Eternal Eden

Eternal Eden

by

Nicole Williams

Copyright 2011

Smashwords Edition

CHAPTER ONE

HAUNTED

A mark of destiny.

That’s what Mom called the star-shaped birthmark on the inside of my left wrist. She said it was destiny’s way of marking me so the world would know to have something big planned for yours truly. I’m sure if she were still here today she would have changed her mind and believed what I did now—my mark of destiny was more like a magnet for tragedy.

 Mark or magnet aside, something had led me to Corvallis, Oregon—home of Oregon State University—several days before winter quarter was scheduled to commence. I hovered beside the only remaining companion in my life, unable to muster up the courage to take my first step in this new phase of life.

The monstrosity before me would be serving as home sweet home for the next seven months, and if it had a chain-link fence topped with curls of barbed wire, it could have been mistaken for a penitentiary instead of a dorm. 

I took a good look at the brick and mortar face of the change I’d selected for myself, and an air of finality settled upon me; confirming what I’d known, but tried so hard to overcome. No matter where I went, I could never leave my past behind. It would always haunt me.

With this cheery thought, I sucked in a deep breath and got after that first step. The next thing I felt was the toe of my sneaker stumble over something—as if a foretelling of what was to come—and I flailed my arms forward, preparing to break my fall.

Whoa, there. A set of arms reached out and stopped me before I got up close and personal with the sidewalk. Curb check.

I righted myself and brushed aside the mess of hair that had fallen over my face. Thanks, I said, blowing aside the final strands. Those curbs must have some sort-of vendetta against me.

Not your first run-in, huh?

Not the last either, I said, finally able to see who was responsible for sparing me a set of scraped palms.

He was the kind of guy who would turn a lot of women’s heads—he had that high-school star of the football team quality—and there was something in his eyes that led me to believe he was fully aware of this.

Paul Lowe, he said, extending his hand. Junior, Captain of the basketball team, and heroic curb slayer.

I placed my hand in his, attempting to stifle my smile. Bryn Dawson. Sophomore, Scrabble player extraordinaire, and thankful to the mighty curb slayer, I said with mock seriousness.

Nice to meet you, Bryn. So you're new here?

My smile waned. Great . . . was it that obvious? All I wanted was to fade into the crowd. That’s what I’d managed to do my whole life, why couldn’t I do it now when it actually mattered to me?

I’d always been that girl you could have seen at graduation and wondered if you’d gone to school with her for the past four years. Back then, it was a curse, now I craved anonymity like a socialite craved the limelight.

I cleared my throat. How did you know?

He raised his eyebrows. Several things tipped me off: one—the sweet car, he began, pointing his turquoise colored eyes in the direction of my vintage Camaro. Two—the cardboard boxes in the back seat. Three—you look more lost than a Delta Gamma in a study session, and four . . .—he laughed a few notes and stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans—actually, I'll keep four to myself. The first three reasons should be convincing enough.

Another girl throwing herself at you, Paul? A female student walked up behind him and circled her hands around his arm, giving me a look that had enough firepower behind it to decimate the campus and surrounding community.

Hey, Amy, Paul said, his eyes narrowing.

Who’s your new friend? she asked him while looking me over top to bottom, no attempt to disguise that she disapproved of every millimeter of my 5 foot 10 inch frame.

This is Bryn. She’s new here, he said, winking at me as if sharing some secret, before tilting his head to the girl glommed to his arm. This is Amy Kirkpatrick.

She was that girl in school all the girls would have died to look like, and all the boys would have died to go out with. Her legs were as bronze as they were long and the denim skirt that adorned them didn’t leave much leg to the imagination.

His girlfriend, she said promptly, the warning in her voice more severe than the look on her face.

Paul raised his eyebrows at her. I wasn’t aware that’s what we were still calling it.

She shot him a look that would have crippled me, before glaring back at me. I crossed my arms tight into my stomach, wondering yet again why girls like Amy sought me out as a target for their games of malice. Always the comedian. You have to watch out for him, Bryn. If you’re not careful he’ll have you hanging on his every word and believing he’s the unofficial prince of OSU.

