His head whips my way, surprise coloring his features. “Uh… No. Of course not. That’s…not what I meant.”
I hum, setting my bag down as I take a seat. Isaac’s eyes are back on his textbook, but a flush is brightening his cheeks in a wave.
I wonder what he’d say if I brought up thatminenote he wanted me to keep.
“Have a good weekend?” I ask.
“Yes. Fine,” he mumbles, his gaze flicking my way. “You?”
I shrug slightly, my own weekend marred by the shiner I got Saturday evening at the bar. Isaac must notice that very thing because, suddenly, there are wild blue eyes in front of my face and hands moving my head side to side.
“Jesus,” Isaac hisses, his concern making me feel a whole lot better about the deep purple bruise beside my eye.He examines every inch of my face, his hands soft on my cheeks. He seems to realize how intimately he’s touching me—how close he’s moved—because he sits back quickly, his touch feathering away. “Please tell me you made the guy regret it?”
I raise an eyebrow slowly. “What makes you think I didn’t start the fight?”
“Because you’re not that guy. What happened?”
I try to keep my smile in check, preoccupying myself for a moment with setting my laptop up. “Bar fight. Guy clipped me when I broke it up.”
Isaac whistles lowly. “Andhisface?”
“I didn’t hit him back. Didn’t need to,” I tell him. Violence isn’t in my nature, a fact Isaac himself seems to have picked up on.
I’m glad for it.
Isaac shakes his head, the weight of his stare a palpable thing. “I’m not going to lie. I wish I could have seen you in action.”
My lips quirk at the admission. “Is that so? Careful, Red. I’ll think you’re warming to me.”
He scoffs, although amusement dances in his eyes. “I tolerate your presence.”
“Mhm. How very magnanimous of you. Should I get down on my knees to offer my thanks?”
His eyes widen before he clears his throat. Hard. “A bellanda muzzle,” he declares.
I bark a laugh, and Isaac takes a sip of his coffee, hiding his smile with the cup. By unspoken agreement, we both fall silent, trying to focus on why we’re here. Which is our schoolwork. It’s hard with Isaac sitting at my side, his aura as bright as a supernova. He seems to have trouble focusing, too, his hands twitching more than usual, his leg bouncing.
“Okay, why poetry?” he asks in a rush, shifting minutely my way. “You clearly like it. Why?”
If he were anyone else, I’d answer the way I always do. I like reading.
But I can tell Isaac isn’t asking in a surface way. He truly wants to know. And, as an English major, I think he might understand.
“Poetry is honest,” I answer.
There’s a flash of intrigue in Isaac’s eyes. “How so?”
“Words have…weight. They can be heavy or light. They carry intent, and when put together, they have the capability to make us feel. A few words can draw up memories of taste, smell, touch. They can make our pulse race. Or slow. They can hurt. They can heal. That’s poetry, and it doesn’t come from a place that’s analytical. It’s an expression of the heart.”
Isaac is quiet for a moment. “You think hearts are always honest?”
“Yes. I do.”
“What about the sayinga fool in love?”
My shrug is slight. “Is love not the most honest thing we can feel? Regardless of whether or not it may be smart, it’s still true.”
Isaac hums. “You’re a romantic.”
