“You haven’t picked a major because you’re afraid to commit to anything. You won’t take classes at the FAC because you’re afraid to admit how much you love photography. You won’t date. You’ve only had a few hookups and with guys you don’t even really like. They are safe for you.”
I felt like I was being dissected right there on the QC Café table. I was cut open from throat to stomach, and all my insides were laid bare. I looked around to see who was staring at the trainwreck happening at my table, but the crowd was oblivious to how Lana was wielding her psychological scalpel.
I wanted to place my hand over her mouth and tell her to be quiet.
“I’m the same way,” Lana admitted. “I keep picking guys who are bad bets because they do what I expect them to screw me over. That way, it’s never my fault when the relationship fails.”
“I’m not sure what the practical application of your discoveries is,” I said, hurting for both of us. I wished I could make our lives bright, colorful, and delightful as my tilt shift photographs.
“Well, if I knew that bit of information, I wouldn’t have to go to school for six more years to be a licensed psychologist, would I?” Lana said.
“Thanks for nothing. I’m supposed to meet Noah at the library to study.”
She shrugged. “It’s all part of the desensitization plan. More time spent with the real Noah will inevitably result in disappointment and then cure.”
We spent the rest of the lunch eating in silence. Apparently Lana’s analysis of me made her hungry. I guess I could suffer through some hard truths if it meant Lana would stay healthy.
Noah was waiting at the library entrance, his backpack slung over one arm. Cecilia, a tattooed pixie of a girl, was languidly waving people in. I wondered if she lived there, given how often she was in that chair. She definitely exceeded the ten hours of mandatory service.
“Hey, Grace.”
“Noah.” I realized I was more than a little frustrated with him. He was making me confused and off balance with his determined pursuit but talk of friends only.
“How was your Stats &Methodology course this morning?” Noah asked. I was surprised he remembered but then I recalled he knew my entire schedule.
“I didn’t realize that there was so much math involved in psychology,” I told him.
“It is a science course.”
“I know, and apparently there is a lot of statistical analysis of raw data and stuff. I think I need a degree that has no math.”
“English literature,” Noah said.
I grimaced. That sounded almost more painful that math. “Do you have an answer for everything?” I asked. There was no heat in my question, and I knew the response; he held himself with such utter confidence.
“Yes,” he replied, but gave me a wry grin to signal I wasn’t to take the answer seriously.
“Do you have a place here you like to read?” Noah asked me.
I did, but I wasn’t ready to share it with Noah. It was a retreat. “Not really. You?” I asked.
“Definitely.” He took my hand. “Follow me.”
I let Noah lead me through the library. He seemed to know several people, bumping fists, nodding his head, and giving hearty pats on the shoulder to guys that would’ve left a bruise on me. Given that this was Noah’s first year here, the breadth of his acquaintances surprised me, but maybe some of these guys had been to his house or one of his fights.
He led me to a reference section that housed architectural and design books. I rarely came up onto the third floor. It was usually noisy and occupied by students there to socialize rather than study because there was a lounge area with four upholstered chairs and two short sofas arranged into a cozy square. A guy with short reddish-blonde hair, wearing jeans and a white cotton button down, was already sitting there, with a huge stack of books and a contraband cup of coffee. He looked up as we approached.
“What took you so long?” He stood and slapped the back of his hand against the back of Noah’s. “Who’s this?”
“Grace, meet Finn. He’s one of my roommates.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. Noah still hadn’t released me, and I could only do an awkward wave with my left hand. Noah drew me down on one of the sofas next to him.
I settled in next to Noah and pulled out my psychology book. Noah grabbed his laptop, crossed one foot over the opposite leg and stretched out his arm on the back of the sofa, which was so short that his fingers were right behind my hair again. I wondered if the ends of my hair were seeking out his fingers, like little sentient beings searching for warmth. I wanted to lean back and rest my head against his hand. I remembered the comforting weight of it as we had walked to the diner and the sure strength when he had massaged my neck at the Delt house. Lana’s theory about overexposure wasn’t working. I tried to focus on something other than my growing physical response to his presence.