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6
PHOEBE
Ihave about an hour before my next class, so I stop by Ridley Grinds, the on-campus coffee shop, to get a cup of coffee and sit down to relax with a good book for a little while.
I pull a book of poetry by ee cummings from my bag. I got it as an end of year present from an eleventh grade English teacher I really connected with, who gave it to me to remember her by since she was moving to a different school the following year. It was her class that made me want to major in English.
Even though my major was always a distant second when it came to my college priorities.
Figure skating was first.
Sadness streaks through me, but I do my best to clamp down on the emotion and keep it from spreading.
Taking sip of my hot coffee and letting the flavor waft through my mouth, and opening the book to my favorite poem, helps chase away the sadness. A little bit.
Once I finish the poem, I peek my head up from the book and let my eyes linger on students walking across campus outside the large window next to me.
My gaze meanders over the crowd as I people watch, every now and then noticing guys I think are particularly cute.
I start to think of what Casey suggested the other night.
I haven’t had sex since Blake dumped me. Maybe a hot hook up with a guy who knows what he’s doing really would be a decent mood booster.
But my stomach twists when I start to really consider it. How would I even make it happen?
I know that sounds like a stupid question. I’m at a college, for heaven’s sake. People hook up effortlessly all the time. Dozens of students are probably doing it this very second!
But that kind of thing has never been as easy for me as it obviously is for most people.
If I went to a party looking for a guy to hook up with, I wouldn’t even know where to start. And if a guy approached me with sex clearly on his mind, I know I’d freeze up with so much instant anxiety that the guy would be looking for someone else within minutes.
I guess I could try to download a dating app, but the idea is just so unappealing to me. I tried one for a little bit in freshman year before I got with Blake, and I’m really not eager to relive the experience.
I can feel the prickling sensation of self-doubt buzzing over me. Blake was my first and only boyfriend. Before him, I went on a handful of dates in high school and before he and I got together freshman year. No dates since we broke up.
Or, more accurately stated, since he dumped me.
Maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe I’m just …
“There you are.” A familiar voice pulls my attention away from that thought.
What’s worse, getting pulled into a spiral of self-doubt and negative self-talk, or having to have a conversation with Hunter Landry?
A very tough question.
But Hunter isn’t giving me the opportunity to choose between the two, as he pulls out the chair on the opposite side of my table and unceremoniously drops himself into it.
He brings the ice coffee he’s holding up to his mouth and takes a big drink; my eyes go wide as I’m temporarily mesmerized by the way his Adam’s apple bobs in this throat, surrounded by the dense, corded column of neck muscle.
“Glad I found you,” he says, bending to the side to ruffle through his book bag.
“First time for everything, I guess,” I mumble.
He places the thermos I let him borrow Wednesday night onto the table between us. I grab it and unscrew the lid, putting my nose over the opening.
“Wow,” I say, genuinely surprised. “You actually cleaned it.”
He chuckles, and I hate the tingling sensation that the mellow sound causes on my thighs. “Of course, I cleaned the thermos you let me borrow after making me coffee. You think I’m that much of an ungrateful slob?”
