“Lucky for both of us,” Weston said. “I’m not looking for arm candy.”
I pressed my lips together, trying to come up with another excuse but failing.
“Fine.” I took the plunge. “Why me?”
A smile broke across his face. “It’s going to sound strange at first. Stick with me.”
Chapter 11
“You surprisedme when you said yes the other night,” Weston started. “Even when you changed your mind, I was still shocked… admittedly a bit nervous too. I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while since we first met.”
My eyes widened at his confession about his nerves. Thoughts of the library forced their way into my head. I tried to push them back. The fight was pointless because Weston sat in front of me, distractedly calm and attractive and capable of being nervous because of me. My cheeks flushed. I could feel sweat dampening my sweatshirt. I should have worn something lighter. Sweatshirts around Weston was a recipe for disaster.
“Remember when you gave up your seat?” Weston continued.
I frowned and looked down at the bed. “I’m sorry? You asked if I preferred the bed or not.”
He laughed and shook his head. “No. On the first day of the semester, in Design. Some girl was complaining about the vents above our desk. You were sitting behind us. You got up, and you offered to switch seats. Your skin was covered in goosebumps the entire class.”
“Me switching seats with some random girl and almost freezing to death made you want to… start a casual relationship with me?” I frowned, trying to wrap my head around the oddness of it all.
“The next day you offered to have your portfolio critiqued by the professor as an example,” Weston continued. “Your hands were shaking underneath the table. Even after the critique finished, you were still shaking.”
I cringed, knowing that Weston witnessed my anxiety taking over me. The professor had been brutal that day. And having my work displayed on a projector did nothing for my ego. Every mistake was on display, picked apart by classmates that had wanted to get in our professor’s good graces.
“Then -”
I exhaled loudly. “GoodLord. What other embarrassing thing have you witnessed?”
Weston gave me a small smile. “You defended me. Most times, when you spoke up in class, it’s difficult to hear you. I have to strain. But, that day, you were loud and your voice was clear.”
My forehead wrinkled. I tried to go through weeks of memories, but everything blurred together. Nothing started sticking until the library incident. Even that memory blurred around the edges with only the most shocking detail standing out, Weston’s lips on mine.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I don’t remember.”
He shook his head, showing it wasn’t a big deal. “I’m not even sure you registered what you were saying. It was the second critique day.”
“Oh.” I nodded as a few minor details of the day came back to memory. “Yeah, the anonymous day.”
“And everyone went in on one design,” he continued. “My design.”
The memory came back to me in an instant. The design that was on the projector looked like something fresh out of the early 2000s. And the argument was that it was too early to be paying homage to that decade. Personally, I didn’t see the point of limiting ourselves to a timeline of when we could and couldn’t pay homage to a decade that meant something to us.
“You called them,” Weston chuckled a little. “Crowd-pleasers and over-analysts who were too afraid to design things they actually liked. That shut everyone up for a good minute. You put your hand over your mouth and kept it there for the rest of the class. You were my hero.”
“God, they were being so pretentious,” I told him, falling back into my disappointment from weeks ago. “What’s the point of design if you’re not going to experiment? Is this college going to churn out a bunch of carbon copies who ‘read the market’ to satisfy some vague set of standards? I know the industry is a game, but some of us have to stand up for something different if we’re ever going to create art interesting enough to admire.”
It was quiet in the room for a second. My fingers started fidgeting with the collar of my shirt. I rarely went off on rants like that in front of people I didn’t know well. Did my words sound too judgmental? Weston probably saw me as some loser who naively thought she could change the world. I didn’t want to change the world. I just wanted people to at least try to lean into whatever called to them.
“Exactly,” Weston finally said with a smile on his lips. “That’s why I play devil’s advocate for Comic Sans.”
I froze. After a beat, I burst into laughter, thankful for his ability to make me feel less like a raging geek. I held up my hand. “Okay, now, that’s too far. Admirable, but too far.”
“Someone’s gotta do it,” he teased.
I rolled my eyes and grinned. “Now you’re losing me.”
“We’ll debate it later,” Weston decided with a wave of his hand. “The point is you do things that make you physically uncomfortable. You’re brave. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that’s a huge part of why I'm attracted to you. But, also, I have this urge to protect you when you’re being brave. To…”
