Page 2 of Then There Was You
I hold the tray out for guests to take what they want, weaving through the black-tie affair. My tray tips, but I’m quick to save it before it falls as sausage-sized fingers grab two of the hors d’oeuvres. I steady it for the guest, then make eye contact by mistake. An older man with an alcoholic’s red nose glares at me. I remember my dad sharing the same characteristic. Barely remember, considering he didn’t stick around much past me turning six. The man says, “Seems like a simple enough job. Can you manage it?”
Now I know why I was told to keep my mouth shut.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, pulling my attention to more important matters—the email I’ve been waiting for all week. I walk away, heading straight for my break. I drop the empty tray off and grab my coat from a hook, dipping my arms in before exiting through the back of the house.
The cold strikes first, and the warmth from inside is replaced before the coat can compete. It could be below freezing out here, and I’d still be more focused on finding out the final grade on my essay. I steer along a stone path that trails toward the guesthouse with my eyes locked on the screen. I close the text from my mom, the first one all year, complaining that she never gets to see me, and open my email.
“Watch out.”
I stop, looking up to see a girl leaning against the side of the guesthouse with her feet angled away for support. “For what?”
She glances at the light hung at the corner under the roof’s awning. “It’s a motion detector. You can come under it, though.”
I step to the side, then stay near the wall as I move closer to where she’s standing. Stopping with a few feet between us, I ask, “Are we good?”
“Just avoid the corner.” She pushes off the wall and spins in the grass as if to prove a point. Her shirt is splattered in paint.Paying homage to Jackson Pollock?The moonlight’s not enough to tell if it’s her own design or if she bought it that way. “Are you hiding from the party?”
“I’m on a break.”
“Me, too.” She nods as if the world makes sense as she turns her attention to the main house. “So who are you?”
The girl is bold. I’ll give her that. Dressed in baggy jeans rolled to the top of a pair of dark red Doc Martens and a tee she customized by roughly cutting the hem to reveal the slimmest view of her midriff, I grin, already entertained by the company. “Keats.”
“Like the poet.” Her smile is soft as it shapes her expression. “Heard melodies are sweet?—”
“But those unheard are sweeter.”
She’s pretty, even more so when her smile grows. Her short blond hair ranges from sandy to the peak of summer highlights from the sun. Some strands are in disarray, exposing a gentle wave more obvious on her right than on the left side of her head. The street vibe she’s going for seems in contrast to how sweet her face is. The Docs are scuffed, worn for real, not just fashion.
The light flicks on, causing both of us to glance over to find what set it off. Nothing new is seen. “Probably just the wind,” she says with a shiver.
I take off my wool coat and hand it to her. She slides it on without question, letting it swallow her shoulders underneath the weight. She can’t be more than five feet, judging by where the top of her head would reach on my lankier six-one frame.Attractive.Her nose tends toward straight, rather than the upward-sloped nose job that so many in this city are having done. I pull it closed at the front like I have a right to keep her warm. I don’t, so I step back, leaning against the wall as if enough pressure from it can take my mind off her.
Cinching it together in her fist, she tilts her head while moving closer into the shadows with me again. “Saw you staring at your phone. Don’t let me keep you if it’s important.”
Easily distracted by her presence, I’d already forgotten about the email. Instead, I find myself staring at her. She’s cute, but I raise the phone to open it and give myself something to do other than being a creeper here in this backyard. When I look away, I’m still grinning like an idiot, as if I were busted doing something I shouldn’t have been. “It’s just a grade.”
Her eyes go wide with hope, like a connection has been made. “You go to university?”
“I’m a senior. You?” She has a sweet face with innocence still rounding the edges. I catch myself looking her over again. The coat has come loose, giving me a sneak peek of how much it overwhelms her small frame underneath. I spy a dip at the waist that blooms to her hips. Her tits aren’t overbearing on her body, but each would fit nicely in my palm.
“Junior, but I took this semester off.”
“Why’s that?” I shouldn’t be so nosy, but my curiosity wins.
She doesn’t appear bothered by the question, remaining casual with a total stranger. “I had an opportunity, but I’m starting back in January.” Angling my way, she pops her eyebrows with curiosity. “What grade did you get?”
A section of hair falls in front of my right eye when I bend my head to read the subject line.Final Grade – Memoir Paper.
I drag my hand down the front of my pants, my nerves kicking in. Looking at her again, I say, “I spent a month working on this final project.”
Holding her hand out, palm up, she asks, “Do you want me to read it to ease the blow?”
Annoyance clenches my jaw. “There’s not going to be a blow. It’s either an A or a B. If it’s not an A, the professor is wrong.” With her hand still open and waiting, she laughs. It’s got a nice tone. “Fine.” I hand her my phone. “I’m confident in the results.”
“Cocky or confident?” She laughs a bit longer this time and gives the email her attention. She quietly scans the message from my professor, leaving me in suspense.
Running my finger through my hair, I ask, “Well?” She peeks up at me briefly as if she’s gotten insight into my psyche. Dread fills my gut. “Shit, what does it say?” I’m already regretting not reading it myself.
