David had begged me to bring him extra water bottles, insisting it was an emergency. And I’d gotten out of my warm, safe bed to catch a bus to retrieve his water bottles from a corner store.
“Everyone else I knew was at the stadium. No one likes leaving during a game,” he defended. “You were my only option.”
“I don’t care about the reason. All I care about is that I was exhibiting peak friend-like behavior. It wouldn’t kill you to do the same.”
“It might,” he joked under his breath.
“Then we’ll both be put out of our misery. A win-win,” I said.
We were silent, glaring so hard we could probably burn through the red-brick buildings and cobblestone walkway.
“Fine,” David said through gritted teeth.
“Fine?” I blinked, and my shoulders loosened ever so slightly.
“What’s this about the periodic table and disinterest?” He gestured with his hand, indicating I had the floor.
I frowned and started walking again.
He didn’t miss a beat, following back into step with me. “What? Now you don’t want me to ask?”
“No, I don’t want you to ask because you don’t actually care. You’ve been forced into it.”
I was going in circles; I knew it. But with the twister of emotion building in my chest, I couldn’t figure out how to plant my feet back on the ground.
“Aren’t most people?” he asked. The dose of genuine curiosity in his tone made me glance at him. “To maintain a friendship, people feel like they have to ask questions about stuff they don’t care about. That’s being forced into it. Maybe in a less obvious way, but still not of their own volition.”
My laugh lacked any sense of amusement. “You can’t be serious. What anti-social boot camp did your folks put you in?”
The muscle in David’s jaw ticked as he directed his gaze forward, expression half-pained, half-furious. For the first time in a long time, I wished I could take a jab back. I didn’t understand why my words settled under his skin, but I did know they’d dug in deep. David remained quiet for the rest of the walk, his presence a waning ember that I feel horrible for nearly snuffing out.
“I’m sorry.”
Those words should have been coming from my mouth, but he’d said them. I looked up at him to find that the color had come back into his cheeks, and his eyes weren’t so hard.
I shook my head. “David, I…”
“I don’t know if I ever said thank you for the bottles.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You were a friend to me that day. And you’re right, I could do better at returning the favor since we spend so much time together. It’s only fair.”
It all sounded so logical and to the point. I appreciated it. But I craved something more. I wanted something colorful and connecting. It’d be nice to be on the same side for once in our lives. Because honestly, over the past few years, Ihaveconsidered being David’s friend. And unfortunately, there were merits to the idea.
For one, David was focused. He could—and most of the time preferred— to stick to a routine. He ate lunch at 1 p.m. , dinner in the café at 9 p.m, was up at 6 a.m. every week to run, and 7:30 a.m. on the weekends.
He didn’t waver in the wind. Every one of his opinions (regardless of how irritating they could be) was steady. He stood in his belief without the fear of standing out in a crowd. No one could talk him out of something unless they had definite evidence of his being wrong, and David wasn’t so far up his own ass that he couldn’t admit when he was wrong.
And on our best days, our conversations made me get out of my head and into the present. His nihilism was an anchor to the present—something I often abandoned for the what-if.
“Thank you, Yara,” he said. “Really. I was going through a rough time, and you pulled through for me.”
My cheeks burned because his brown eyes softened as he looked at me. There was genuine gratitude in his voice. My eyes flickered to his lips, mind rewinding to a few minutes ago when he’d blown on my hand to disrupt my nervous tick. He hadn’t used the picking against me yet. Something told me he never would.
What the hell was happening? Why did he sound nice? Seemed like someone I could hold hands with down this cobbled walkway?
“You’re… welcome.” I cleared my throat and looked toward the trees, street lamps, and anything else that wouldn’t make me feel like I was struggling for air.
We were at my bus stop now. There were a couple of students sitting on the bench, so we lingered a few feet away. Whether it was maintaining our own privacy or respecting theirs, I’m not sure.
“It’s about five minutes out,” I told David after checking the schedule on my phone. “So if you have something to say or a dare to impart, now’s your time.”
