There’s the tiniest of smiles that curve her lips before it disappears. As tiny as it is, she has one of those smiles that changes her whole face. It rounds her cheeks, and her eyes crinkle a little in the corners. It makes her a little less intimidating, which eases my nerves just a little.
“What are you studying?” she continues, highlighting something in her notebook.
As I follow her movements, because it’s much easier to do so when she’s not looking at me, I make a mental list of her textbooks.Campbell Biology,Principles of Biochemistry, andSociology.I’d be willing to bet she’s taking pre-med courses.
“Biostatistics.”
She raises a brow. “What isthat?”
“It’s, uh, the use of m-math and statistical methods for scientific research in health-related fields.”
Maeve blinks. “So you’re smart.”
A breathless laugh practically bursts out of me as I look down at my fingers intertwined in my lap. “I guess so.”
“So was Ed Kemper.”
My head snaps up at her, unsure of what to say because I’m afraid everything that leaves my mouth will only further convince her that I’m plotting her murder. She’s not wrong about Ed Kemper, but being compared to a psycho doesn’t help me feel any less nervous.
“The serial killer?” she continues.
While I obviously know who Ed Kemper is, I don’t want to come out and blatantly say that.God, she probably thinks I’m so weird.
“That was another joke.” She winces half-heartedly. “Not much of a comedy guy, huh?”
“Well, Ed Kemper picked up college girls hitchhiking in Santa Cruz,” I mumble. “Then he b-buried them near mountains, so I think… I think you’re safe with me.”
Whydid I just say that?
Maeve lets out a snort as she goes to drink from her coffee. “Okay, well, we’ll work on it.”
Like I said, I’m awful at this. I’m not good at talking, no matter how intelligent I am. I’m confident when it comes to my education and knowing the most random facts off the top of my head, but everything else… Not so much. I’m so self-conscious that it’s probably unhealthy. It’s second-nature for me to constantly question if someone is looking too long at me, too hard, and whether they like what they see.Does my voice sound weird? Is something in my teeth? Did they catch the anxiety in my microexpressions?
“What about you?” I manage to get out without stuttering. “What are you, uh, studying?”
Even though I already know the answer, I still ask.
“Biology,” she answers promptly. “Well, technically, I’m taking everything I need for pre-med. I want to get into Obstetrics eventually.”
“Wow.”
“Wow?”
“N-not in a bad way,” I backpedal. “Wow, as i-in cool.”
“Cool,” she repeats, staring down at her notebook as she writes, and thank God she’s not looking at me or else she’d see just how affected I am by her presence.
My cheeks have never felt this warm for this long before. It’s like everything that leaves her lips ignites the blush in my face, I can feel it. The mere thought of resembling a tomato has me wanting to hide underneath this table.
But as we quickly settle into silence, all my worries cease to exist. It’s not the kind of silence that feels so awkward that it’s almost loud; it’s the kind that’s comfortable. The kind you can sit in without needing to fill the space. She flips through her books, writing down notes every so often as she does, and I watch her helplessly from across the table. Helplessly, because I have no choice but to observe her like this: deep in thought, brow wrinkled slightly, lips pursed.
Every movement she makes is effortless. I find myself getting lost in the motion of her fingers, the sound of her pen on paper, and the way ends of her hair jostle gently under the hat as she writes.
“You’re not studying.”
The sound of her voice rips me from my stupor.
“Oh,” I say, “I already know this stuff.”
