Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
CALLUM
Is it normal for student athletes to proselytize to people who apparently look the part? And then ask you to join them for a group project?
College is turning out to be weird as heck, but at least meeting people isn’t as hard as I expected.
I just didn’t think the first students I’d strike up a conversation with would, one, approach me first, and two, be student athletes with team backpacks and more swagger than I've seen in my life.
When I saw the two of them walk up to me, my first thought was to get out of their way.
I mean, at least Nick was confident. Ian, not so much.
Well, I'm one to talk.
Still, I don’t think that popular group is supposed to mix well with the weird new guy, but here we are. Maybe being popular isn’t a thing once you’re out of high school.
Shoot. I’m making a lot of assumptions—it isn't like I have a frame of reference for any of that, given that I stopped going to public school when I was fourteen.
And the comment from Ian about my arms? What was that? Totally random, although he had great arms himself underneath that long-sleeve shirt. He could have been trying to be relatable, even though his arms are so much nicer than mine.
I shouldn’t focus on that. Or his smile, or the way his blond hair fell in front of those bright eyes that lie somewhere between brown and green—
Nope. Absolutely not.
I cut my wandering, inappropriate thoughts off and make my way to my next class, which is my Introductory French elective. The hour passes, and no student athletes approach me afterward. Or anyone else, for that matter.
I guess that makes sense. After all, I'm still the guy who showed up on campus halfway through sophomore year. That's not doing me any favors for blending in, and then there’s the fact that my sparse, ragged wardrobe makes me stick out, too.
It is what it is.
I’m done for the day, so I trudge through the falling snow to my dorm for a long stretch of doing nothing. It’s peaceful, knowing I can exist here without anyone springing a random check on me.
Locking my door still seems subversive, though. The click makes my heart twinge, and I power through it, taking a breath and stepping out of my work boots.
I roll onto the hard bed pressed against the wall, which is only long enough for my unwieldy legs by a couple of inches, and shuffle under the thick down comforter that had absolutely no business being given away for free.
Bless rich graduating students who are too cheap to pay twenty-five dollars at the dump, seriously.
Not that I particularly want to be a charity case at the college with the highest average household income in the country, but hey, free stuff is free stuff.
My thoughts are interrupted by my phone beeping, and I stretch over to pull it out of my jeans.
It's an email. From Ian.
From: Scott, Ian
To: Russell, Nicholas; Cross, Callum
Subject: [KIN207] Group Project 1 - Task Breakdown
Sup Dudes,
Okay, even I know you aren’t supposed to open an email like that, and I've sent a grand total of ten in my entire life so far.
I’ve taken all the deliverables for the first group project and divided them amongst ourselves in what I think is a fair split, but you can bring up suggestions or improvements during our meeting before class tomorrow.
Ian (me): Research and written report preparation.
Nick: Compilation of presentation slides and video script
Callum: Video narration and model for limb movement demonstration
Huh.
So he's assigned me…reading a script and moving my arm. For a project that's worth twenty-five percent of our final grade.
That isn’t fair, but not in the way I expected. My parts are going to take all of half an hour to finish.
Does he think I’m stupid or something?
But if he did, then he would have given Nick more to do.
Maybe he thinks me and Nick are stupid.
Maybe he thinks he's the only guy smart enough to be here and he's only teaming up with me because each group needs at least three people.
Come on, Callum. Be normal and stop judging.
I shake my head and read the rest of the email.
We still have time before this is due, so we should probably meet to go over our parts before the lecture tomorrow in case we have any questions for the prof. Here's my number so we can coordinate that and anything else we need going forward. Feel free to hit me up.
I copy Ian’s number and enter it into my contacts app. Hovering my finger over his name, I debate messaging him first, so he has my number, too.
That’s a normal thing to do, right?
After tapping out a message, I shut my eyes and hit send.
Hi, this is Callum.
His typing indicator pops up almost instantly.
Ian Scott
Hey man!
Noticed the 603 area code. You get a new number after coming here?
Yes.
Ian Scott is typing…
And he stays typing for a while.
Oof. Touchy subject?
Not really. Just got a new one.
Oh lmao those periods at the end made me think I said something wrong
What? I switch to my browser and go to the search engine.
