“Too,” I repeat. “Too, as in, also? Like, like them?”
He grins, standing with a full stretch of his lengthy torso as he paces to the window overlooking the parking lot.
After a bottomless inhale, he speaks. “Too. Also. Them.”
“Well, that figures.” The past few days have taught me that surprises are really anything but.
Asher laughs. “What?”
“I thought I was the most liberal looking—”
“Jesus Freak?” he challenges.
I put up my hands. “Take it easy. I’m not … that.”
He shrugs. “I am.”
I tilt my head to the side, certain he’s messing with me. “Come on.”
He waves his hand. “There will be more time for that discussion later. In the meantime, you should get going, don’t you think?”
I sigh. “I guess. My phone’s been vibrating since I left Roland’s. Mind if I go out through the front so I can get a jolt of caffeine before returning to my new reality?”
He nods in the direction of the door. “Be my guest.”
I turn for the door, stopping for a moment with my hand on the handle. “Does Chelsea know you’re one of them—us? She seems a little anti…all of it, what with the pentagram tattoo I spotted on the back of her shoulder.”
Asher arches an eyebrow and grins up at me from behind his inventory sheets. “She looks past it.”
Shaking my head, I offer nothing more before leaving his office. I’m insanely curious about his road to Freakdom, but know that conversation will be put on pause while I get my life together.
Walking through the door into the cafe, I’m met with a rush of energetic noise from the post-church crowd. Of course I’m never here on Sundays given the strict “guidelines” set by Carter University. But, in general it looks like any other busy day, with a slightly fancier dress code.
“Hey Chels.” I shimmy past her and another barista—Collin—as I move to the front of the counter. I refuse to be one of those annoying employees that swoops in on their days off and helps themselves, mucking up the flow.
“Hey sexy,” she calls brightly. “You look better than you did a couple of hours ago. Less pukey.”
“Ha! Thanks. I don’t feel less pukey.”
“Pumpkin spice latte?” She waves a 16oz cup in the air.
I nod, leaning my elbows on the counter. “Please.”
While she busies herself steaming milk, I passively look over my shoulder, but am stopped dead when I see Matt and his dad conversing in the corner. I try not to stare, but the grim looks on both of their faces only serve to pique my curiosity.
“He’s a friend of yours, right?” Chelsea brings my attention back to the counter, and my latte.
“Thanks,” I reply, taking a long sip. “Yeah he kind of rescued me from the angry mob that thought I was sleeping with Roland.”
Not kind of. Completely, totally did.
“He’s good looking. What is it with all those boys up there on The Hill?” Chelsea asks of Carter, using the local diction for the school.
I laugh, having had the same exact curiosity when I first set foot on campus. “I don’t know. It’s a miracle, I guess.”
“Cute,” she quips, heading off to deal with another customer.
And leaving me to deal with deciding to go say hi to Matt, or sneak back out the back door. When I turn around to face the whole cafe, though, it seems the choice has been made for me. Matt is standing about a foot away from me, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Hi,” I half-whisper, surprised by his towering shadow. I look over his shoulder to spot where his dad is.
“He’s gone,” Matt answers my silent question. His voice is gruff and far away.
We stand in an awkward silence the two of us haven’t encountered with each other. At least not since Picturegate, Part One.
“So …” I start, gesturing toward an open table. “Wanna sit, or …”
Matt, who’s been staring at the floor for quite some time, blinks several times in a row, seemingly coming to. “Can we take a walk?”
I shrug. “I guess. Wait. Chaperones …”
Despite the chaos of the last few days, my earlier hyper focus on the rules of Carter University has remained seared in my brain. Members of the opposite sex can’t go off campus together unless they’re in a group of odd numbers, and/or accompanied by a chaperone.
“We don’t have a chaperone if we stay here, either—”
Matt is cut off by someone to my right.
“You’re Kennedy Sawyer, aren’t you? That pastor’s daughter?”
Whipping my head around, I find a girl I’ve seen here before, studying with her friends. I’ve gathered from their university-issued shirts and some conversations I’ve heard, that they go to UNC Asheville. It’s a liberal arts school with a very flexible curriculum.
Kind of the anti-CU.
“That’s me,” I answer honestly. No point in denying the obvious.
“That’s so cool. I see you here all the time. I didn’t know you were famous.” Her blonde hair is in a high ponytail and I envy the thick swath of purple eyeliner circling her brown eyes.
I chuckle. “I’m not. Roland is.”