“Yeah,” I knit my brow in frustration as I stare at him, trying for the millionth time, to place his face.
I don’t know why this bothers me so much. It’s more annoying than anything. But, this time, when I look at him, my heart stops. His shoulders are slumped forward so his head is bowed ever so slightly, making his face look exactly like it does in my mind when I try to remember where I’ve seen him. His mouth is relaxed, but not quite smiling, and his aquamarine eyes are studying me, like he’s waiting for me to do or say something.
I feel a jolt of adrenaline and my skin starts to tingle. It’s right there—his face is right there—but nothing comes to mind. It’s just a void, a vacant gap in time.
“Just like this,” I nod at him and sit up straight, trying to shake the eerie feeling scurrying up my back.
Colson cracks a smile, “Like what?”
“I have this really weird memory of seeing your face exactly like this—” I motion to him, “same angle, same distance away, same everything. But I know I haven’t, because I only met you this semester.”
“Wow,” Colson holds my gaze for a moment, then shrugs, “maybe you have seen me before.”
“I don’t know,” I shake my head, “it’s weird.” And then I dismiss the thought, yet again, before I rotate my laptop toward him and begin scanning the assignment.
When Colson leans forward to read it, I suddenly feel something just above my knee. My eyes fall to my leg, where Colson’s left hand is now resting on my thigh. His thumb taps the top of my leg and the rest of his fingers curve around the inside. When I slowly shift my eyes back up, he’s still staring at the screen reading the document.
Unbothered.
My heart starts pounding in my ears because Colson Lutz is touching me.
At first, it seems like he’s totally unaware, his head tilted in his usual bored demeanor as though his hands are operating independently from his body. His fingers contract along the inside of my thigh, like someone busying their hands absentmindedly. Meanwhile, my eyes dart in and out of my periphery, unsure of what to do or how to respond.
Finally, he leans back in his chair and looks at me, “I’m going to be honest. I really don’t want to be here right now.”
I look at his hand, which hasn’t moved, “OK?”
Colson furrows his brow, “Do you?”
“You really think I want to spend a Friday night at the fucking library writing a paper?”
A smile spreads across his face, “I didn’t know what you like to do, so I decided to start here.”
I press my mouth together with irritation, “You could’ve just asked,” I snip. “A party sounds like a lot more fun, doesn’t it?”
I don’t care if he’s touching me, that was still dirty.
Colson straightens up and lets his head fall back, then closes his eyes and runs his hands up his face, rubbing his eyes in exasperation. He leans forward and grabs both sides of my chair, rotating the whole thing until I’m facing him, and then grasps the sides of my thighs.
“Hey,” he lowers his voice and speaks slowly with intention, “I’m really sorry I treated you like that. I’ll never do it again. And the only place I want to be right now is here with you.”
I can’t get over Colson’s blue lagoon eyes. They’re too distracting. The longer I stare at them, the more I start to believe him. That, and I also want him to keep touching me. I’ll stay here at the library doing nothing and waste an entire Friday night if it means he won’t take his hands off my legs.
“It’s probably better that happened, though,” he runs his thumbs back and forth over my leggings as he speaks.
I squint at him suspiciously, “Why?”
“Because now it’s just you and me, with no noise, no drunk idiots, and no distractions.”
I shift my jaw back and forth, trying in vain to tamp down the smile tugging at my muscles. Maybe it’s childish, but I still want him to think I’m angry. And I still am, to some extent. But I still wonder if he’s being authentic or if he’s just another asshole with nothing better to do. I’m failing, though. He sees right through it.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
“And do what?”
Colson gazes around the room at the medieval tapestries lining the third floor from one side to the other, “I don’t know,” he muses, “want to just drive and figure it out on the way?”
Without a word, I reach up and slowly push my laptop closed, clicking it shut with a smile.
The sun has already disappeared behind the maples lining the far side of the oval, casting a splash of pink through the clouds that fades into a deep purple. I closely follow Colson around the side of the building toward a line of parallel parked cars.
He motions further up the sidewalk, “I’m just up here.”
I slow to a halt when I reach the back bumper of a red SUV. My eyes run along the sides, up the front, and back to the bumper again, eyeing the white FORD painted across the raised metal of the hatch.
“Do you seriously drive an old Bronco?”
Colson looks over his shoulder at me, his hand on the driver’s side door, “It’s not old, it’s a classic,” he responds with a grin, “Eddie Bauer edition, even.”
I make my way to the passenger side and tug open the door. The interior looks like it’s either never been driven or been totally restored to its original state. I hoist myself into the beige leather seat and lift my bag over the center console to the back. The back of the Bronco is devoid of seats and now serves as one large cargo area with a tool box and duffel bag pushed against the wall. Laying on the black floorboards are a couple of green, metal T-posts and two large, yellow rolls of measuring tape. Colson sets his backpack down in his lap and unzips the main compartment.
He lifts a bottle from his backpack and hands it to me, “This is for you.”
I recognize the familiar shape and turn it around to read the label. A Naked Mango Madness smoothie—with protein.
I break into a laugh, “It’s like we’re back in class!” I exclaim sarcastically.
“God,” Colson backs the Bronco into the empty space behind him and shifts into drive, “I hope I’m more interesting than that.”
