One evening, I talked Ariana into a study date. Midterms were upon us, and it was the perfect excuse to spend time with her. She invited me to her dorm, since the library was packed, and I skipped over there like a kid on his way to Santa’s workshop.
We had our books spread across her desk and the floor, two open smoothies within arm’s reach, and Ariana was dead serious about cramming every last bit of theory into her head before our exam.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t focus on a single word in that textbook or my notes.
School was important to me, and I wanted to do well on my midterms, but my mind was tied up. I was thinking about hockey, about how regionals were coming up, about how we had more than just a chance at the Frozen Four tournament. I was thinking about drills and video and staying mentally strong.
And more than anything, I was thinking about Ariana.
She was sprawled out on her stomach on the floor, gnawing on the end of her pen while she studied. Her hair was down tonight, still damp from a shower, and she was cozied up in a light pink sweatsuit.
It was my first timeinsideher dorm, as I usually met her on the sidewalk when I’d walk her to class. And while she studied her notes, I studied everything the room told me about her.
I saw the stacks of books in the corner of her room, not just textbooks, but fiction, too. Markus Zusak. Stieg Larsson. Stephen King. Virginia Woolf. Charlotte Brontë. Jane Austen. I saw craft supplies shoved hastily under her bed. There was a half-finished puzzle on her desk, now covered by notes we’d sprawled on top of it.
Unable to help myself, I snatched a black binder full of CDs off her nightstand and began thumbing through. Coldplay. Radiohead. Sarah McLachlan. Avril Lavigne. Fiona Apple. I hummed my approval when I came upon Snow Patrol.
“I can’t wait for their next album,” I said, pullingFinal Strawfrom the slipcover and waving it at Ariana.
She glanced up in a study-haze, blinking before she frowned at me. “Are you going through my stuff?”
“Just looking at what music you listen to.”
“You’re supposed to be studying,” she reminded me. “This whole thing was your idea.”
“I can’t help it. I’m distracted by you. Is that so bad?”
She rolled her eyes, but I saw the flush of her cheeks as she turned her attention back to her notes.
I picked one of her CDs labeled asrainy day mixand popped it into my laptop. When it started playing John Mayer, I smiled.
“We have similar taste in music,” I told her.
“And apparently different taste in study vibes.” She climbed up to where I sat on her bed long enough to turn the music off, and I didn’t even mind — not with the view that little act gave me.
Ariana got right back to studying when she was on the floor, but I was still looking around.
My eyes caught on the one and only photo in the room.
It was of her and a woman I assumed was her mother. Ariana was holding a baby boy.
My stomach tightened.
“Who’s that?” I asked, nodding to the picture frame.
Ariana looked up at me, then where I was staring, and the most genuine smile I’d ever seen graced her lips.
“My little brother.”
Apparently, I didn’t hide my shock well, because Ariana chuckled at my expression before turning back to her notes.
“Yeah, bit of an age gap, huh? He…” She swallowed. “Wasn’t exactly planned.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Ariana sat up, wincing against a pain in her neck as she rubbed it. “My stepdad is… a real piece of work,” she said with a laugh that carried more weight than any I’d ever heard. “His favorite pastime is beating up on my mom and then making her forgive him with some elaborate, romantic gesture.” She nodded to the photo. “That time, it led to an accidental pregnancy.”
I gaped at her.
