Page 13 of All Our Almosts

Me: I just found out I have to do a presentation for the trustees on Friday and I’m stresseddd

Andy: Do you want to come work on it at the apartment? I can set a timer and remind you to stop worrying every five minutes.

Me: Yes I want that

Me: But no I have to stay here

Me: See you tonight <3

5

Andy

The night I first met Sophie, I was in a horrible mood.

It was the first week of my sophomore year of college and, unfortunately, my roommates were throwing a party.

I’ve never liked parties, or small talk, or people. But a merciless God left me living with three people who did. They were my friends—still are—but the point stands.

When the party started, I promised them I would stick around for an hour. The minutes ticked by slowly: 58, 59, then freedom. I ducked out at 10:00 exactly, grabbing a beer from a cooler and heading into my room, already dreaming of the feeling of a paperback in my hands.

I once read something about the different types of imagination: Some people read a sentence about a man tossing an apple in the air and can see it like a movie—the colors of the apple, its momentum as it’s tossed, the man’s hand as he catches it, the texture of his skin. Other people just see the words on the page. They understand an apple was tossed, but an image doesn’t form in their minds. I’ve always been closer to the former, and grateful for it. So when I sat on my bed and cracked open a book and my beer, I was quickly lost to the world. So much so that I didn’t fully process that the noise I heard—of a door opening and closing—wasn’t just my imagination adding color to the story on the page. In fact, it wasn’t until I heard a sharp female “Ah!” that I even looked up.

There was a girl standing in the doorway of my bedroom, looking as surprised as I felt.

“Oh my god, there’s a person in here. Jesus, you scared me.”

Gray shirt, jeans, freckles on her cheeks, big hazel eyes made bigger by her shock. I cleared my throat, buying time to think of what to say. I landed on “Uh…”

“Is this your room? I’m so sorry. Why did I think this room would be empty? Not that I make a habit of walking into people’s rooms when I think they’re empty. I swear I do understand boundaries. God, I’m never gonna get invited to a party again...”

I don’t think I’d ever seen someone actually blush before, but her face was turning from cream to pink to red before my very eyes. She alternated between speaking to me and speaking to herself, like her thoughts and her words were in a race.

“It’s… I… are you okay?” I asked, articulate as ever.

“Yeah,” she laughed. “No, I’m fine. It’s fine. I was just… I really didn’t think there would be anyone in here. Sorry again. It was nice to meet you. Thanks for letting me come to a party at your place, and I promise not to barge in anywhere else.”

She spun around to exit through the still open door, but was halted by something she saw to her left.

“There you are,” said a voice. “I was looking for you. We’re starting a new round, come on.”

“Oh.” She took a small step back. “I think I’m going to sit this one out, thanks.”

“No come on, you have to join. I even made you a drink.”

I was already crossing towards her by the time a man appeared in the doorway. Tall, backwards baseball cap, ripped jeans—obviously an asshole.

“No really, I’m okay,” she tried to say, but he was already shoving a red cup into her hands.

“Here, take it, it’s really good I promise.”

“Oh, no thanks.”

“Come on, you don’t trust me? We’ve been talking all night.”

He took hold of her elbow, and a more patient person might have had a more patient reaction, but I didn’t. I inserted myself between them, because who gives a shit if this guy likes me or not, and said, “She said no.”

The guy looked as offended as he was drunk. “Who are you, her boyfriend?”