Sutton stops and turns to face me, one elbow resting on the handle of the cart. “I shouldn’t have laughed.” And then she apologizes, genuinely. Sutton is the kindest person I know, but to me, there’s an edge, like a dog with a spiked collar daring me to get close. “I asked Dr. Manning again about getting a new student.”
She continues shopping, turning down the aisle with bread and cereal.
“Will that put you behind?”
“Yes,” she says bluntly. “I’m already behind everyone else who attends schools with the major.” She rambles on under her breath, and I move to the front of the cart.
Her attention is focused somewhere between oatmeal and her thoughts. The front of the cart rams into my abdomen. I let out a tight groan, coughing to clear my throat and suck in a ragged breath.
“Then I’ll do it.”
“Don’t worry about it. Move,please.”
“No. Not till you agree to let me be your partner on this.”
“I’m not a pity project, Cooper.”
“That’s not what this is. I don’t think of you that way.”
“Right.” She rolls her eyes and tries to move the cart around me. I take a step to the left, blocking her path.
Sutton sighs, eyelids fluttering against her freckled cheeks. Constellations across both of them. You can’t count them, there are too many, but the left has more than the right.
“I’m not doing this with you,” she says.
You don’t want to do anything with me is what I want to say, but instead I ask, “What will it take for you to let me help you?”
“Nothing. If you wanted to help, you would have responded to my texts.” She has a point.
I let go of the cart. Drag my hands over my face and through my hair. I hate myself for hurting her, over and over. The more I try to stay in her atmosphere, the further away I feel.
How do I keep fucking up with her?
I’d do anything for her. She could tell me to get on my knees and beg, or stand in the middle of campus dressed like a fool and sing a Hannah Montana song. I’d give up hockey for her if she asked. I’d do anything she wants.
“Leave me alone, please.”
Anything but that.
There must be something sticky on the floor because my feet don’t move. I’m stuck watching her examine ingredients in boxes of cereal for one, then two minutes. Mustering up enough courage to walk away, I pass by her and silently scream out an apology for everything.
I’m about to turn for the exit when there’s a death grip on my bicep. In my rush out the door, I forgot a coat. A T-shirt is not ideal for a Midwest winter.
Her hand is warm, hot enough that it’s burning into my skin.
Sutton’s breathing picks up, and I can feel it dance across the skin on the back of my neck when she whispers, “Does he see us?” The tip of her chin rests on my shoulder.
“Who?” I look around the checkout. “Zach?”
“Yes. Now shh.”
“He can’t hear you, he isn’t—never mind, he’s walking our way,” I warn.
“Stay in front of me. Tell him I’m not here.”
“Why?”
Before she can answer, Zach is standing in front of us. “Hey, Carmichael.”
