"So," Sam says, stepping into my path. He has to tilt his head back to look me in the eye. "Partners."
"Looks like it," I say.
"I hope you're ready to actually work, Morse," he says. "I'm not going to let you steamroll this with your depressing nihilism. We're going for an A."
"I don't get anything less than an A," I say, looking down at him. I can see the pulse in his neck. Right there. Where the mating gland sits untouched, unclaimed. "And I'm not a nihilist. I'm a realist."
"Same difference," he scoffs, but he's grinning. He thinks this is a game. "I have a shift at the library tonight. Meet me there at seven? We can map out a timeline. I want to crush this."
"Seven," I agree. "Don't be late."
"I'm never late."
"You were late to the first class of freshman year," I say.
Oh my god. Why did I say that? Why did I say that out loud with my mouth?
Sam blinks. "You remember that?"
My stomach drops.
"I have a photographic memory," I say, flatly. "I remember everything. It's a curse."
Smooth save. Totally normal thing to say. He definitely believes that and doesn't think I'm a creep now.
Sam tilts his head. The air between us goes heavy. Static buzzes along my skin.
His phone buzzes.
He checks the screen and his face lights up with a real smile, not the sharp one he gives me. Jealousy burns in my gut.
Who is it? Who's texting him? Is it that guy from the Econ department, the one with the teeth? I hate that guy. I've never spoken to him but I hate him.
"Right," he says, distracted. "Seven. Library. Study room. Bring your brain. You're gonna need it."
He turns and slips out into the hallway. I watch the yellow hoodie until it's swallowed by the crowd.
I'm standing there, nails digging into my palms.
Seven o'clock.
I have until then to figure out how to be in a small, enclosed room with the love of my life without ruining everything.
So basically I have four hours to become a completely different person. Cool. No problem.
Sam
Irearrange my color-coded pens for the fourth time. Blue, black, red, green. No, that's wrong. It should be black, blue, green, red. Order of utility. Or maybe alphabetical?
My hands won't stop shaking.
I stare at my fingers, watching the slight tremor in my pinky. "Stop it," I hiss at myself, shoving my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie. It's the pink one. Well, it started life as red, but I washed it with my white sheets freshman year like an idiot and now it's this aggressive salmon color that Braiden says makes me look like "a shrimp with anxiety."
He's not wrong.
I wore it on purpose. When you wear something this loud, people look at the clothes, not the guy inside them who's about two seconds away from hyperventilating.
I pull my phone out. Eight minutes early.