I wasn’t sure how to respond, and I didn’t want to get in the middle of some lover’s quarrel on my first day, so I plastered on a smile and turned to retrieve one of the boxes in my car.

Let me help you get situated, Paul said, taking a step forward and pushing up his sleeves. He reached for the box I was pulling from the back seat.

I’ll do it, Amy said, striding forward and adhering herself to Paul again. I glanced down at the four inch heels on her boots and wondered how she could walk, let alone carry a box that easily weighed half her body weight. Hey Melanie! she yelled across the courtyard.

A female who was the brunette equivalent to Amy turned her head from the group of girls who looked like they were dressed for some high-fashion magazine photo shoot. Wasn’t I in Oregon, home of Birkenstocks and polar fleece? My jeans, sneakers and plainness were clearly going to stick out here as much as they had back home.

Come help me get the new girl situated. You can catch up on your daily gossip later.

Really, I’ll be alright, I said, dreading being sandwiched in a tiny dorm room with her and her friend.

Amy raised her hand at my face, silencing me, before turning to Paul. You can’t afford to miss Organic Chem if you want to pass the MCAT’s this spring.

Paul shrugged his shoulders. I can skip.

Don’t be silly, Amy interrupted, grabbing the box he had in his hands. She pinched it with the tips of her fingers and curled her nose. This way Bryn will have a chance to make a couple new girlfriends.

Paul’s eyebrows peaked; mine followed suit.

Grab a box, Mel, she instructed, once her friend sauntered her way to us. Amy shoved Paul with her hip. Off you go.

Alright, alright he said, taking a step back and looking at me as if still undecided. I’ll catch up with you later, Bryn.

Okay, I said, knowing the only time I’d see him again would be in passing. Guys like Paul didn’t seek me out. They avoided me like ordinary was contagious. Thanks for saving me from this nasty curb, I said, stubbing my foot against it.

Anytime, he said, making an exaggerated bow. At your service.

Amy rolled her eyes, her back now to Paul.

I pretended not to notice and headed over to the passenger side to pull out another box. When I turned around, Amy was right in my face, her eyes sparking with anger. She took a step forward and crossed her arms. You must think you’re so clever.

My face contorted with its confusion. I didn’t understand how I’d offended this girl so much just by showing up today. She couldn’t possibly think I was a competitor in the dating arena she traversed. She was a ten, I was a five . . .  maybe a six on a good day.

It takes a heck of a lot more than some lousy damsel in distress act to hook Paul Lowe.

I was too bewildered to respond, but something told me she wasn’t interested in whatever my response would have been.

Take a number and get it line, she sneered, her eyes narrowing into slits before she dropped my box at my feet.

Like the rest of us. Melanie giggled. Amy spun on her heel and grabbed her friend’s hand as they marched off together, leaving behind their warm welcome.

Thanks for the advice, I whispered, stooping down to pick up the box, reminding myself that I wasn’t here to make friends.

I was here because I’d stood over an atlas of the United States that last night in my Ivy League dorm room, and with my eyes closed, crashed my finger down on some fortuitous location. When I opened my eyes, I found my index finger crushing the state of Oregon, right over the top of Corvallis, home of the OSU Beavers.

I was here to waste away a few years of my life, until I had to go onto something else where I would waste away a few more years. This was all just some crappy cover—I already knew who I was and what I’d done. I didn’t need the whole college experience to better define me.

CHAPTER TWO

WILLIAM

Professor Roberts slid last week’s quiz facedown and patted my desk, as if trying to ease the shame of the grade circled in red pen. If I was lucky it would be a D, but since I was never lucky, it was likely an F; F for flunking, failure, forget-about-law-school.

I’d squeaked through winter quarter an eighth of a grade point above academic probation, but only two weeks into spring quarter, I doubted I’d make it another two before having my student file tagged with the dreaded term. Wouldn’t be the first time.

You’re on the Welcome Wagon Committee, right? Professor Roberts asked, drawing my attention from the quiz where I was still debating if I should turn it over to inspect the damage.

