Too scattered. Too difficult.And of course, the cherry on top of my anxiety sundae,too much.
“Not now, Dad,” I grumbled under my breath, slumping lower in my seat.
Movement in my peripheral vision snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts. My stomach dropped. The universe really had it out for me today.
Jasper, aka the funeral fucker, was making his way down the aisle toward my row, eyes locked on the empty seat next to me.
That was the last thing I needed right now.
I grabbed my bag and bolted, sliding down two rows and dropping into the empty seat next to a girl I recognized from a couple of classes but had never spoken to. That didn’t matter, nor did the fact that I was practically close enough to the front for Professor Patel to see the dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep and overthinking.
I dropped my bag with a quiet thud and sank into the seat, exhaling like I’d just escaped a sinking ship.
“On the run?”
I looked over at the girl beside me. She had short blonde hair, shaved close on one side, the long top falling in a messy wave over the other. Her ear was a constellation of piercings—hoops, studs, a tiny crescent moon dangling from one lobe—and her chunky glasses looked like something out of a Pixar movie.
She capped her pen and turned toward me with an easy, amused smile. “Let me guess, finance bro in the fleece vest?”
I huffed a quiet laugh, relieved she didn’t seem annoyed by my sudden invasion. “He asked me out a few weeks ago and then took me to his ex’s grandmother’s funeral.”
“Yikes. I’m Parker, by the way.” She stuck out her hand, nails painted matte purple with tiny white stars. “Part-time esthetician and full-time crystal hoarder.”
“Bella,” I whispered back. “I keep beehives. I’m trying to turn it into a business. Flavored honeys, candles, that kind of thing.”
Her eyes lit up. “That’s right. Honey girl. Your pitch last semester in Professor Young’s class was badass.”
I blinked, surprised she remembered. “Thank you.”
“Bees are cool. Like nature’s tiny alchemists.”
“More like chemists with anger-management issues and a bad reputation.”
Parker laughed, quiet but genuine, and leaned back in her seat as Professor Patel started fumbling with the projector. “Are you local to Portland, or are you a cool kid who commutes like me?”
“Local-ish,” I said. “I have a townhouse up in Rose City, about fifteen minutes from the Roasters’ stadium.”
“Nice.”
“And you?”
She grimaced. “Awful.”
“Your commute is awful?”
“No, that’s where I’m from. Awful, Oregon.” She went back to doodling in the margins of her notebook. “I commute two days a week for in-person classes.”
I blinked. “And Awful is the name of your town?”
“Unfortunately.” She rolled her emerald eyes. “Tiny dot on the map, three hours in each direction if the traffic is on my side. Population four hundred and twelve, with a dairy farm on every corner, including ours.”
“Wow, that’s dedication,” I said, impressed. “Three hours?”
She shrugged. “It’s cheaper than renting in the city, plus I get to help on the farm and keep my side hustles going. The rest of the week, you can find me doing aura readings and Reiki in my mom’s old pottery studio and leading sound baths in the barn on weekends.”
“How do the cows feel about that?”
“Most of them have gotten used to it,” she replied, completely serious. “Sometimes they even moo in harmony.”
