painting?”
“Oh, perfect! Tell this pretentious asshole that performance is just as valid as his precious canvases.”
The guy did look like a pretentious asshole, but I don’t really like confrontation. So I’d said, “I mean, I mostly just wanted a sandwich.”
She’d laughed so hard she’d snorted, and we’ve been friends ever since.
Our friendship isn’t soft the way mine and Cinna’s is. Aubrey doesn’t do soft. She does loud, and she’s loyal in a way that feels like being tackled rather than hugged. I love her for it, even when she makes me want to throw things at her head.
“Okay, but more importantly,” Cinna says, leaning forward with the look she gets when she smells gossip. “You said you had weekend news. Spill.”
Aubrey’s mouth curves into a wicked smirk. “I may have hooked up with someone.”
“Who?” Cinna and I say it at the same time.
“Remember that guy from the beginning theater showcase last year? Tall, curly hair, kind of looks like he’d never gone outside a day in his life? We have a running joke that he’s a vampire.”
“The one who did the performance about existential dread?” Cinna asks.
“That’s the one. Turns out he’s much less depressing when he’s not performing.” She takes another sip of coffee, deliberately drawing out the pause. “Also very flexible and creative with his body. Theater kids, you know?”
“Aubrey.” I’m grinning despite myself. “Details.”
“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”
Cinna and I laugh. Then I say, “You’re not a lady.”
“True.” She launches into the story, gesturing with her free hand, her rings glinting. She’s always talking with her hands, carving the air into emphatic shapes.
She describes a party she went to and how “vampire hottie” was there. At one point, he quoted Shakespeare and she’d decided that was somehow attractive. Then they went back to his dorm and hooked up. She tries to end with, “Vampires have some positions I’ve never even thought of.”
Cinna is laughing but says, “Okay, details. You absolutely can’t end with that! What positions, girl?”
For a few minutes it’s just three young women on a bench in the morning sun, talking about nothing that will matter in a week. It’s nice. A moment I want to scribble on the pages of my diary and keep.