Yep, I answered automatically. I was on every and any committee, team, group, or club that would have me. I was desperate to fill every waking second with something to keep my thoughts from wandering to that night nearly six months back, and since my academic aptitude had taken an extended vacation, I’d signed up for three intramural teams with varying degrees of a ball and racket, an outreach program for disadvantaged children at a local elementary school, chess club (I didn’t know how to play and was the only female, but the guys at least didn’t treat me like I was a mutated form of the bubonic plague), and I mucked out stalls twice a week at a local horse rescue shelter.

I was just assigned a new student who is starting next week and requested a tour of the campus. Professor Roberts was my academic advisor too, although since he hadn’t even known how many credits it took to graduate when I’d ask him, I’d consider the title advisor a stretch.

No problem, I said, shoving my quiz in my bag without peeking at the grade. If I didn’t look, I could live in a state of denial that I’d outdone myself by earning a C. I’ve got Monday afternoon open.

Actually,—he cleared his throat—the student requested the tour for this evening.

I stood up and swung my bag over my shoulder. It’s Friday, there’s three dozen parties taking place tonight if the new student wants to get a feel for college life at OSU. I, however, hadn’t taken part in any of these college rites of passage yet. I was a bonafide freak-of-nature by my college-aged peer’s standards. I’m sure it’s not that big of a deal if we wait until Monday. I was irked someone would think they were so important to need a tour on a Friday night with a few hours notice, and even more irked I didn’t have anything planned to have an excuse to fall back on.

Another clearing of his throat, and not in the I-need-a-lozenge-kind-of-way. The student’s family made a considerable donation to the school—nothing like the all-powerful buck to bend people over backwards—and I already told him we’d have no problem getting a tour arranged for tonight.

A him—perfect. Just what the world needed; another entitled, rich, man-boy skating through life on his daddy’s designer coat-tails.

Of course if you’re not available tonight I can do some checking to see if someone else is available, he said, as a gesture. We both knew there was no one but me on the committee—at the whole university—who would be free on a Friday night.

I’ll do it, I sighed under my breath. No problem.

His shoulder’s fell. Great, thanks Bryn. He stepped aside and let me pass by. He said he’d be at the MU commons at seven tonight.

Mr. Money-Bags had already set a time and location before anyone had agreed to it. How typical. He was feeding into every stereotype of a rich boy I had.

Name? I called out over my shoulder, shoving the auditorium door open.

William, he hollered, the name rolling down the aisle and blowing over me. I got a sudden chill. William Winters.

How am I supposed to find him in the MU? The building was huge and packed to overflowing with bodies around the clock.

If it’s anything like when I met him for breakfast this morning in the cafeteria—he scratched his head, chuckling—he’ll be surrounded by a throng of women.

Super—a rich, entitled, womanizer. My favorite kind of human beings to be around.

I crunched through the wintered grass towards the MU a little past seven, kicking a pinecone in an effort to release some tension. I was still irritated I’d been conned into this, and more irritated I’d gone through two outfits before settling on the fitted cashmere sweater and dark skinny jeans I had on. I tried convincing myself that my indecision had nothing to do with the new student I’d be playing tour guide for tonight, but the only other time I’d gone through several wardrobe changes had been . . . never. Not even on a first day of school. 

I sent another pinecone sailing into the slithering fog, contemplating turning around and changing into a mismatched pair of baggy sweats and throwing my freshly straightened hair under a baseball cap. I didn’t need—or want—the approval of the new guy. As a matter of fact, I hoped he didn’t approve of me at all.

The fog gave way to the hazy shape of the MU building, its windows glowing like a beacon light. Eager to be rid of the winter chill still hanging in the damp Oregon air, and wishing even more I had a sweatshirt to cover the thin sweater, I jogged the remaining distance and heaved the glass entry door open. I crossed my arms, rubbing them together to create some heat, as I scanned the room.

It took me two blinks to find him—although I couldn’t exactly see him. Professor Robert’s had underestimated when he’d said a throng of women. I’d call it more of a gaggle; a strutting, eyelid-fluttering, glossy gaggle of female co-eds about five deep.

