“Are you always this cranky? Or are you not a morning person?” he asks.
“This is me being cheerful,” I deadpan.
He laughs, and the sound is like the engine of an expensive car, so smooth and effortless, I nearly steal another glance. Instead, I quickly shovel in a few more bites of cereal and grab my favorite commuter cup from the dishwasher. It’s old and chipped near the mouthpiece from when it had fallen from the top of my car a couple of years ago, but it gets the job done. I pull the coffeepot out before it’s finished percolating, making it hiss as a drop hits the warmer. I fill the contents of the pot into my cup before returning it.
“You have an accent,” he says as I add a heavy hand of sugar to my coffee.
“You have an accent,” I accuse.
His laughter is instant, shorter this time. “But yours is sexy.”
My eyes cut to him again, and with this final pass, I notice the playful twist of his lips, a small scar over his eyebrow and another on his cheek. The broadness of his shoulders and the width of his wrists, revealed by the sleeves of his black sweater being pushed up, and enunciated by the silver watch on display. It looks heavy and expensive, but it’s hard to focus on it because, for some reason, I’m admiring his wrist—his entire forearm, if I’m being honest. Are forearms sexy? I’ve never thought of forearms as sexy, but I’ll have to add them to the list because this guy’s forearms are indeed erotic.
I abandon the rest of my cereal down the garbage disposal, pour some cream into my coffee, and don’t even bother fishing for a spoon to mix it. With the lid screwed on tight, I retreat to my room, find a clean-ish pair of jeans that I replace my shorts for, and exchange my tank and sweatshirt for a bra and long-sleeved tee.
Freshman year, I always made sure to put on makeup and do my hair before every class, now I deem it a miracle if I show up wearing real pants.
Laptop. Wallet. Phone. I check the items off as I toss them into my backpack, then grab my coffee and head for the bedroom door. When I pull it closed, I twist the little lock on the back—the kind I used to pick with a metal hanger when I was little, and mom hid the gifts in our hall closet. It seems like a necessary precaution considering mister Sexy Wrists is still sitting in our dining room.
“Are you a sophomore or junior?” he asks.
“Junior. And when you get tired of waiting, don’t leave sappy notes or flowers. It won’t change anything. She won’t call. And stay in the common areas.” I say as my phone vibrates, indicating a text.
“Olivia,” Rose calls my name as her door sweeps open. She scrubs a hand over her face, her long, dark hair still curled and perfect, and her lips looking pouty and beautiful. My best friend is runway material, with tattoos encircling her arms and across her collarbones, and striking green eyes that make her look both exotic and edgy. She appeals to all men, and she takes advantage of this, sleeping and disposing of them like the cheap pairs of flip-flops you get after a pedicure. Behind her, a guy with hair that reaches his shoulders and a scraggly beard appears. He grins at Rose and then saunters toward where I stand beside the front door, his gaze sliding down my body, making me grateful I’d changed out of my pajamas.
“See you, Rose,” He waves without looking back and disappears outside.
I stare at my best friend. “I thought you were over the Jared Leto phase?”
“He looked way hotter last night.”
“Beer goggles will do that.”
Rose grins guiltily. “It’s the eyes. Did you see his eyes?”
If it were just her and me, I’d ask her if his eyes had pleased her or came up short, but Sexy Wrists is still sitting at our kitchen table, watching us like he hears my thoughts. I turn my gaze from him to Rose and back again, silently asking the question, what is he doing here?
“Oh. Good. I’m glad you guys met. She’s great, right?” She directs her question to the guy.
He nods but doesn’t say anything.
She looks at me, doubt flashing in her eyes. “You were nice, right?” She looks back at the stranger. “Sorry, Arlo, morning and civility live on different continents sometimes for Olivia.”
He chuckles, the same smooth and gruff sound that is a complete contradiction.
I stare at her, pleading with her that this isn’t a setup. It’s been months since her last failed attempt at playing matchmaker, and she hadn’t even asked any leading questions this time—but that was likely the point. She knew I’d kibosh the idea if I had even an inclination.
“We’re working on a class project together,” she explains. “He got here, and I had to go wake up…” She can’t remember the Leto look-alike’s name. It’s not a first, but it still makes me chuckle.
“It’s early,” I say.
She nods. “I know. But Arlo has a crazy schedule, so this was the only time that worked. Sorry for the surprise.”
I shake my head, glancing at him. I try to see him differently—less like someone Rose would bring by and more like someone I’d partner up with in class. Guilt trickles into my expression. I was borderline rude with both my assumptions and my lack of offering anything to him. He reads my shame, his gray eyes shining with humor. “She thought we slept together,” he tells Rose.
Rose pulls her chin back, her gaze snapping to me. “What? No. No,” she says. “We’re friends. We met last year at a study group. He’s going for sports science, so some of our classes cross over.” Rose wants to become a yoga instructor—and not just any yoga instructor, but ‘the’ yoga instructor and build an empire and a chain of resorts and spas.
I swallow my desire to reiterate why it was easy to draw that conclusion and apologize. “I’m sorry for the assumption. I didn’t mean any offense by it.”
He shakes his head. “None taken.”
“How was the new alarm clock?” Rose asks with a grin.
“Evil,” I tell her. “I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off.”
Her smile broadens. “Then, it worked.”
“I want my old one back.”
“You just turn it off and go back to sleep.”
I frown. “I’m late,” I repeat. “I’ll see you later.”
Rose blows me a kiss. “Drive safe.”
It’s drizzling, the sky muted as I make my way to the parking lot. Winter seems to last forever up in Seattle—a constant haze of clouds and rain that make days feel like they never have a beginning, middle, or end.
I stow my bag in the back seat, get into the driver’s seat, and start my car while I pull out my phone, recalling the earlier buzz. There’s a text from Matt that has my thoughts coming to a halt. I’ve had a crush on Matt Jenkins since I was eleven. Not a crush in the way of making me forget my name and how to breathe—but in the way of shared tree forts and first kisses and sweaty palms while we held hands for the first time, and all the other firsts we shared in our hometown just outside of Austin, Texas.
I haven’t seen him since last summer when I went home to visit. My last night in Texas plays through my mind like a favorite scene from a movie. We’d picnicked in an old field near his parents’ house so I could enjoy one last Texas sunset, sipping cherry limeades—my favorite drink—and laughing way too hard after being chased by a swarm of mosquitos. We kissed until we forgot about my impending flight and how it would be months before we saw each other again. We didn’t talk about it as we stripped from our clothes and slept together under the endless Texas sky, or after when he fell asleep holding my hand. I watched a million stars fall that night, wishing on each of them that things would always be like that.