"Oh, thanks." She sets them both down and stares into the depths of the latte.
"You okay?" I ask as I sip my black coffee.
"Yup," she says, finally picking up her latte and taking a sip. She gets whipped cream on the tip of her nose, and I can't resist reaching out and wiping it off with my finger. She jerks and then watches as I slip my finger into my mouth.
"You had a little something on your nose," I say and prepare for the latte to get thrown in my face, but it doesn't happen.
"You're . . ." she starts to say, but doesn't finish.
"I'm . . . what?"
"I don't even know what I'm doing here with you." I don't either. It's not just that she's smart and beautiful and sassy. I just . . . I really like being around her.
I don't answer her, and we eat and drink in silence for a few minutes.
"Why did you pick developmental psychology?" Very smooth. Taking the spotlight from her and throwing it on me. Okay, I can play that game.
"I love kids and I want to help them. So many kids don't have a voice, and I don't think that's right." There's a lot more to it, but that's all she's getting right now.
"Huh," she says.
"Yeah, it doesn't really jive with the tattoos and everything, does it?" I'm no stranger to people being surprised by me.
"Not really, but that's okay." I hope it's okay with her. Usually I don't give a shit if anyone approves of me or not, but I want Freya to.
"I transferred here because I wanted to," she blurts out as she finishes her latte. Her tone is defensive, as if she's trying to throw off an attack.
"Okay, that's cool," I say, not sure how to respond.
"It was my choice," she says. She opens her mouth to say something else and then looks down at her phone and then up at me.
"I need to go. Um, thank you for the coffee," she says and then she's gone, and I'm left still puzzling over the girl with the beautiful name.
5
Freya
That absolute bastard. He almost got me to talk about things I don't want to talk about, and all he had to do was smile and stare at me with those eyes. I'm more upset with myself for letting it happen. I'm usually much better at protecting myself. Must be the beard. Or the tattoos. Or the way he moves. Or any number of a bazillion things about him that made me feel gross fluttery things in my stomach.
I'm normally better at keeping my shit together, but something about Rhett just makes me . . . vulnerable. As if he can see through me. See through the sass and the snark into the deep and soft parts of me that I cover for everyone else.
I don't like it. At all.
I rush back to my apartment from the library, half wondering if he'll follow me, like in a movie. It'll start raining and then he'll grab my arm and we'll yell at each other and then kiss or something.
Of course, my life isn't a movie and none of that happens. Even if I wanted it to happen. I don't want to kiss his stupid face. I also don't want him to do anything else with his face.
I groan aloud to myself as I unlock my door and walk into my apartment, dropping my bag. I still have work to do, but it's not getting done tonight. That's for damn sure.
Tonight is a night for no pants and an entire container of Phish Food and Parks and Rec reruns. I'm calling it. The first thing I did was yank off my jeans and throw them in the hamper before digging in the back of the freezer for my emergency ice cream stash. In general, I try to eat as healthy as I can for cheer, but Cheat Day should be my middle name.
I consider calling or texting Mia, but that'll just make me sadder. I really need to call her parents and give them an update. I'm struck with the sudden urge to talk to someone older and wiser than me.
Melissa picks up on the second ring.
"It's our Maine girl," she says, and instantly the sound of her voice makes me feel less like shit.
"Technically I left my heart in Texas," I say and she laughs. One of the things I love most about her is that she always finds the silver lining in any situation. Always. She's sweetness and light, and I am damn lucky that I became best friends with her daughter.
"Aw, we miss you. How is school going?" I gloss over a lot of the bad stuff, but of course, she calls me on it.
"I support you no matter what, sweetheart, but you sound so unhappy. I just don't understand why you felt compelled to go." I bite my lip and try to think of a better excuse than I've already given her. If I'd told her that my parents had cut me off to try and get me to quit cheer, she would have begged, borrowed, or stolen to get me the money to stay in school. I couldn't make her do that after all that she's already done. I'm up to my ears in student loans, and I just happened to get a decent scholarship to come here, so it is what it is. I'm making ends meet. My way.