Now I was even angrier with myself for caring so much about what I looked like tonight because I’d come down to their level. That level being where one’s worth came from whatever a man thought of them, and pathetically, my best attempts didn’t even register with the sparkling, twirling gaggle of spinners before me.

I turned to leave, knowing I’d owe Professor Roberts a huge apology on Monday, when a voice cut through all the commotion. I’m supposed to be meeting someone here, but she’s already ten minutes late.

I spun on my heels, that quick-trigger Irish anger rising up. Here I was, taking time out of my life—on a Friday night, no less—to roll out the welcome carpet for him and he had the audacity to announce to his fan club that I was running late. So maybe I wasn’t going to write him off until I gave him a piece of my mind.

I felt my eyes narrowing as I took a step forward like a charging bull, when the sea of girls parted, and there he was. His eyes found me without searching the room, as if he knew exactly who I was and where I’d be.

I shivered—no doubt because I was still chilled—and tried to turn my eyes away. They wouldn’t be deterred, something was overriding my system and keeping them grounded on him. A smile that was slow and smooth—too smooth—crept over his face, and with each millimeter it inched up, my heart jacked up exponentially.

Great, now not only was I trying to dress the part, I was acting the part of the bewitched women surrounding him.

He waved his hand, and began weaving through the sardined bodies in my direction, while a tried again to look away. I couldn’t do it—and the most frustrating thing about it was that I didn’t have a clue why I was staring all moon-eyed at the new guy. I didn’t have a type, but I knew it wouldn’t have been him. Everything about him looked polished and finely tuned, in that I’m-so-out-of-your-league-we’re-not-even-playing-the-same-game way.

I took a step back, and then another, something inside knowing I should turn around, run in the opposite direction and forget I’d ever seen him. It was like fate was whispering it to me.

 He waved at me again, gesturing for me to wait. I was drowning in indecision when he took his final step in front of me, escape no longer a possibility.

I’ve been waiting for you, he said, taking a step closer. The most peculiar shade of pale blue eyes stared back at me—the color of arctic glaciers. It was out of place given his copper skin and hair that was a shade or two shy of black.

I glared as much as I could. Just how long have you been waiting?

He crossed his arms, looking as if my half-hearted glare amused him. Too long, he said with exaggeration. I’ve been waiting for you far too long. His voice was that deep, smooth tone that no matter what was said, it made everything seem like it was going to be alright.

You looked like you were well attended to while you had to wait a whole ten minutes for me, I said, eyeing the dozens of eyes glaring my direction.

Yeah, but they’re not you, he said. My very own tour guide for the night, or for however long it takes. He smiled again, sending me into a spiral of reactions that could have been bad lines plucked from a cheesy romance novel: everything blurred around him, my breath got caught in my throat, and I felt tingly all the way down to my toes.

I’d waited my whole life to react this way to someone, why—when the monumental moment finally arrived—did it have to be in response to a guy like him?  A guy that would, on any other day had I not been the only one available to be at his beckon call, would pay more attention to the beige-colored walls behind me than a girl like me.

 I’m sure your fan club would have no problem giving you a tour of our illustrious campus, I said dryly. Perhaps even an in-depth study in the classroom anatomy is taught.

He weaved his fingers through the long tufts hair, his face curving around an expression that screamed amusement. You’re feistier than I thought you’d be.

Sorry to disappoint, I replied, trying to look everywhere but into his eyes.

On the contrary. I’m pleased.

My heart stopped and jumped started at the same time. I wanted to flog myself for reacting this way to him, and that’s what responded, I can die knowing I fulfilled my calling in life, I said, crossing my arms. I’ve pleased a man, my life’s sole mission. The words spilled out before I realized the double meaning. My blush was as instant as my embarrassment.

He didn’t miss it, either. Pleased a man indeed, he said, a glint in his eye, although his cheeks colored in a way that made me wonder if all his swagger was nothing but a show.

I rolled my eyes and looked away from him.

