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“Myweight sessionis at eight.”
“Do you have a morning class?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Genetics. Plus a meeting with my class advisor before.”
“Fall semester just started.”
“I know. But different vet schools have different requirements. I have to make certain I’ve completed all the necessary classes for anywhere I’m applying. Next semester is my last chance, if I haven’t.”
Holden nods, then continues eating.
Our plan for the future has always been some version of wait and see. Wait and see where I get into vet school. Wait and see if he gets drafted, which now has the added complication of his status this season.
Look at all of our options and then decide.
It’s really the only option. Once my applications have been submitted and his final season is over, our roles in shaping our futures will be over and everything will be beyond our control. Which is freeing and terrifying, all at once.
Once we’re both finished eating, Holden leans closer.
I wait for him to say something serious. About next year or about my mini-meltdown yesterday. Some assurance everything will be okay or a plea to revert to my responsible self.
Instead, he grins. “Last night was fun. Can I get your number?”
I start laughing, then push him to the side so I can reach my glass of coffee again. I can feel the warmth in my cheeks.
Last night was out of character for me on several levels.
Most of the time, being steadfast and mature suits me. It’s gotten me to this place where I’ve accomplished a lot and have a promising future.
But as long as I can remember, Holden has been the person who draws out the reckless streak I didn’t even know existed. Being sensible can also be exhausting.
I like knowing I can still surprise him.
Love knowing I can let go and he’ll be there to catch me.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You don’t ever have to thank me for that. It was my pleasure. Literally.”
I roll my eyes. “Can you be serious for two seconds?”
Holden smirks. “I am. You don’t ever have to thank me, flower. For anything. I’ve got you. Always.” He opens his arms, his smile turning more tender than teasing. “Come here.”
I glance down at my wrinkled shirt. “I need to shower. I smell like tequila.”
“Like I give a shit.” He tugs me closer before I can protest more.
Unlike me, he smells good. Like cinnamon and laundry detergent and woodsy cologne.
“It’ll be okay,” he murmurs.
“I know,” I reply.
My answer is a little more confident than it was yesterday.
* * *
My advisor’s office is on the fifth and highest floor of the main science center. It’s a seven-minute trek if you take the stairs or a fifteen-minute wait for the elevator.
