Chapter 3
Isaac
I get to the library extra early on Wednesday.
So early, in fact, I feel triumphant as I lock my now-fixed bike to a rack outside the building. I head for the café first, as I always do.
Luckily, my latte is made as expected, two pumps of hazelnut flavoring with steamed milk and caffeinated rich black espresso. I can’t help but let out a sigh as I take a sip.
My good mood carries me all the way up the stairs to the third level, past the common area and stacks of books to the row of ancient cassette tapes very few venture past. But the moment I step around the corner and catch sight of my table, the smugness I’d been carrying detaches itself from my person and falls to the floor with a crash.
There’s a sticky note. On the table. With big block letters spelling out “Trevor.”
I whip my head around, looking for the man but coming up empty.
“Fucking fuck,” I mutter under my breath, storming the last few steps to the table and ripping the note off of it. I crumple the yellow paper and chuck it into the trash bin.
When did he do this? Late last night?
Did he want to fuck with me so badly that he went out of his way to visit the library and mark my territory as his?
I wish I could say the heat inside my chest is only indignation, but I’m fairly certain that’d be a lie.
Regardless, I shove my backpack onto one of the chairs and seat myself in the other. I feel twitchy as the minutes pass, the anticipation of Trevor’s arrival like a living, roiling thing beneath my skin.
“Ugh,” I complain to the window, the sky outside still dark.
“I see my presence isn’t required to put you in a bad mood after all.”
“Jesus fuck,” I practically shout, my heart beating fast as I spin in my seat.
Trevor chuckles, his turtleneck black today instead of cream. What’s up with this guy and turtlenecks? “Not sure you’re supposed to shout inside a library.”
“Well, when a person causes my soul to leave my goddamn body, it can’t be helped. What are you doing here?”
He slips his backpack off his sizable shoulders, a single eyebrow raised. “Told you I’d be back on Wednesday. And I’m fairly certain you found my note, judging by the little yellow ball in that trash can.”
I pointedly refuse to look that way. “You can’t just…mark the table as yours. That’s not how it works.”
“No? How else are you supposed to know it’s mine?”
“It’s not yours,” I grit out, realizing Trevor has a tiny smile on his face. “Do you like arguing with me? Is that what this is?”
“I thought we were talking,” he says calmly, sliding the chair with my backpack out. “You mind?”
“Yes,” I state, not making a single move when Trevor proceeds to carefully set my backpack aside so he can sit down. “And if this is an example of your conversational skills, I think I could do without.”
Trevor laughs, the sound so low and arresting I inhale a startled breath. He sets his laptop on the table, tattooed fingers opening it up before he glances my way. I want to look away, but those dark eyes don’t let me. “I can be quiet if you want.”
Do I want that? The logical side of me is screaming yes, of course I do. I want him to disappear back to wherever he came from so I can return to my usual morning routine of studying without this immensely distracting complication I wasn’t prepared for.
But another part of me hesitates. Because there’s still a smile at the corner of Trevor’s mouth, like he enjoys sparring with me.
Why?
“If you stay,” I say slowly, “you’re going to realize Monday wasn’t a fluke.”
His head cocks slightly.
“I’m not a nice person,” I explain. “I’m not…friendly.”
His lips twitch. “Having opinions doesn’t make you unlikable, Red.”
Oh, this is bad.
Really, really bad.
“Well, it’s not like I can move you,” I point out. “So…do whatever you want, I guess.”
Trevor seems to accept that as invitation. He settles further into his seat, opening up a file that looks similar to whatever he was working on a couple days ago. I return my focus to 19th-century authors, although my mind strays quickly.
The ping from my phone is welcome.
Lumi: Has your hot library nemesis returned as promised? I can come kick his ass if you’d like.
Me: I never said he was hot.
Lumi: Babe, you were drooling. And it wasn’t because of the jello shooters.
Todd: You were a bit.
Me: No one asked you, Todd!
I huff a breath before typing again.
Me: And yes, he’s here.
Lumi: I’m getting my stilettos.
Me: Oh my God, you are NOT coming to the library at 6:45 in the morning in heels to try to kick this guy’s ass.