Shall we? he said, sweeping his hand towards the door I’d just come through.

Why don’t we head to the cafeteria first so we can go over what classes you’re taking, I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was doing. I’d lost my mind, quite literally. Had he asked me to show him to the gym or science lab, I couldn’t have, my mind was a complete blank. We can do the tour after, I said, hoping to buy some time to put the pieces of my mind back in place.

You’re the expert. I’m just along for the ride.

I turned and headed for the cafeteria, a chorus of sighs following us down the hall.

It’s brutal to lift their hopes only to let them down, I said when he shouldered up next to me, nodding back at his admirers who looked fanatical enough to sport t-shirts with his face on them.

He looked at me like he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.

Surely you didn’t miss the effect you had on every one of those girls back there, I said, no inflection of a question in my voice.

His eyebrows knitted tighter together, before a smile—that was all swagger—ironed them back to normal. Did I have the same effect on you?

I looked straight ahead as I answered, It takes more than a smile and a schmooze to make my heart go pitter-patter.

That, he said, all matter-of-fact, I did expect.

He’d apparently arrived with as many preconceptions of me as I had of him.

You know, I said, flipping my hair over shoulder. This whole egomaniac thing you’re trying to sell doesn’t fool me.

"Ego-maniac?" he repeated in a tone that suggested he’d never heard the phrase.

I’m so sure.

E-G-O-maniac as in cocky, conceited, full of oneself, afraid to show the teensiest bit of vulnerability, I said, flashing my hands in front of me, so on and so forth.

He exhaled. Isn’t that what women want? It seems I’ve heard somewhere that nice guys finish last. Besides, you’re one to talk, he said, his voice elevating. With your quick witted answer to everything. You had a chip on your shoulder before you even met me from whatever preconceived ideas you had of me. So, who exactly do you want me to be? He sounded serious—scary serious—but I knew he was likely trying to bait me. I wasn’t going to be hooked so easy.

"You could never be anything like what I want," I lied, weaving through the bustling hall lined with students discussing their plans for the weekend.

A flicker of hurt registered in his eyes before it was gone, replaced by his signature swagger. So you must be one of those people who believe in soul mates, love-at-first-sight, that whole bit, right? He didn’t wait for me to reply. That lovely rose-tinted glasses idea that there is only one person out there made just for you. This time he paused and looked over at me, waiting for an answer. I pulled my lips into a tight line of resolve. Stop me if I’ve got it wrong.

I lowered my eyes, letting my silence answer.

Keeping stride with me, he tilted his head down until his gaze met mine. For the first time I saw an emotion in them that didn’t make me want to roll my eyes. Lucky for us, I’m one of those people too.

I roared to a stop, my mouth dropping ever so slightly against my best intentions. What was rich boy’s diagnosis . . . other than stupefying me?

He sauntered up to the end of the line of students waiting for food that was more nitrate than nutrition, watching me with unyielding eyes while I made my way up to him once I unfroze myself. I turned my attention away from him, too flustered to know what to say or do next.

I drilled holes into the student’s head in front of me, willing it to move so I could be done with this night, until I realized we were at a standstill. I peeked to the side, where I caught sight of the culprit for the hold-up.

A student with an overflowing backpack was flustered red, fumbling in his pockets. The others behind him were growing impatient, tapping fingers over crossed arms.

I got it. I pulled a bill from my backpack’s zipper pocket and rushed to the front of the line. I curled the money in the cashier’s hand without another word and ducked back to my place in line.

Thanks, the student called back to me, barely catching a textbook as it toppled from his bag. Thanks a lot.

Don’t mention it, I answered, trying to draw as little attention as possible.

William was reviewing me, waiting for me to say something. I didn’t have a clue what he was expecting.

What? I asked finally, peering at him from the side.

Do you know him?

No. I shrugged.

He paused. Then why did you pay for him?

Wouldn’t you have?

You can’t answer a question with a question, he said, as we took a few steps forward. Finally making progress.

It was only a few bucks, I said, retrieving another bill from my backpack.

