He huffs, highlighter tapping against his textbook in a chaotic rhythm. I finish my class project but leave my laptop open, not in any hurry for once. I have a half hour to kill.
“Business major,” he says, as if he can’t keep his mouth shut. “What sort of business do you want to go into?”
I purse my lips. Mybusinessisn’t exactly…library-friendly. “Solo venture for now. Why English?”
“Whydoes anyone choose English?” he shoots back. “Because I love it. It’s certainly not for the extensive job opportunities or the cash.”
He says it with a ragged sort of resentment I assume comes from having to defend his choice to others. He doesn’t need to do that with me.
“Transcendentalism,” I say, motioning to his textbook. “So you really are acquainted with Emerson.”
“Um, yeah,” he answers at a snail’s pace. “Among others.”
“Thoreau?”
His clear blue eyes appraise me, bafflement there. But also a spark.
“‘All good things are wild and free,’” I quote.
His mouth opens and closes once. “Okay, how the hell do you know Emerson and Thoreau?”
I nearly snort. “It’s certainly not for the extensive job opportunities or the cash.”
He seemingly flounders at his words tossed back at him, but a chime on my phone has me checking the time.
Red eyes me as I close my laptop and collect my things. “You’re leaving?”
“It would seem so. You never did tell me your name, you know.”
He doesn’t offer it now.
I zip up my bag and stand. “See you Wednesday, Red.”
He turns to watch me go. “Um, no? Find a different table next time, Trevor. There are plenty of options elsewhere, and—are you even listening to me? Trevor!”
I chuckle at the indignant huff that follows me across the library’s third floor. It’s briskly cool outside during January in Las Vegas, but by no means what I’d consider cold. My sweater keeps me plenty warm as I walk toward my one and only classfor the day. The professor is judgmental and overly harsh, but at least I only have a few more months I’ll need to deal with him.
I’msoclose to getting my degree. After nearly six years of working multiple jobs and busting my ass around classes, I’m mere steps away.
Of course my uncle would tell me the hustle never stops. You go, go, go until you die.
But I don’t believe that. There has to be more out there than survival. Moments to breathe. To enjoy the wild and free.
Although I won’t be the one to tell Rafael Slade he’s wrong. Not after all he’s done for me.
My class passes quickly, another project added to my never-ending list of to-dos. On my way home, I stop and pick up a whole chicken, seeing as it’s my night to cook. Right before I reach the register, I double back for a jar of olives, fairly certain my uncle polished off what was left of the one in the fridge.
The tattoo shop is as busy as always when I drive past it, parking behind the business in one of the few designated spots for employees. I head up the staircase at the back of the building to the apartment above, the one I share with Rafael. It’s dim inside, so I flick on a light and then another.
I drop the chicken off in the kitchen before heading to my room, peeling my sweater over my head as I go. My phone chimes while I’m tugging on a t-shirt. The text is from an unfamiliar number.
Unknown: Ten bucks for you to fuck a sock. The white kind, like what a football player would wear.
I sigh to myself before typing out an answer.
Me: Sixty and I’ll show you the inside after. 10 PM.
I send the guy—or girl, I don’t know—my payment information, not waiting for a response before I head back to the kitchen. A few minutes later, as I’m seasoning the chicken for a hearty Spanish-style stew, my phone chimes. It’s a different tone than before, one that tells me I’ve received a money transfer.
