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“Yes, obviously. We have first-hand evidence of that.”
“Shh!”
God, now they’re bickering. The most solid, stupid-in-love people I know are side-eyeing each other, and that’s my fault. I did that.
At least he’s still playing with her skirt. At least Lane’s nibbling her bottom lip and staring up at him, her eyes going all hooded and hazy, their argument forgotten.
Hmm. Should I leave? They look like they need the privacy.
But then who would I finish this rant with, voicing these backed-up words? Guess I could take a shower, lecturing the tiles.
“Are you graded on participation?” Ambrose asks, his brisk tone all business. Lane shivers like it’s the sexiest thing she’s ever heard, but I try to ignore that and focus on her boyfriend. “Will it hurt your grade if you never ask any questions?”
My mouth drops open. I freeze with one hand against our mirror, scrubbing away the mascara marks and old smudges with a t-shirt from my hamper. Stress-cleaning the day away. “Oh, shit. I hadn’t even thought of that.”
Ambrose shrugs, but in a conciliatory way. Like he’s sorry to be the bearer of bad news.
“We don’t know that it matters,” Lane puts in quickly, crossing her legs on her twin bed. It’s so funny to see the two of them jammed together on the narrow dorm mattress, all long limbs and creaking bed springs, though surely they must get busy there sometimes when I’m gone.
Ack. No.
Not gonna think about that.
“Why don’t you ask Kai how you’re graded?” she says. I press my lips together and stare. Lane winces and adds: “In an email.”
…Huh.
It’s hard to imagine Kai Akana tip-tapping away on some fiddly little laptop—not with those callused hands and blunt, squared knuckles, and the way he seems like some magical creature that lives full-time in the greenhouse. Like they grew him from the soil for some research project, and now he curls up in the canopy to sleep at night, perched on by birds.
But he works for the college. He wears Kephart College t-shirts to work, and he always parks a college-branded truck out in the scrubby greenhouse parking lot.
Surely the Head Gardener has an email address. Is Lane right? Could I write Kai an email and prove that I’m not completely stupid—just selectively mute? Would he believe me?
“What would I even say?”
Ambrose raises an eyebrow. He’s right: I’ve done nothing but say things since he knocked on our door twenty-some minutes ago.
Flinging my makeshift cloth in their direction, I scrub my face and turn away. “Oh, go on your date already. It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”
Lane’s already sliding on her shoes, but her voice is worried. “Are you sure? I really don’t mind staying, Eden.”
She would, too. Just like I’d do anything for my roomie in return. Some of the girls are tense as hell with the roommates they were allocated, but not Lane and I. We won the jackpot, and I’ll never take her for granted.
“Sorry for making you late,” I say into her hair, squeezing Lane into a hug as she heads for the door. She smells like coconut, and she’s wearing a white t-shirt tucked into a floral wrap skirt. Lane’s been hard at work calling on spring since mid-January, and her efforts are finally paying off. It’s still light out, and pink blossoms wave on the tree branches outside our window.
“Anytime.” Lane squeezes me back. “Save the email as a draft and I’ll help you go over it later.”
“You’re the best.”
They both say goodbye, already reaching for each other with greedy hands as they spill out of the door, on their way to dinner or drinks or a movie or whatever it is loved-up couples do in Kephart. I wouldn’t personally know.
As soon as the door swings shut behind them, I’m left in silence and a half-cluttered dorm room. My pulse thuds in my wrists, and dance music floats down the hall from the bathrooms.
I can do this. I can write Kai Akana an email.
Sucking in a deep breath, I stomp to the desk and lever my laptop open.
* * *