Exactly. Anyone of the dozen people in front of us could have done the same thing, but didn’t. He cut in front of me and handed the cashier a crisp bill before I could pay. "Why did you?"

Are you this persistent with everything?

Most things, he said, a wide grin lighting up his face.

More people should come to each other’s rescue, I said looking away. That’s it. Is that explanation enough for you?

He looked at me again in that unapologetic, unheeding way, as if he didn’t care anything about holding up the line or what those people standing in line behind us would think of the way he was staring at me.

Come on. He winked, nodding to the cafeteria entrance I’m famished.

I didn’t miss the inflection in his voice, and what was worse, I liked it.

Are you getting ready to hibernate? I said, eyeing the heaps of food that resembled an edible model of the Rocky Mountains.

He grinned, hooking a chair with his foot and scooting it next to me. It seems arguing with you gives me quite the appetite.

He took a seat and inched the chair closer to me, so close our elbows nearly touched, and despite a sliver of air and a couple of garments separating us, there was a current sparking—coming from his skin or mine, or both, I couldn’t tell.

I had my campus map and highlighter at the ready, pretending to focus my attention on the poorly xeroxed copy and took a swig of my coffee, which would be serving as my dinner tonight since, unlike William, the knots in my stomach induced by the man beside me had taken away my appetite.

I took another sip of the coffee while he terrorized a piece of pizza dotted with oil-pooled pepperoni.

I curled my nose. Is that good?

Not really, he answered, sawing off another bite.

Then why are you eating it?

He swallowed, then took a long drink of soda—a calculated attempt at stalling. Because I’m nervous, and I eat when I’m nervous, he said, looking at me from the side.

Despite the loose dark-wash jeans and charcoal canvas jacket he was wearing, I could tell the body wrapped within was lean and muscled, leading me to assume he was rarely nervous.

Why are you nervous? I asked, trying not to think about his body.

Another long drink of soda before his eyes looked hard into mine. "You make me nervous. I can’t seem to say the right thing, or do the correct thing. It seems anything I do only makes you madder, and I want you to like me. I really want you to like me."

My stomach flipped, then flopped, and repeated, before I had a chance to process everything. Guys like him didn’t like girls like me, I knew that. Everyone knew that—it was a pubescent right of passage learning the etiquette for what kinds of people could date other kinds of people, and nowhere on this planet would I date him. Not that I wanted to anyways . . .

I could tell he was staring at me, straight through me again, and I knew I’d be done if I let my eyes meet his. My wall of indifference and façade of irritation would crumble and I would be revealed for what I really was: a girl who felt destiny climbing up her legs like a tangle of ivy. A girl who wasn’t only falling hard for the man sitting next to her, but wasn’t fighting the free-fall, despite knowing she should.

I distracted myself by looking across the room, immediately regretting it. A set of eyes caught mine—mascaraed, lined and narrowed with the expertise of a true mean girl.

Amy stumbled theatrically across the cafeteria, falling into the arms of the nearest male, whose face lit up like he’d hit the jackpot. Her followers looked back at me, laughing through their nibbles of lettuce, one forming an L with her hand she held to her forehead. Could I fall any deeper down the rabbit hole tonight?

Amy righted herself and slid her hands down her silver dress. She looked more like she was ready to attend the Oscar’s than pretend to eat her dinner of celery and lemon wedges. The way she swayed caught the lights in the cafeteria and made her sparkle like a disco ball. Why was it the meaner the girl, the more she sparkled?

William turned his head to see what had my attention, just in time to see Miss Sparkle come to a stop behind him, hitching a hand on her hip. What have we here, she said, looking him over like she was imagining him without his clothes, and enjoying every square inch of it.

I’m Amy Kirkpatrick—your express ticket to the front of the line here at OSU. She extended her hand palm facing the ground, as if expecting him to kiss it. She waited, but when William didn’t take it, or even look at it, she drew it back and ran it through her hair. And you are? she asked, smiling in a way I imagined had been passed down to the gorgeous girls around the world for generations. That, demure, interested-but-not-too-interested, luscious kind of smile that was equal parts lip and teeth.

