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Once I’m outside, I spot Arch sitting at a picnic bench under a massive tree, a boy sitting next to him. They’re both handsome, but my gaze is stuck on Arch.
He doesn’t see me, too busy chatting with his friend—I don’t recognize him and it’s definitely not JJ. They’re talking animatedly, their combined laughter lingering in the air and I almost smile at the sound.
Reminding myself I can’t smile about anything in regards to Arch Lancaster, I keep walking with my head down, going the long way to my next class so I don’t have to walk directly by him. Doing whatever I can to avoid another interaction with him.
Gee, how mature of me.
I clutch both shoulder straps extra tight as I enter the building and make my way toward my class, the nylon fabric straps cutting into my hands. The hallway is mostly vacant since the bell hasn’t rung yet, and I’m grateful for the quiet.
When I reach my classroom I test the handle, finding the door is unlocked. I enter the room, thrilled it’s blessedly empty. I settle into my desk and crack open my book, excited to get back to the story now that no one is around.
I may enjoy the classics and there are some quality YA books and series out there that I’ve devoured, but there’s nothing like a thrilling romance that gets my blood pumping. Not that I would ever say that out loud. Dad knows I read romances but he doesn’t know exactly what the content is like inside the book. Because the books I like to read, while also swoony and romantic, they’re also very, very…
Sexy.
Within minutes, I’m digging in my backpack again, pulling out my favorite teal blue pen and coordinating sticky tabs that match the cover of the book. I’ve totally gotten into annotating books lately, highlighting or underlining my favorite parts. My favorite lines.
The main male character in this book says the best things.
I read over the last few pages I consumed while in the dining hall, drawing lines beneath the sentences. Adding a few small hearts around his name. I get so lost in annotating and rereading my favorite parts, I don’t realize the classroom is starting to fill up until a few minutes before the bell rings.
Taking a deep breath, I gently shut my book, putting away the tabs and my pen. Our statistics teacher enters the room, walking right past my desk since I sit in the first row and she smiles at me.
“I read that book over the summer.” She inclines her head toward the very book sitting on my desk. “It’s a good one.”
My cheeks feel as if they turned twenty shades of pink and I grab it, shoving it into the open slot of the desk that none of us really ever use. “Oh yeah?”
Mrs. Nelson smiles. I will say this—the staff always acknowledges me but that’s probably only because I’m a good student who never causes any problems and does well. “Yes. Kind of sexy though.”
Now my face is turning various shades of red, I swear.
Mrs. Nelson laughs. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”
* * *
After school is finished,I head back home to find my father is already in the garden, which is surprising since he’s usually still on the clock at this time of day. He’s among the rows of vegetables, kneeling in the dirt and plucking the ripe tomatoes, carefully setting them in a basket that’s already full.
I immediately think of Edie and how she wants my dad’s tomatoes in the salad bar. Should I mention it to him?
“Daisy Mae,” he calls when he sees me, a big grin on his face.
I smile, remembering how only a few years ago, I thought my first and middle name made me sound like a country bumpkin. Now I like it. Only because it brings my father so much joy to call me by both names. “Hi, Dad.”
“How was school?” he asks as I deposit my backpack on the potting bench, careful not to set it in the soil that’s spilled all over the surface.
“It was good.” I wander over to my rose bushes, smiling at them like I can’t help myself. Their fragrance tickles my nose and I lean over one perfect, deep red rose, breathing in its scent. Savoring it because this won’t last much longer.
A sigh leaves me and I grab my pruning shears and bucket like I usually do and resume clipping off some of the old, dying roses, dropping them in the bucket. “Soon the roses won’t bloom anymore.”
“And we’ll have to cut back the bushes to get them ready for next spring.” Dad’s voice never wavers. Always cheerful, always positive, when he’s got plenty to be sad about.
I stand amongst the row of rose bushes, taking in their beauty. I helped him plant them when I was ten, alongside my mother, who chattered happily the entire time, telling me how roses made her think of her great-grandmother, who died before I was born.
Swallowing past the sudden lump in my throat, I try to shove the memory from my brain. Back when we all lived on campus together. Our own little family. Dad was the groundskeeper and Mom worked in the dining hall and I was the little girl who would help out in the late afternoon anywhere I was needed.
“I hate the winter,” I say, my voice soft, my mood shifting as it often does when I get caught up in thoughts of the past. My mother’s face looms in my memory, so much like mine. I don’t know how my father can stand looking at me sometimes. The older I get, the more I resemble her, and that can’t be easy for him.
“It’s needed,” Dad says, rising to his feet, clutching the basket handle as he starts to make his way toward me. A tomato falls out, rolling onto the dirt, and he shakes his head, not bothering to pick it up. “I’m going to take these to the dining hall. Kathy was asking me about them.”
