“Music?” he asks, moving toward his opened laptop. “What can I play for you?”
From what he blares, I know his music tastes are eclectic, so I can easily ask for something girly and he’ll be game, but I mentally filter through the ones he tends to play on repeat. “You turned me on to that classic rock song, ‘Rock You Like a Hurricane.’”
Cal shoots me a wink over his shoulder and clicks on the Scorpions song. “Glad to hear I turned you on,” he says, deliberately misinterpreting.
I elbow him. “Ouch,” he complains, rubbing his ribs. “Those … uh … ABBA hits you play have grown on me, too.”
That has me perking up. “Oh really? Any in particular?”
“I don’t know the names, but the one where they sing, ‘The gods may throw a dice, their minds as cold as ice, and someone way down here loses someone dear.’ That line is pretty powerful, and so is your elbow, by the way.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, feeling guilty. He sort of sang the lyrics when he was reciting them, and wouldn’t you know his singing voice isn’t half bad?
“Would you like to sit down?” he asks, picking up the one thing idly misplaced on his made bed. It’s a textbook, so it doesn’t even count as something messy. And when I say his bed is made, it’s like hospital corners made. I only sweep my comforter back up in the morning and call it good.
I hop up on top of his navy-colored down comforter, flip off my shoes, bring my feet up, and cross my legs. Cal sits next to me, and his weight on the mattress has me tipping slightly toward him. His door is open, we are fully clothed, and yet it feels strangely intimate. I have guy friends, but there isn’t this heavy “feeling” in the air when I’m in their rooms or vice versa. We sit here silently for a minute, and I’m so tuned in to his body that I can feel his breathing and am timing my shallow exhales with his.
“Sooo …” he says, sounding as unsure and tension-filled as I feel.
Don’t say ‘about that kiss.’ Don’t say ‘about that kiss.’
“About—”
I point toward his double-paned window, interrupting the topic I’m almost 100 percent sure he’s about to bring up. “I love our view of the Thatcher Hall statue,” I rush out and point toward the window. “Over there is my favorite bench on campus. It’s one of the reasons I chose my room.”
“I figured,” he says with a slight chuckle.
I swivel my head to study his chiseled, handsome face. “Huh?”
“I’ve noticed you reading there on more than one occasion.”
“You have?”
He smirks and nods. “You’re hard not to notice.” He states this as if he didn’t just cause my insides to melt. “The world could be falling apart around you, and you’d be there nibbling on your bottom lip, turning to the next page, oblivious to anything else but the words you’re reading.”
It is an accurate enough description, and I’m touched he’s paid me enough attention to make such a thoughtful observation. “It’s like you with your running,” I point out. “I would think you’d be bored or resent traversing the same paths every day, but I’ve seen you in action and you’re in a zone. You look almost Zen.”
He nods. “So, you’ve noticed me, too?” he asks with a devilish grin, but instead of irritating me like it usually would, it has my breath quickening. When did we get so close to each other? My knee is brushing his thigh, and I’m suddenly reminded of the fact that I’m sitting with Cal Chase on his bed. And now I’m wishing we were lying down, reenacting last week’s meteor make out. The ever-present tension between us is now thicker than a bowl of oatmeal. I have an urge to tug on Cal’s clothes. My hand lifts of its own accord.
“Somebody call in a work order?” asks a booming voice from the hallway, followed by a wrap of knuckles on the ajar door. We jump apart, even though nothing was going down. Was it?
Cal seems to recover first, rising to his feet to greet the maintenance man whose name is “Roland,” according to the Thatcher College ID badge pinned to his shirt pocket. Cal is walking Roland through what has happened, and I do my best to keep quiet and let him handle it. Too many cooks in the kitchen won’t solve my problem any faster.
“It happens a lot in this dormitory,” Roland says, bobbing his head, and I’m starting to feel relieved. Maybe this is a quick solve after all. “I just need to order a replacement lock.”
Then again, maybe not. “If this happens often, don’t you have spare locks stored somewhere?” I ask, unable to stop myself from butting in. Who was I kidding? It’s just not in my nature.
Roland turns to look at me for the first time, but then goes back to addressing the unruffled and chill Cal. “This is an historic building, and they like to keep it looking that way. It’s not like we can just pick up these fancy knobs and antique sockets at Home Depot. And I used the last one up on the second floor the other month.”
“Understandable,” Cal says soothingly. “How soon do you think you can get us a replacement?”
“Shouldn’t take longer than a week.”
“A week?” I ask agog, butting in again.
Roland shrugs. “The girl upstairs wasn’t as freaked out about it. I removed her lock altogether so she could go in and get her stuff. But without the latch, the door can’t stay closed, so we couldn’t allow her to live there like that. School policy.”
“So, what did she do?” Cal asks before I can bite Roland’s head off for the second time.