Lumi: There would be no try.
Todd: Up top, girlfriend.
“I have the worst friends.”
“Can’t be too bad if they make you smile,” a deep voice says from beside me.
“Jesus Christ.”
Trevor’s dark eyebrow lifts slowly as my pulse does its best to convince me I’m having a heart attack. “Should I be offended that I’m apparently so forgettable?”
“You’re not forgettable,” I tell him. “You’re just…”
Easy to be around.
I swat the thought away before shoving my phone into my bag. “Sorry.”
“I don’t mind,” Trevor says, same as before.
“I don’t even know why Todd is awake,” I mutter, when it clicks. “Ah. The words jello shooters summoned him.”
“Little early for jello shooters, isn’t it?”
“Thank you,” I retort, smacking Trevor’s arm. My palm smarts in the aftermath, a fact that has my cheeks flaming. Trevor either doesn’t notice or chooses not to comment on it. “Uh, they’re not actually drinking this early. Just…talking about it.”
“Life of a college student,” Trevor says, tone void of emotion.
“Not a fan?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t mind it. Just have better things to do.”
Who?
Startled by the question in my head, I turn my gaze back to my textbook. Focus. I’m here to study. “What things?”
Damn it.
Trevor hums. “Work, I guess. Classes. Football.”
My head whips his way at the mention of football.
Trevor smirks slightly. “Kidding. I’m not much for…conventional athletics.”
My imagination runs wild as I try to figure out what he means by that. “You’re not into, like, human game hunting, are you?”
The look Trevor gives me has me clamping my mouth shut. “Really? Human game?”
“What? I don’t know. You said you’re not into conventional athletics. What am I supposed to think?”
He rubs his mouth, the shake of his shoulders subtle. “If I was into hunting humans, do you really think I’d tell you, Red?”
“No,” I admit. “You’d wait for me to leave, follow me from a distance, and then take care of me however you see fit.”
Trevor’s eyes widen. “You are dark.”
“I am not! It’s entirely possible that—”
“I get off on the thrill of chasing people The Most Dangerous Game style? Oh, wait. I get it.”
“Get what?”
“English major,” he says, as if that explains everything. He lets out a gentle laugh. “Cute.”
My mouth opens and closes several times. That…cute didn’t exactly sound condescending. “Yeah, well, you never know what people are hiding.”
Trevor’s expression shifts from playful to searching. I didn’t mean anything deep by those words, but his prying eyes have me looking away fast. Trevor’s voice is even when he says, “I promise none of my secrets are dark.”
It’s my turn to shrug. “As long as you don’t treat me like a doe, it’s none of my business.”
There’s a slight pause. “Don’t people hunt the bucks?”
“I don’t know! Does it matter? A deer’s a deer.”
Trevor’s voice is warmer than the conversation warrants. “Sure, Red. I won’t hunt you down and mount you.” After an inordinately long second in which my entire body flashes hot, he adds, “On my wall.”
I nearly jump out of my skin when an alarm goes off on Trevor’s phone. I try to squash my disappointment, more than positive I’m misreading the emotion.
Has it really been an hour?
“Time to go?” I ask, hoping my voice comes out level.
Trevor hums his yes. “Table’s all yours.”
I nod in a jerk, trying to get my mouth to form the word good. No sound comes out.
Trevor finishes packing up his bag before turning toward me. Not fully, and not in a way that feels like he’s invading my space. Simply as if he’s making sure I know I’m his focus.
As if I could miss it.
“Are you going to give me your name this time? Or should I keep calling you Red?”
My heartbeat is a loud staccato as I roll that over. There’s no reason whatsoever for me not to tell him my name. It doesn’t make us friends. It doesn’t mean anything.
But I still can’t get my mouth to open.
“All right,” Trevor rumbles. “I’ll see you Friday, better-than-average Red.”
“I regret every word I’ve ever spoken to you,” I inform him.
His chuckle tells me he doesn’t believe that.
“You don’t have to come back,” I add. “And maybe I won’t even be here on Friday. Maybe… You’re gone already. Do you always do that? Walk away when people are talking to you? Argh.” I affect my best Trevor voice to retort, “See you later, huge T. Nope. No. I hate that.”
