“You too, Mr. Peters. Anything you’d like to share?” His eyes slide to my left with a slow, bone-chilling precision that wipes the smirk right off Liam’s face.
“Now, where were we?” Carstarp returns to his slides.
“I can’t believe you didn’t seal the deal,” Liam mutters a few minutes later.
I can’t believe it either.
By the end of the lecture, I’ve drawn the same letter so many times into my notebook that the grooves have practically burned into the desk beneath. The world blurs around me, and all that’s left in my brain is her laugh, her smile, and the way she looked at me like she saw something no one else ever bothered to look for.
Every second stretches me, aching, like the pull of a harness, until someone eventually taps me on the shoulder.
“Stevieeeeeee,” the girl croons, dragging my name out like taffy as she scoots her desk closer to mine. She’s vaguely familiar, someone from one of Liam’s parties probably. “I didn’t know you were taking botany.”
The way botany somehow trills out of her mouth jars me back to reality. “I’m not. I was just headed out.” My hands and feet fumble as I simultaneously shove my things into my bag and head for the door.
“Will I see you this weekend?” Her voice follows me,sticky with expectation.
“I—I don’t know…” I weave through the rows without looking back, my usual weekend plans looking less appealing by the second. I can already see it: keggers, hookups, endless debauchery with no remorse in sight. Usually, that thought would thrill me. Now, the idea of another nameless, forgettable night makes my stomach twist.
For the first time in my life, I don’t want to lose myself in a night I’ll forget by morning.
I want to remember every second. I want to savor it.
With my crumpled notes still clutched in my fist, the scribbled E on my page blinks up at me like a beacon. I know exactly where I want to be this weekend.
Withher.
My legs move before my brain catches up, steamrolling across the campus lawn, pounding up the library steps, storming through the business building, until I burst into the communal art studio like a man on fire.
I spot her instantly. Even in a crowd of thousands, surrounded by noise and color, she shines. I stop for a moment, breathless, just to drink her in.
Long legs in frayed denim shorts. Van Halen t-shirt clinging to her like a second skin. Brown hair tucked behind a crocheted bandana, hiding her fringe bangs. She looks like summer and rebellion. Like she belongs everywhere except here—and definitely not with someone like me. Nothing about her screams“ready to commit.”
She told me last night she was leaving for Europe to study art after graduation. Settling down with a second-year med student isn’t in her cards.
But damn it, I have to try.
She’s surrounded by a strange harmony of tie-dye hippies and leather-clad punk rock dudes. They’re all admiring a painting of a monkey holding up a sign that readsSay No to Bananas.
“Do you think this is a symbol for socialism?” one guyasks.
“Totally,” another replies.
“Maybe it’s their way of supporting feminism,” a girl adds.
“Orrrr…” a voice—hervoice—ripples through me, warm and aching. “It’s just a monkey that hates bananas.”
The group goes quiet, but I can’t hold it in. A laugh tears out of me, a loud cackly one. Heads turn, everyone stares. But all I see is her.
Our eyes meet, and in that brief moment, the world around us vanishes. Something flashes behind her eyes, something that makes my chest tighten. She masks it with a soft smile, but I see it. I feel it.
She’s happy to see me.
“Em, you’re wild.” The first girl turns back to the painting. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I’ll, uh…catch up with you guys later,” she tells them, but her eyes never leave mine.
My body moves toward her, helpless. Drawn like a moth to a flame, knowing full well I will burn for her.
