Sweet Nothing(10)
“Are you okay?” His brow furrows as he pulls away. “Look, if you really feel unsafe, we can—”
“No.” My voice is raspy, flustered. “I’m okay. Let’s go. Now.”
Luke doesn’t tell me where we’re going, and I don’t ask. Instead, I wind my arms around his chest and hold on tight. Mold my body to his as we lurch out of the parking lot. He’s solid; strong. Which I’d probably be able to enjoy if I weren’t about to die.
“So, how long have you lived in Miami?” I yell into his t-shirt. Ridiculous, making small talk like this, but maybe it will distract me from the fact that there’s nothing between me and the road but rubber and a few pieces of scrap metal.
He shakes his head and taps his ear.
“Both hands!” I scream.
The road slips beneath us, silver-gray, and then we’re crossing the bay. A tiny part of me wants to drink it all in, watch the world run past in fast-forward. Instead, I stare at the back of Luke’s tanned neck. Every muscle in my body is taut. My heart is thundering, drowning out the wind and traffic and the voice in my head, telling me that even a physical attraction to Luke is dangerous. Salty air slips under my dress and across my skin.
On the other side of the bay, we veer north. The buildings are colorful and square, dipping past slowly now. Palm trees line the median. I force myself to breathe. In and out. In and out. You probably won’t suffer a debilitating accident today. Probably.
Before long, we’re parked behind a pink stucco building. Every nerve in my body is buzzing. From the thrill or the terror, I can’t tell.
“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Luke jumps effortlessly from the bike, then helps me to my feet. I feel woozy, like I’ve just spent a month on a sailboat and am finally reaching dry land.
“It’s all relative.” Every inch of me is sweating. “We’re not maimed or dead, so I guess you could call this a success.” I tug off my helmet and pitch it at him. Hard.
He catches it. “What kind of faculty mentor would I be if I maimed my mentee on the first day?”
“A tor-mentor?” The joke just pops out. Possibly the worst one I’ve ever made. Humiliating.
He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Your jokes are men-torture.”
I can’t help laughing. “Nerd.”
“Hungry nerd,” he corrects me. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
Soon we’re seated inside a tiny restaurant with just a few picnic tables and a dusty concrete floor. The lighting is dim and the fans overhead do nothing but nudge the hot air from one side of the room to the other. The walls are bare, except for one poster: a faded advertisement for a local beer.
“You really know how to charm a mentee,” I joke, fanning myself with the laminated menu in front of me. It’s sticky.
“Just wait. I know it doesn’t look like much, but the food here is incredible.”
“Another first.” I duck to catch my reflection in Luke’s aviators. My bangs are plastered to my forehead, and my cheeks are bright pink from the wind and heat.
“Stop.” He reads my mind. “You look great.” He takes off his sunglasses and deposits them next to the smudged napkin dispenser.
“Oh. Thanks.” I glance down, pretending to scan the menu. But the words on the page don’t register. I can feel his gaze on me, traveling my skin. Frankly, I’m grateful for the table between us. A little space can’t hurt. A reminder that I have to keep him—everyone—at a distance.
“The ceviche here is killer,” Luke murmurs as a waitress deposits two gigantic cups of water with lemon on our table. “Best in Miami. So are the fish tacos. Oh, and they have this mango iced tea that—”
“Sold.” My near-death experience has left me starving.
The waitress nods and heads for the kitchen.
“So,” Luke begins. “I’m supposed to tell you everything there is to know about life at Allford. Which is lame, because you’ll figure things out as you go. So why don’t you tell me your life story instead?”
If I did, you’d run screaming. “Woah. You don’t waste time.”
“True. We have no idea how much time we have in this life. No sense wasting it.”
“Aaaand, things just got deep,” I tease.
“I’m serious,” he laughs. He takes a long swig of water and chews his ice thoughtfully. “Small talk is for people who don’t have anything interesting to say.”
My water glass is starting to sweat. I trace a cursive e on the side of the glass. “What if some people can’t handle other people’s interesting?”