The next day, I rushed to history class and slid into the desk next to Abby. She already had out her laptop and book, barely acknowledging my presence when I sat down.
The classroom was darker than usual; the clouds outside robbed the room of the natural light that usually poured in through the windows. I nudged her elbow, but she wasn’t as receptive as usual, so I snatched her pencil out of her hand and began doodling in the margins. Tattoos, mostly, but I scrawled her name in cool letters. She peeked over at me with an appreciative smile.
I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You wanna grab lunch off campus today?”
I can’t, she mouthed.
I scribbled in her book.
Y?
Because I have to make use of my meal plan.
Bullshit.
Seriously.
I wanted to argue but was running out of room on the page. Fine. Another mystery meal. Can’t wait.
She giggled, and I enjoyed that on-top-of-the-world feeling I experienced whenever I made her smile. A few more doodles and a legit drawing of a dragon later, Chaney dismissed class.
I tossed Abby’s pencil in her backpack as she packed away the rest of her things, and then we walked to the cafeteria.
We didn’t get as many stares as we had in the past. The student populace had grown accustomed to seeing us together on a regular basis. When we went through the line, we made small talk about the new history paper Chaney had assigned. Abby ran her meal card and then made her way to the table. I immediately noticed one thing missing from her tray: the can of OJ she picked up every day.
I scanned the line of husky, no-nonsense servers who stood behind the buffet. Once the stern-looking woman behind the register came into view, I knew I’d found my target.
“Hey, Miss . . . uh . . . Miss . . .”
The cafeteria lady sized me up once before deciding I was going to cause her trouble, as most women did right before I made their thighs tingle.
“Armstrong,” she said in a gruff voice.
I tried to subdue my disgust as the thought of her thighs appeared in the dark corners of my mind.
I flashed my most charming smile. “That’s lovely. I was wondering, because you seem like the boss here . . . No OJ today?”
“There’s some in the back. I’ve been too busy to bring any more to the front.”
I nodded. “You’re always running your ass off. They should give you a raise. No one else works as hard as you do. We all notice.”
She lifted her chin, minimizing the folds on her neck. “Thank you. It’s about time someone did. Did you need orange juice?”
“Just a can . . . if you don’t mind, of course.”
She winked. “Not at all. I’ll be right back.”
I brought the can to the table and sat it on Abby’s tray.
“You didn’t have to do that. I was going to grab one.” She peeled off her jacket and laid it across her lap, exposing her shoulders. They were still tan from the summer, and a little shiny, begging me to touch them.
A dozen dirty things flashed in my mind.
“Well, now you don’t have to,” I said. I offered one of my best smiles, but this time it was genuine. It was another one of those Happy Abby moments I sort of wished for these days.
Brazil snorted. “Did she turn you into a cabana boy, Travis? What’s next, fanning her with a palm tree leaf, wearing a Speedo?”
I craned my neck down the table to see Brazil with a smartass grin. He didn’t mean anything by it, but he ruined my moment, and it pissed me off. I probably did look a little bit like a *, bringing her a drink.
Abby leaned forward. “You couldn’t fill a Speedo, Brazil. Shut the hell up.”
“Easy, Abby! I was kidding!” Brazil said, holding up his hands.
“Just . . . don’t talk about him like that,” she said, frowning.
I stared for a moment, watching her anger subside a tiny bit as she turned her attention to me. That was definitely a first. “Now I’ve seen it all. I was just defended by a girl.” I offered her a small smile and then stood, glaring at Brazil one last time before leaving to dump my tray. I wasn’t that hungry, anyway.
The heavy metal doors easily gave way when I shoved through them. I pulled my cigarettes from my pocket and lit one up, trying to forget what had just happened.
I’d just made an ass of myself over a girl, and it was particularly satisfying to my frat brothers because I had been the one giving them a hard time for two years for even mentioning they might want to do more than just bag a girl. It was my turn now, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it—because I couldn’t. Even worse? I didn’t want to.
When the other smokers around me laughed, I did the same, even though I had no clue what they were talking about. Inside I was pissed off and humiliated, or pissed off that I was humiliated. Whichever. The girls pawed at me and took turns trying to make conversation. I nodded and smiled to be nice, but I really just wanted to get out of there and punch something. A public tantrum would show weakness, and I wasn’t havin’ that shit.