Are periods rude in text messages
They are. Darn it. I can't do anything right.
Sorry
dw man it's chill
I gotta head to practice. See you tmr
I don't text back, and instead, I spend the next two minutes searching up what his texting abbreviations mean.
And then look up how to text and not accidentally insult the person on the other end. The fact that I know how to work my new fifty-dollar phone is nothing short of a miracle, given that my old one still had a freaking keypad.
When I roll over, it's dark outside, and I realize I spent the better part of an hour researching how to be a normal nineteen-year-old.
God, that's bleak. I wish I was actually normal.
But I'm here now, so I sure as hell can try my best to learn, even if that means going against every gut feeling I have.
It’s snowing when I wake up, the kind that’s annoying and wet and slippery. Perfect.
I stand in front of my makeshift closet, which is just my small pile of clothes hung over the back of the desk chair, and assess my options.
While I didn't bring much with me, dressing to impress seems like the right thing to do, although I don't know who exactly I'm impressing with my choices: the flannel I wore yesterday, a slightly different button-up that’s indistinguishable from the first when you stand farther than ten feet away, two T-shirts that don't fit too well, and a hooded sweater.
I choose to layer the sweater over a T-shirt. Those are the only things I own that don't cling to me, and the last thing I want is to look like I'm wearing the same stuff I've owned since I was seventeen and still growing.
Hopefully Ian and Nick won't notice I'm in the same jeans as yesterday. My other ones are fraying and still have mud on them from the thirty-hour trip over here.
At the sink, I dampen my fingers and rake them through my hair, hoping to tame the strands that are already growing longer than I’m used to. Longer than a man “should” keep his hair.
I won't lie—the length doesn't exactly bother me, as long as I can make it neat. I suppose I could slick it back if I had gel or something, but I don’t, so I make a mental note to buy some when I have the cash, and settle for looking barely groomed. Not like it matters, anyway, since it’s snowing outside.
The Kinesiology building is next door to my dorm, but the snow still manages to soak through my clothes and saturate my hair. At least it isn’t too cold—that’d suck.
As I push the heavy doors open, I check my phone and confirm the meeting location, hoping I’m the first one there so I have time to dry off and look at least half-presentable.
When I round the corner, those hopes are dashed at the sight of Ian.
Despite the nerves that creep up, and the preemptive thinking of an explanation for why I resemble a soaked rat, my body warms from seeing him.
That’s not good. Still, I take a breath and march forward, drawing as little attention to myself as I can.
He’s wearing a plaid shirt, the kind that you know is thick only from looking at it, and I swear the color is custom-made for him. The earthy green stands out against his light tan, which makes me wonder how he's tanned in January.
Probably some vacation house in Florida or something.
Yeah, he looks so good, and it's not like he even has to try. Hell, his hair is a total mess, likely from wearing a beanie, but it’s almost as if it’s curated. His whole vibe is so casual and effortless, and I couldn't even hope to pull something like that off.
Ian’s frowning at his phone, tapping away and not noticing me walk up. As soon as I sit down in the chair across from him, he places his phone away and tilts his head up.
“Hey, what's up, Callum?”
God, I can't remember the last time someone smiled at me the way Ian is now.
“Uh, I'm good,” I reply, before wondering if that made any sense. What’s up? I'm good…
He doesn't seem to care. “Man, it's fucking snowing like shit out there.”
“Yeah, it's, uh, yeah.”
Why am I so bad at this? I mean, all that cussing threw me off, but still. Kicking myself, I brace for Ian to laugh at me for being an idiot.
He doesn't laugh at me. He frowns instead, running a hand through his tousled hair as he stares at my—
He’s scrutinizing my clothes.
Ugh.
I can practically see the judgment clouding his light eyes as he tilts his head, parting his lips—I shouldn't stare at his lips, for crying out loud—
“Are you warm enough in that?” he asks, pointing at my hoodie. “Or are you guys just built different out in the Midwest?”
I don't know why, but I bark out a quiet chuckle, the sound almost foreign to me, given how long it's been since I had a reason to do that.
Maybe it's because I'm surprised at his lack of judgment, or maybe I actually find Ian funny.
Either way, my reaction seems to have rubbed off on him because he's clearly amused, too.