William turned away from her and shoved his tray across the table. Not interested.

Her smiled waned for one heartbeat before it was back in all its former splendor. I like when a man plays hard to get. It’s a breath of fresh air from dimwits throwing themselves at your feet. Despite William’s back to her, she tossed her hair, releasing the scent of perfume that was sweet—too sweet. Like artificial sweetener. Why don’t you sit with me and my friends? I promise we won’t leave you disappointed.

No, he answered instantly. I’m going to sit with Bryn and her friends when they arrive.

Bryn flies solo, she laughed, as if it was obvious. Other than the time she threw herself at Paul, I haven’t seen her show interest in anyone.

William’s shoulder’s tensed. Paul? Is he your boyfriend? he asked, looking at me.

No, I answered, shaking my head a little too emphatically.

She wishes. She couldn’t even tempt him enough for a one night stand. Her eyes regarded me like I was a harlot. I know all about you California girls.

Is Oregon the lone state of purity now? I snapped back, having a hard time keeping my mouth shut.

She rolled her eyes and looked away from me like she’d already wasted too much time on me. When you change your mind, here’s my number. She placed a folded piece of pink embossed paper next to him, before strutting away from us. I imagined peacock feathers coming from her butt to lighten my mood. It worked, at least until I saw William’s hand close over Amy’s parting gift.

Somehow, that made me more angry than anything else had tonight.

I know your type, I said, shoving my chair a few feet away from him. Hoping space would get me away from whatever hypnosis I’d fallen under with him. I wasn’t that girl—that girl that batted their eyes and laughed in all the right spots. 

He scooted in, erasing the space I’d found to separate us. You do, huh?

Yep. I crossed my arms and inched back, right into the empty table behind me. Rich, single child, a girlfriend for every night of the week, drives some fancy sports car, majoring in girls and drinking. My tone was acid, and it felt like it rising out of my throat.

He didn’t scoot any closer, but he squared his body so it was facing me. I’m a middle child in a family of five, never had a girlfriend, I drive a ‘68 Bronco, and I’m majoring in pre-med. His voice was calm, patient.

What about the rich? I said, his calm only fueling my anger, and did he really expect me to believe he’d never had a girlfriend? He could have told me he’d been born on Pluto ten-thousand years ago and I would have accepted this easier.

He crossed his arms over his chest, looking chagrined. I shouldn’t be penalized for having worked hard.

Ha! You’re what, 21 . . . maybe 22? I snapped. You’ve had such a long time to work so hard, also known as Daddy’s trust fund.

His forehead creased. You’re one to point your finger. That car of yours doesn’t come cheap. And you’ve got single, pampered child written all over your face.

How do you know what kind of car I drive? I said, bristling from his single-child comment. I had no say in my parent’s choice to be a one-child family.

He paused for the shortest moment, before his answer rolled out, It’s kind-of hard to miss a vintage piece of American heavy metal in mint condition on a college campus.

So you think you have me all figured out because of the car I drive? I shouted.

Kind of like you think you know me because I’ve got a little more cash in my bank account than the next guy? His voice was still calm. Infuriatingly calm.

I do know who you are, and I’m not about to be fooled by your attempts at slumming it with the middle class students like me. I jolted up. And the car? It was part of an inheritance.

Some inheritance, he said, looking at me in a knowing way. Rich grandparents?

Nope, I answered, my voice ice. Just dead parents.

His face fell until a look that was either pity or understanding filled his eyes. I didn’t wait around long enough to find out which it was.

I shoved out of my chair and rushed out of the cafeteria, leaving him behind with the campus map, my half-drank cup of coffee, and the desire to see him again so much I knew I never should.

CHAPTER THREE

SPARKS

Since storming away from him a week ago almost to the hour, I hadn’t seen him once, and it wasn’t for lack of looking. I told myself I didn’t care, but I wasn’t very convincing.

The crowd erupted behind me, thousands of OSU basketball fanatics hollering, stomping and snarling. I pitied the poor referees who should have come prepared with body guards and armored tanks if they wanted to leave the campus unscathed.

