Page 32 of Roses & Ruin

Me:

I met a very handsome squirrel, but other than that, meh to boys

I don’t want to talk to her about Julian. And the idea of trying to begin to discuss Hayden with my mother is hilarious.

Me:

but Delia and I went into town and treasure hunted at some thrift stores

To cheer me up after a particularly rough dream a couple of nights ago, Delia took me by bus into the adorable historic downtown of Fairford. We raided all their boutique thrift stores for new winter clothes. That’s when I learned that Fairford is crammed with wealthy families: Their trash is literally treasure. I found an adorable pleated burgundy tartan skirt from the 1960s that someone had hemmed to hit about four inches above my knee for only ten dollars.

Mom:

Ooh, send me pictures of your new outfits!

Me:

I will!

I throw my covers back and groan, shivering as soon as my bare feet hit the cold, hard floor. It’s too early for Delia to be back yet. She went over to west campus for her chem lab study group, and I know there’s a tall, willowy guitar player with a lip ring in her group who’s been texting her a lot. So I’m not surprised she’s not here this morning. I wish she were.

Delia’s so self-assured. Somehow it bleeds into me when we’re in the same space. And right now, I’m feeling my normal, anxious, overthinky self. If Delia were here, she’d tell me to dopamine dress, which is exactly what it sounds like. Wear something that gives you a good ol’ brain chemical boost, and everything we got at the thrift shops the other day just reeks of dopamine.

I shimmy into my new tartan skirt, pairing it with a slim-cut, inky-black wool sweater, discarded for the holes in the extra-long sleeves that are perfect for my thumbs. Over my fleece-lined tights, I slide on my “new” soot-colored, knee-high riding boots—scratched and scuffed enough to sell for cheap. Personally, I think they’re more winsome this way. I like to imagine the places these boots have traveled and where I hope they’ll take me one day.

After following Delia’s instructions of running her expensive serum through my hair and doing the bare minimum of mascara and lip gloss, I look in the mirror, trying to see what she sees. What Julian sees.

What possibly, if anything, Hayden might see.

I march across campus to my lit class. It’s a gray, blustery day, and there’s that perfect wood-burning smell in the air. I haven’t texted Julian since we exchanged numbers, and I didn’t tell Delia about the encounter. Truth be told, I’m scared that Delia will gently inform me it’s a prank. But more than that, deep down in my delusional little heart, there’s a dumb corner of me that’s still holding out for Hayden.

Ugh, it’s hard not to hate that little part of myself, the one with literally zero self-preservation.

I haven’t seen Hayden since he walked me home from Notorious. Not that I’ve been looking for him…Ugh, who am I kidding, of course I’ve been looking for him. Every flash of thick dark hair out of the corner of my eye sends my heartbeat skyrocketing.

Class goes by in a daydreamy blur. I have no idea what my professor said today, which means I have that much more homework. I’m free the rest of my day, and I’ve got so much reading to catch up on, so I trek to the farthest reaches of west campus to the most recently built library. It’s well lit, a quaint, modern rectangle of red brick.

I show my student ID to the guard at the front desk, feeling a prickle of distaste at the brand-new flooring and bright fluorescent lights. Can you even call this a library?

After consulting a map, I head up to the fourth floor, which is the “Silent Section.”

The quiet is nice, and I’m immediately surrounded by tall, overflowing bookcases when I step out of the stairwell. Throughout the floor, desks and chairs are tucked into corners for studying, but they’re all occupied. I keep walking through the maze of bookshelves until I hardly see any students at all.

Finally, in the farthest corner of the floor, from around a shelf laden with anatomy books, I catch half a peek of a low leather chair; the cushion is empty. I rush around the bookshelf to claim the seat for myself. As soon as I enter the aisle, I freeze. While the chair is empty, the one beside it is not.

It is occupied by Hayden.

Holding a physics textbook in front of his face, Hayden’s impossibly tall self is sprawled in his chair, his boots propped insolently on the table, one long leg crossed over the other. He’s got one hand hanging over the side, tapping a lazy beat against the leather.

He looks like he owns the library. Already, my heart is hammering. My mouth moves faster than my brain.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper.

No reply. Hayden doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move his book. His fingers, however, hesitate for a beat before continuing their tapping against the chair. I grip my books to my chest so hard my knuckles ache.

“Typical. Just…” I try to think of the right word, but I’m too worked up. “Typical. You’re just gonna ignore me? Like you always do. Are you gonna even acknowledge I’m here? That I exist?”

Hayden doesn’t put down his book. He does, however, lift a hand to point a single finger up. I follow its direction to a sign hanging from the ceiling that reads, in the stuffiest of fonts, Silent Floor: No Talking Allowed. Bristling, I drop into the chair beside him and lean closer.