“I’m fun.”
“Yeah? Then prove it.”
I lean forward now, daring him to do something spontaneous. His gaze flicks down to my lips. The glint in his eye charges the air, like I’m sitting by the giant Tesla coils at the science museum, bolts of lightning dancing around me. I may not be struck, but it’s all close enough that the hair raises on my arms and my stomach tightens. I gulp and shift, uncomfortable with the new sensation.
But a few thundering heartbeats later, he turns his attention back to his textbook. “Midterms, Chaos.”
A gust of air rushes out of me. Relief. Right? He’s cute, really cute, underneath that grunge-rocker exterior, but he’s also my closest friend here. Random blips of attraction, of curiosity, aren’t worth the risk of losing him. Who would force me to study, or chuckle instead of complain when I get us kicked out of the library for talking too much, or listen to me prattle on with actual interest instead of the dead-eyed stare I get from most people when I can’t make the words stop?
I’ve always made friends easily. People are drawn to you when you’re naturally talkative, the person who always breaks the uncomfortable silence. But there’s a huge difference between making friends and establishing deep friendships. Usually, with time, I either settle into the role of the entertaining friend—our relationship more of a performance—or I have to learn how to temper myself. The enthusiasm that drew people to me quickly becomestoo muchfor most.
Colton’s different. He never rolls his eyes at my excitement. And in those—admittedly rare—moments when I need the calm and quiet, he sits with me in it. He never asks me what’s wrong, like I’m a broken toy whose batteries need to be checked.
I shake off the strange moment between us. “Fine. We’ll save the fun for after midterms. But I’d like it noted that this is against my will.”
He chuckles and tosses another book into my lap. “Move on from calculus and you’ll be happier. Why don’t you work on the midterm essay for Cassia?”
Is it bad that researching my essay sounds barely less miserable than studying calculus?
I groan. “Essays are boring.”
“You realize that’s half of what you’ll do when you’re a professor, right?” he asks without looking up from his book.
I feel a pinch of anxiety at that. My plan has always been to become a Roman history professor like my dad. He’d started me in Italian lessons before I could remember, and Latin lessons weren’t far behind. We watched Roman movies and read Roman books and discussed Roman stories. While I love those talks, these academic journals are tedious.
But I’ll learn to love it.
“I’m just not in the mood for all that reading,” I say. “Don’t you think it’s exhausting?”
Colton shrugs. “I like reading about it. It’s way more interesting than the busy work I’m doing for my business classes. Plus, when I have my face buried in a book, people leave me alone. Usually.”
“If that was your subtle way of telling me to leave you alone and let you study, you’re gonna have to be more upfront. I don’t really do subtle.”
Colton laughs again. “I noticed, Chaos.”
He turns back to his textbook without another word, and I watch him for a few more minutes. Forcing my friendship onhim that first day of class was the best decision I’ve made since coming to Chadoin. It’s surprising, how comfortable I feel with him so quickly. Maybe it’s the way he lets me blabber on without judgment, or how I know those smiles are real because he doesn’t give them out easily. Or maybe it’s what he said on the first day of class.
I like hearing you talk.
“Colt?”
I have to roll my lips together to hold in my laugh at his classic long-suffering sigh. “What is it, Quinn?”
“I thought of the best part about Boston.”
He straightens from his hunched position over the textbook and gestures for me to continue.
I give him my biggest smile. “Getting to meet you.”
He tries to hide his answering smile, but there’s no stopping it. A slight blush takes over his cheeks. “Get back to studying.”
I groan and flip open my book. A couple of minutes later, when I’m fully immersed in an analysis of why yet another emperor was murdered by his own guard for thegood of Rome, Colton clears his throat. I look up to find him watching me with a curious gaze.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Meeting you is the best part for me, too.”
9
