Chapter 4
Lennon
As I suspected, working in student housing is the worst job imaginable.
It’s boring and repetitive, and there is an endless stream of complaints and issues to deal with.
We receive hundreds of emails and calls per day, most of them from students who are entitled and irate about the—usually—minor inconveniences that have befallen them.
No matter how many issues we resolve, the same number, if not more, pop up the next day.
Bev is our team leader, and while I’ve quickly developed a healthy respect for her, I’ve yet to work out exactly what motivates her.
I know I’m here as a punishment, that’s abundantly clear, but I can’t work out why she’s here.
She’s been working here for years and is well-liked and well-feared.
She could easily be running the entire student services department if she wanted.
Why she’s still in this corner of housing, dealing with this low-level shit, I don’t know.
She’s allocated me to the desk next to hers, no doubt to keep an eye on me. Like I said, her bullshit barometer works just fine.
Anna sits to my right. She’s pretty and blonde, one of those people who considers being employed to be a privilege.
She takes pleasure in brightening the days of those around her.
There’s every chance that when Bev asked about her greatest weaknesses during her interview, she said perfectionism and caring too much, and meant it.
Blake sits one place down on Anna’s right. He has the typing speed of a fiend and is habitually rude to students. There’s a disturbing lifelessness behind his eyes that leads me to believe he’s a sadist. That, or a sociopath.
I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think I prefer him to Anna.
I log a request for a plumber to investigate a blocked toilet, and glance up at the clock on the top right of my screen.
Ten eighteen.
A faraway itch I was dimly aware of rises to the surface and makes itself known in earnest. It slithers under my skin, causing sweat to bead on my palms. I scratch the back of my neck and chase the itch into my hair.
It’s Tuesday. The object of my ill-advised focus has twelve minutes left of art history. It’s his last class of the morning. After this, he’s free until museum studies this afternoon.
Not every week, but most weeks, he swings by Crema and picks up a couple of frappuccinos after art history class. One for him and one for the redhead.
Crema is an on-campus coffee shop that serves drinks and light meals. The drinks are decent, but the meals are overpriced for what they are, if you ask me. Still, it’s an institution on campus and popular with students and staff alike.
It’s an eight-minute walk from the student services building.
Ten twenty.
Ten twenty-two.
Ten twenty-four.
The itch intensifies to unbearable levels, slithering under my skin and driving me crazy.
My chest squeezes.
My heart races.
“Mind if I take my break early?” I ask Bev.
The question comes out a lot louder than I was expecting, and I anticipate a sharp look from her, or at least one that asks a question.
“Sure, hun,” she says, eyes fixed on her screen.
I walk as fast as I can while still appearing normal. Cool air blasts my face as I get outside, and I hang a tight left after the gables. I get stuck behind a group of slow walkers at the fountain. My heart picks up its pace. Anxiety and anticipation morph to hot rage.
It should be illegal to walk slowly in public. It should be a crime that comes with a hefty fine. Maybe more. Yeah. Jail time for repeat offenders. Not much jail time. Not enough to ruin anyone’s life or anything, but enough to act as a strenuous deterrent.
I manage to overtake them when the path widens, turning to give them a filthy look as I pass, and book it to Crema at a speed that sees me arriving panting and sweaty.
He’s at the counter when I get there.
When I see him, the air around me thins and I’m hit by a wave of emotion. A drenching, drowning wave. A complicated mix of things that don’t usually go together. Feelings that make no sense when placed this close to each other.
Relief and panic.
Relief that I got here in time and haven’t missed him. Relief that he’s here and I’m here.
Relief that we’re sharing the same space. Breathing the same air.
Relief that he’s wearing a slightly too-big faded gray T-shirt today, and that the fabric looks soft, like it always does.
Panic that I’ve lost my shit and can’t stay away from him.
I take my place in the line, four people behind him, and to be on the safe side, I pull a cap on and keep my head down.
“Two espresso frappuccinos, extra-large, please.” His voice is deep, but not quite as deep as I had imagined. It’s smooth, but there’s a husk in it when he laughs that isn’t there when he talks.
He says something to the server that I don’t quite catch, and she offers him a free shot of hazelnut syrup.
“Sure, why not?” he replies easily.
She smiles at him as though they share an intimate secret, and whispers something to him about the magical, aphrodisiac powers of hazelnut syrup and how the exchange of said syrup binds people together for all eternity.
I’m paraphrasing, obviously. But not by much.
Her cheeks go bright pink when she stops talking, and he adds a chocolate-chip cookie to his order to make her feel better about the interaction.
The exchange is almost identical to the one I observed last week. And the week before.
When she’s taken his payment and handed him his order, he thanks her and finds a table near the window.
She stares after him, blissfully unaware that the interaction means more to her than it does to him.
She feels special, but she isn’t. He treats every person he encounters like they’re singular and important.
He’s nothing if not predictable.