Home team was down by fifteen, and one of the refs had just doled out a technical to our top scorer, or at least that’s what I’d heard a couple of guys complaining about when they passed by the ticket booth, also known as the haunt I got to spend a few hours at just about every week thanks to the volunteer sheet I’d signed at the start of winter quarter.  

The other students who worked the booth got paid, some sort of work study thing, but since I’d been naïve enough to sign the volunteer sheet, I was basically a modern day indentured servant. I was pretty much convinced by now I had the word sucker tattooed on my forehead.

Other than the foul stench that led me to the conclusion the walls were shellacked with sweat and stale hotdogs (I kept a cinnamon scented candle burning under the counter to keep it bearable), and the endless stream of people shoving their crumpled bills at me like I was a malfunctioning change machine, it wasn’t a bad gig.

Someone had to man the booth until halftime (again, the sucker always got conned into it), and once the seas had parted and the fans were directing their attention at someone else, I used the time to catch up on some homework or doodle until my mind was empty. Those were precious moments for me that didn’t come often.

Knowing my Business Ethics book would look like it was printed in hieroglyphics—as it had all quarter—I’d spent the last half hour sketching whatever my subconscious directed my hand to. I surveyed the current masterpiece just as I finished topping the layer cake with candles.

My mind went from nothing to brimming.

The pen fell from my hand as the memories came back, each one hitting me like a boulder until the avalanche crippled me. I crumpled the sheet and tossed it in the direction of the garbage can, like it was a game of hot potato and I couldn’t get it away from me fast enough.

Let me guess, a voice spoke, pricking goose-bumps on my arms. "Mrs. William Winters written a hundred times with little hearts dotting the i’s."

His smile was relaxed, mimicking the positioning of his body leaning against the booth, a crumpled piece of paper in hand.

He crinkled it open. Nope, he said. "Just some bad drawings. Some really bad drawings," he said, playing trombone with the paper.

Do you mind? I said, reaching for the paper. That is private property.

He dodged away from my reach, holding the paper above his head like a worm on the end of a hook. No it’s not. You we’re discarding it, he said, eyeing the garbage can. Therefore, your former piece of private property is now, by default, a very public piece of property. His eyes glinted. Me being the public.

You being the annoying, I said, blowing aside a piece of hair. So how did your first week go? I didn’t see you around. It took some effort to sound indifferent.

It was a great week. I was busy observing, studying, he said, his face amused. You know, college stuff?

Taking advantage of his temporary distraction, I heaved against the counter, jumping to reach the paper. Not even close. He was a solid half a foot taller than me, and his arms seemed disproportionately large the way they were towering above me.

You’ve got the height, but I think you need to work on your jump shot if you want to play for the lady Beavers, he said, sounding delighted with himself.

Grow up. I gave up trying to retrieve my doodle sheet and crossed my arms.

I’ve wasted too much time being grown up, he said, his mouth curling up on one side. I want to act my age, if for once in my life, now that I’m here.

Oh yeah? I asked. How old is that?

Twenty-two, he answered immediately.

Maybe in calendar years, I said, trying my hardest not to let his mischievous expression and low-slung Levi’s distract me. I was referring to maturity level.

He lowered his arms, folding my kipped artwork into his back pocket. So, maturity-wise, how old would you say I am?

You wouldn’t want to know.

I guarantee I would, he said, folding his arms on the countertop. His shoulders were tense, his eyes more-so, although he was attempting to disguise it.

On the surface I’d say you were twelve, maybe thirteen, but there’s something about you I can tell you try hard to hide away, like the way you look now, I said, eyeing over his rigid form, that leads me to believe you’ve seen more than the rest of us.

His eyes grew old before me, older than any pair I’d ever gazed into. He exhaled and opened his mouth, heavy words about to pour out I could only imagine, right before some guy painted head to bellybutton in black and orange ran by us, pitching a soda can in the garbage.

Our stare broke for a moment, but it was long enough so when he looked back at me, that curtain of confidence was