Only one person I know wears that scent, and she doesn’t move here until next week.
“We want to increase our STEM programs,” Ms. Amber mentions.
“Engineering,” I blurt out for no reason, lacking a smooth enough recovery to dodge two sets of matching stares. “It’s agood field. A friend of mine is a mechanical engineer,” I clarify and cut my eyes at Kendrick’s smirk.
Does Miriam pop into my thoughts at random? I’ll own it.
I tuck away my physical reactions to her to keep from ruining our friendship. It took weekly ice baths at first, but now it’s under control. She’s worth more than any one-night stand. Always will be.
We arrive at a blue and white room scented with broken crayons and sweat from the crowd of kids gathered around a table in the center of the carpet. Some are standing on metal chairs. Others are rushing to get a better look at whatever is triggering their screams.
Either Ms. Amber is running drugs, or they’re high on life.
The maybe-dealer smiles at the chants. “This is a very popular room today. Kids, guess who we have with us? The Buffalo Steel!”
“Shake it harder!” a boy shouts from behind the curtain of ’fros, curls, and fades.
Sweaters and hoodies part to reveal the source of the contained chaos.
It’s not the tower of toothpicks and gumdrops wedged into a foundation of brownies that’s hurling my pulse over a cliff. It’s the woman in a pink sweater, librarian glasses, and jeans, wearing a grin I’ve only seen on a screen since she patted my chest and went back to Baltimore three years ago.
She’s here.
Chapter 6
Miriam
My high-tops are off the ground. Blood rushes to my temples as my body forcefully spins in a circle. I’m dizzy, my glasses smashed to my face by the forearms pinning me in place. They’re larger than I remember. So are the biceps squeezing my organs together.
“Can’t. Breathe,” I croak.
“Shoot, my bad.” Antonio sets my soles on the carpet and searches for internal damage using X-ray vision he doesn’t have.
My mind quiets at another whiff of the tobacco and cedar cologne transferring to my sweater from the long-sleeved navy shirt that’s molded to his torso. The scent, mixed with fabric softener, would be comforting if a chest lined with every muscle seen on a medical drama weren’t cutting off my air supply.
Did he always smell like laundry?
That would require him to know how to turn on a washer.
“Still can’t breathe,” I wheeze from below Antonio’s clavicles.
“Sorry.” He steps back to give me a chance to reacquaint myself with breathing. “It’s good to see you, Doe.”
“You too.”
I remind my body that he’s always been fine.
Antonio’s caramel hue and square jaw decorated in a trimmed beard are nothing new. I’ve seen them countless times, along with the disarming smile he brandishes freely on video calls. The live version should not have this effect on me.
Subconscious physiological responses are normal behavior. They’re not a sign of lust lurking in dark corners for a friend I almost rode into the new year. The involuntary changes to my breathing are simply jitters at seeing him and all his flesh for the first time since he left Maryland.
I gulp and point to the loose waves that have replaced the man bun that never grew. “I like it.”
He runs a hand over his fresh cut. “It was time for a change. Your natural hair is just like I imagined.”
His praise glides over the twist-out I freed from the rotation of nonflammable wigs I wore during my college years. Grabbing one to go with my lab coat was more efficient than experimenting with a curl pattern I had no time to learn. Today’s side part is nothing innovative, but Antonio stares at my coiled bob like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.
“I like it.” The rasp in his voice draws my frown.
