Is he going to …?
I watch him fill a cup of his own with gas station coffee, pay for it at the register, and then shuffle his way back to the counter.
What’s he doing here? Did he follow me out of the bar or something? But I was wandering aimlessly for a while before I ended up here. I’m sure I’d have noticed if someone was following me.
He was probably picking up a snack to soak up the alcohol before going back home.
Timidity colors his green eyes as he glances at the stool next to me. “This seat taken?”
My tongue prods at my inner cheek as I think. Despite Jamie’s crush on me, I’ve never found his presence irritating, which makes him exceptional in a way. Maybe chatting with him while sipping gas station coffee won’t be the worst way to pass part of a sleepless night.
I tilt a shoulder. “Knock yourself out.”
Even though I’ve turned to look out the window, I can sense the smile beaming from his face, like stadium lights right beside me.
“Be careful,” he says. “Considering recent events, I just might.”
A puff of laughter passes my lips. I’m as surprised by that as anyone.
Glancing at Jamie, there’s a toothy grin spread across his mouth, a marveling look in his eyes. It’s like a scene in a movie where a character opens a treasure chest full of diamonds and precious stones.
Is that what making me laugh is like to him? Finding treasure?
Poor guy. That’s a little pathetic.
But … maybe a little sweet, too.
He does manage to lower his tall, broad frame onto the stool without tripping and smashing his head on the side of the countertop. Which—he’s right—isn’t a given, considering recent events.
A beat of silence passes as he seems to search for something to talk about.
“So … what do you study?” he settles on.
“Nothing right now,” I answer.
He frowns quizzically. “You don’t go to Brumehill?”
I take a long, light sip of my still-hot coffee. Normally, small talk makes me nervous. But I feel strangely comfortable right now. The urge to close myself off and hold the details of my life close to my chest isn’t as strong as it usually is.
“I’m taking a gap year right now,” I say. “I’ll continue my studies next year. Transferring to Brumehill is an option I’m thinking about. That’s why I was on campus the other day.”
The other day, when his teammate tripped him, and I felt the most inexplicable protective anger rocketing through me that I couldn’t resist marching over to Jamie’s gigantic friend and chewing him out.
“Gap year? That’s cool. Are you doing anything special with it? Other than working at the café?”
I draw another long sip of hot coffee into my mouth. My inclination is to deflect. But something about this moment pushes me to be more open.
“Actually, I’m working on writing a book.”
I feel a twist of embarrassment. I know how silly it is. Taking an entire year off in the middle of my undergrad to write a book, a task that’s almost guaranteed to be a failure. Endless numbers of people try. Most never finish, and most who do don’t get it published, or fail to gain any traction if they self-publish. I know that. I’ve been reminded of it plenty.
I expect the same judgments to be blaring in Jamie’s mind. But when I look to gauge his reaction, I find eyes wide and jaw low.
“Whoa. That’s so cool. So, so cool.”
His voice is so genuine. My cheeks heat.
I shrug, trying to will away the warmth crawling to my face. “It’s just something I felt like I needed to do, and I wasn’t sure I ever actually would if I didn’t take this time and force myself to focus on it.”
