His lips curved crookedly, putting a dimple in cheek as his head tilted, eyes checking out the sky. “Looks like rain, huh?”
She made a scoffing noise. “Doesn’t it always?”
“Ah,” he held up a palm, “I’m a connoisseur of mountain weather. Mist, fog, drizzle, sprinkles, rain, all-out-gully-washer....” Jesse trailed off, a self-conscious chuckle at the end. “This is definitely—”
Drops splattered her hair and his hand.
“Rain,” they concluded together.
She smiled.
He smiled back, but there was still something speculative in his eyes that she couldn’t place.
“See you around,” Sophie ended the conversation abruptly, awkward and unsure what to do next.
Jesse nodded several times like he was giving himself permission to walk away. “Yeah. See you.”
As she hurried to get out of the rain, she found herself darting a glance behind her. He was ambling slowly as if the rain didn’t bother him a bit. As if the temperature wasn’t dropping by the second.He must be used to it, coming from this area. No, even farther north.
He’s odd.
She blinked water out of her eyes and pushed her now soaking hair back from her forehead.
He’s the first person I’ve ever seen in real life who looked anything like me....
SHE DIDN’T DENY THATshe looked for him whenever she ate in the tiny dining hall. She never saw him. Her eyes went roving across campus whenever she changed classes, but especially after orchestra on Monday and Wednesday nights, right at 5:30. That was where he’d called out to her the first time. The only time.
He seemed to have vanished.
This campus has fewer people than my high school. Why haven’t I seen him again? Why do I care?
“HI, MOM! HI, DADDY!” Sunday nights were FaceTime nights. Sophie smiled over her bowl of lo mein, sitting cross-legged on the foot of her bed, her laptop opened and aimed at her grinning face.
“Hi, Baby!” her parents chorused as one. They had her father’s iPad set up where her plate usually sat, resting on a stack of books to raise it so she was actually able to see more than just their chins.
Sophie’s mouth instantly watered at the sight of the mock sou boreg her mother was dishing out, a cheesy Armenian pasta dish. They tried to plan Sunday dinners so that a theme reached across their two tables (or one table and one lap).
“Is that Chinese?” Her mother squinted at the camera.
“It’s pasta. It’s thefirstpasta.” Sophie deftly plunged her chopsticks in and came up with a nest of noodles and carrots.
“You’re not living on take-out are you?”
“No, Daddy.”
“Campus food is so starchy.”
“They have a salad bar and lots of vegetarian dishes, I promise. I’m eating my greens. Look.” To prove her point, she inserted a spear of broccoli into her mouth.
“The ‘Frosh Fifteen’ isn’t always a bad thing,” her mother said nonchalantly.
Sophie’s food turned bitter. Her mother represented the highest standard of “traditional” Armenian beauty. Large, liquid eyes, lustrous, wavy brunette hair, and curves in pleasing places. “It’s not working, Mom. The carbs haven’t magically decided to stick.”
“Oh, honey, I didn’t mean-”
“You know, you could come home on the weekends. Your mother is going out of her mind without you.”
Daddy to the rescue. They had this conversation every weekend and it saved them every time.
