26 smooth operator
"Okay, but seriously," Nola says while leaning across the lecture hall desk toward me, "she smiled at me yesterday."
I look up from my notebook slowly. "That's usually considered a good sign."
"You're saying that way too casually."
Around us, people keep filing into the room while the professor fights a losing battle against the projector at the front of the class.
Somebody near the back drops their coffee loud enough that half the lecture hall turns around, and a guy two rows ahead is fully asleep on his folded arms despite it being eleven in the morning.
Normally I'd be paying attention to all of it.
Normally I'd probably be making commentary about all of it too.
But lately my brain keeps drifting back toward the same thing no matter how hard I try redirecting it somewhere else.
Jackson.
The fight.
The stupid sentence that somehow still manages to hit me in the chest every single time I think about it.
Get in line, Coleman.
Nola keeps spiraling beside me completely unaware. "I don't even know if Yasmine likes girls."
"You also don't know if she doesn't."
"That's not comforting."
"You're acting like asking for someone's number is equivalent to storming Normandy."
Nola groans quietly and drops her forehead against the desk. "I can't do this."
"Yes, you can."
"No, I genuinely can't. What am I supposed to say? 'Hi Yasmine, I've spent the last two weeks psychologically unraveling because you wore eyeliner once?' "
"That does sound slightly concerning."
Nola lifts her head enough to glare at me. "You're making fun of me."
"You're making it incredibly easy."
Despite everything, a laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
Nola notices immediately.
"There you are," she says, pointing at me accusingly. "I was wondering where you went."
My smile fades a little at that because unfortunately she's right.
The past few days have felt strange in a way I still don't know how to explain properly, like something inside me shifted slightly after the fight with Jackson and hasn't settled back into place since.
Everything feels more awkward now. Quieter.
Even the dorm feels different when we're both in it, like we're constantly stepping around something neither of us knows how to fix.
Nola watches my face for another second before sighing dramatically again. "Anyway. Back to my emotional suffering."
"You're unbelievably dramatic."
"She's unbelievably pretty."
I glance a few rows down toward where Yasmine's sitting with one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through her phone while talking to the girl beside her.
Dark curls.
Gold hoops.
Confident smile.
Okay.
Fair enough.
Nola follows my gaze and immediately looks like she's seconds away from cardiac arrest.
"See?" she whisper-hisses. "How am I supposed to function around that?"
"You could start by speaking actual words to her."
"I hate you."
"You'll survive."
Nola exhales heavily through her nose before muttering, "I just don't know if she'd even want my number."
Something about the genuine uncertainty in her voice finally gets me moving before I fully think it through.
I push my chair back and stand.
Nola's eyes widen instantly.
"Everly Coleman," she whisper-yells in horror, grabbing my sleeve too late. "Don't you dare."
Unfortunately for her, I'm already walking away.
Behind me, I hear her groan quietly into the desk while I make my way down the row toward Yasmine.
She looks up when I stop beside her desk, eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise.
"Hey," she says.
"Hi." I lean lightly against the empty desk beside hers. "So my friend thinks you're really pretty and she's been emotionally spiraling about it for like two weeks now."
Yasmine blinks once, then laughs immediately.
Not awkward polite laughter either. Real laughter.
"Oh my God," she says. "Which friend?"
I point toward Nola without even turning around because I already know she's probably dying behind me.
Yasmine follows my finger toward the back of the lecture hall.
The second she spots Nola, her expression softens slightly. "She's cute."
I grin before I can stop myself. "Great. That's gonna feed her ego for months."
Yasmine laughs again, shaking her head. "She couldn't come tell me herself?"
"She absolutely could," I say honestly. "Unfortunately she enjoys making herself miserable."
"That's relatable."
I glance back toward Nola once more before looking at Yasmine again.
"So hypothetically," I say carefully, "if she wanted your number, would that be a horrifying rejection situation or..."
Yasmine is already reaching for a pen before I even finish the sentence.
Relief flashes through me embarrassingly fast on Nola's behalf.
"Definitely not horrifying."
She tears a corner from her notebook and scribbles down her number quickly before handing it over to me. "Tell her to text me."
I take the paper carefully between my fingers like it's some kind of fragile legal document. "You just changed the trajectory of somebody's entire week."
"That feels dramatic."
"You haven't seen her pacing around our dorm talking about your smile like it's a historical event."
Yasmine laughs loud enough this time that a couple people nearby glance over.
"Okay," she says. "That's actually kind of adorable."
"It's horrifying for everyone involved."
Still smiling, Yasmine shakes her head and goes back to her phone while I turn toward my seat again.
The second Nola sees the paper in my hand, she sits upright so fast she nearly knocks over her water bottle. "No way."
I drop back into my seat calmly and place the folded paper onto her notebook.
Nola stares at it for a second like she's genuinely afraid to touch it.
Then slowly unfolds it.
Her eyes go huge immediately. "Oh my God."
"You're welcome."
"She actually gave you her number?"
"She did."
Nola looks up at me completely speechless for maybe the first time since I met her.
Then she grabs my arm dramatically. "I hate you so much."
"Interesting way to say thank you."
"You told her I was spiraling?"
"You were spiraling."
"EVERLY."
I laugh again, softer this time, and for the first time in days it feels genuine enough that the tightness in my chest loosens slightly.
Not completely.
But enough.