She shoved a slip of paper into my hand. Her number, probably, but I never got to open it because the prof called me out.
“Have somewhere better to be, Mr. Barnes?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
I shoved the paper back into the redhead’s hand and looked up. “Not feeling so hot. I’ll get the notes.” I half saluted Professor Sykes and made my way up the stairs and out of the lecture hall.
The hallway was quiet, which was a beautiful reprieve from life in Manhattan. I took a moment to drink in the solitude, yearning for wide-open spaces, blue skies, and a cold beer while sitting on the tailgate of my pickup.
I’m too old for this crap.
“But this type of opportunity is like lightning in a bottle.”
My mom’s words echoed in my brain, making me want to shake my head until they rattled the hell out. Leaning back into the wall, I closed my eyes and breathed in the silence. My heart beat steadily, and I swallowed any regrets I had about accepting this college education and the apartment—essentially, a chance at having more in life than the farm.
My mom wanted me to be better than Bruce, than her. What she didn’t consider was she’d tried that route, shacking up with my dad for a few years, and what did she get out of it? A toddler and a bruised ego.
Pushing off the brick, I made my way down the hall and the stairs to the exit. With an hour until my next class, I decided to grab a sandwich. I burst out into the sunlight just as a tiny raven-haired tornado ran right into me.
“Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean ... I mean ... I didn’t see you,” she mumbled. In painted-on jeans, a black tank tied on the side in one of those knot-type things, and the requisite bright-colored Chucks on her feet, she struggled to find her footing.
I didn’t know why, but my hand moved to swipe the long black hair out of her face as she stood. There was a shit ton of it, falling like a curtain in front of her delicate features. When she looked up, staring back at me were a pair of green eyes the color of sea glass, equal parts bewildered and determined.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
“Need help?” I asked, despite seeing she was fine and didn’t need anything.
“No. Are you okay?” She ran her hand up and down in the air, motioning at my body.
“I’m fine. Would take a lot more than a skinny little thing like you to do damage to me.” I mimicked her hand waving, swiping my large mitt in the air, motioning up and down her body.
“Okay, then. I’ll just be on my way.”
It was then I realized I’d been holding the door open this whole time. We were half in, half out of the building.
“Be my guest.” I waved for her to enter, and then I somewhat sadly exited.
That was it.
Good-bye and good luck, sweetie.
Slouched in the back booth of one of those froufrou café places a little later, I pulled out a book and bit into my egg and turkey bacon on an English muffin.
Yes, you heard me right. 1. Egg. 2. Turkey bacon. 3. English muffin.
It was like one of those riddles on the SAT—which, by the way, I wished I hadn’t taken on a whim in high school, because it made this whole NYC bullshit that much easier.
Which two of the above three things does not belong?
If you answered numbers two and three, you win.Ding, ding, ding! Winner, winner, chicken dinner!
Who the fuck ate turkey bacon? Not a soul where I came from. And an English muffin was a poor excuse for a biscuit.
Just as I sank my teeth into the last bite of nourishment—because turkey bacon couldn’t possibly be classified as delicious—someone took the table next to me.
Not one for coffee-shop talk, I took a swig of my OJ and lowered my face deeper into my book.
“Cannery Row? We read that in high school,” a female voice said, interrupting my quiet time.
