Isaac drops his head back before nodding. “Yeah. Yep. I’ll just use the bathroom first.”
As Isaac slips out of the room, I find the second piece of his poem. Four words this time.
Countless faces I forget.
I tuck it inside his wallet in the hopes he’ll find it at lunchtime. I’m sitting on the floor with my laptop out whenIsaac steps back in the room. He settles next to me, wearing my sweats still.
“Were you ever a barista?” he asks, taking another sip of his drink.
“No.”
“Hm. So you just…figured out how to make it for me.”
His tone is matter-of-fact, but I don’t miss the note of appreciation. I know he has his mother to look after him. His friends, too.
But maybe he’s been missing this more than either of us realized.
“It’s simple, really,” I tell him.
“What is? Making coffee?”
I shake my head. “My motives.”
He looks at me curiously. “Is this where you admit you’re buttering me up for some nefarious reason? Oh my God… You really are going to hunt me, aren’t you? You’ve waited until I let down my guard, and now you’re going to pull out your crossbow, and I’m going to have to run for my actual life. You know I hate running, Trevor.”
“Brat,” I cut in, a laugh amidst my growl. “Would you let me finish before writing your own demise?”
“Yeah,” he ekes out. “Please do.”
I shift his way, brushing some hair out of his eye. “I like making yousmile, Red. That’s what I was going to say. Doing something like this? Spending mere minutes making a drink that puts a smile on your face? It’s the easiest thing.”
Isaac fiddles with the rim of his mug. “I think…not everyone would view it that way.”
“No,” I agree. “But not everyone is your boyfriend.”
He blows out a heavy breath. “So dangerous. For what it’s worth…I like making you smile, too.”
I lean my shoulder against his, pulling my laptop closer when Isaac opens his textbook. We spend the morning studying together, like we so often do, the sky outside the window dark, my own bookshelf beside us instead of the numerous stacks in the library.
It’s peaceful. And it’s over far too soon.
And when Isaac goes, I distract him with a kiss as I slip a single poppy stem through the opening of his bag.
Chapter 25
Isaac
I found the third piece of the poem yesterday, the paper tucked inside my jacket pocket. How or when Trevor managed to slip it in there I have no idea.
It’s now sitting with the others on my nightstand, three pieces of lined paper forming part of a whole. The most recent reads:
Yet in deepest sleep I could count.
And then there’s the flowers. Eight stems, nestled in a vase beside the unfinished poem. Bright red-orange poppies.
I stare at them as I contemplate getting out of bed. I already texted Trevor to let him know I wouldn’t be meeting him at the library this morning. It’s not him. Or even me. It’s just…this fucking day.
I huff, resigning myself to being a turtle, when my phone dings.