Dropping my head to my textbook, I curse a good dozen times.
I don’t want to like him.
I don’t like him.
So then why the fuck do I wish it were Friday already?
It’s nearly seven o’clock when I trudge through the back door of the house I currently call home. Someone is blasting truly offensive music, and the smell of…I don’t even know is coming from a lightly smoking pan on the stove.
“Uh, guys?” I call out. “Is someone cooking?”
A thundering comes from the direction of the stairs before Todd trips into view. “Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters, tugging up the waistband of his sweatpants as he hurries to the stove. I sigh at the cut-off shred of fabric he calls a shirt.
Todd is cursed with being one of the most stupidly beautiful people I’ve ever met. Of course, as my best friend, that means absolutely nothing.
Did I have a lustful crush on him for all of a second before I realized the two of us could never be? Sure. The man has dimples above his ass.
But the truth is I’d much rather have Todd as a lifelong friend than an ill-fated, passing rendezvous. Not that he’s even interested in such. Not with anyone.
“My pasta,” he says sadly.
I glance at the pan filled with burnt noodles. “I think you’re missing water. And a pot.”
“What’s this?” Todd asks, nudging the metal handle of the sauce pan.
“A…pan?”
He squints. “There’s a difference?”
Honestly, I’m not sure. “Want me to call for food?”
“You’re the best,” Todd says, petting my head like I’m a cat. “Thanks, bae.”
I sigh heavily. “You’re extremely lucky I don’t have claws.”
His nose crinkles, and I have to resist the impulse to boop.
As Todd scrapes his failed pasta into the trash, I call for culinary reinforcements. The pizza arrives after a horrendously long wait, and Todd and I retreat to his room so none of our housemates try to mooch any of our slices.
“So what’s up with Library Guy?” Todd asks, his mouth full.
I watch in horror as Todd proceeds to eat the crust of his pizza first, leaving him without a proper handhold. No matter how many times I’ve witnessed the spectacle, it never computes. “Uh…what do you mean?”
He shrugs. “Do you like him or hate him? Because I’m kinda getting mixed signals.”
“Can’t it be both?”
“Can it?” Todd asks, a genuine question.
I huff. “I don’t know, Todd. He’s hot, okay? And for some reason, he can quote 19th-century poets. Do you know how ridiculously attractive that is?”
Todd blinks in response, which I take to mean no.
“And I think he might be bi. Or gay. Because he’s being far too nice to me for it not to mean anything.”
Todd slows his chewing. “He can’t be nice without there being an ulterior motive?”
I wince as I realize how that came off. “That’s not what I mean. He’s…flirting, I think. There’s a difference. He said he wouldn’t mount me on his wall, but that’s not what it sounded like.”
“I…don’t understand flirting.”
“I know,” I tell my friend, grimacing as a pepperoni falls off his pizza. Todd peels it off his flat stomach and pops it into his mouth. “I just…don’t want to like anyone right now.”
“I might not know a lot about this stuff, but I don’t think you get to pick who you fall in love with.”
I nearly choke on my food. “Who said anything about love?”
“Me,” he answers. “Just now.”
I groan, desperately needing a topic change. “How’s your research coming along for, uh… What is it again?”
Todd hums. “Using adenoviral vector-mediated Flt3 ligand gene therapy for the treatment of glioblastoma multiforme.”
I stare at my best friend for a good long minute. “How are you real?”
“I dunno, man. Existentialism is your forte, not mine.”
“Oh my God,” I moan, wondering how in the world my friend, the same one who can’t even boil water, is currently attempting to cure cancer while my biggest battle is fighting a maybe-crush on a guy who doesn’t even know my name.
Todd goes on, heedless of my actual existential crisis. “Hey, want to check out a bar downtown this weekend? I heard they have half-price well drinks.”
Crappy off-brand liquor holds very little appeal to me, but I am supposed to meet my dad for dinner this weekend. “Yeah. You know what? That sounds perfect.”
Todd beams, shoving another piece of pizza in his mouth crust-first.
Maybe the world isn’t supposed to make sense.
It’s not exactly a comforting thought.