Noah
Chapter six
I catch a glimpse of her distinctive onyx twists and the oversized swell of her hips from several yards away and break into a light jog.
Shit. I thought for sure I'd beat her here if I showed up forty-five minutes before the session was scheduled to start, but once again, she's one step ahead. Literally. She's more prepared than me. More focused than me. Just plain better than me.
And I don't mind it one bit.
Behind me in line at Parkside last month, she practically stared a hole in the back of my head.
I snuck a peek while placing my order and was pleased to find high cheekbones, deep brown skin a few shades shy of obsidian, large charcoal eyes, and a wide mouth with full lips.
She sported glasses that covered half her face and hid generous breasts and an ass like a Pixar mom under a sweater vest and a denim skirt that reached her ankles.
Sensible heels my Aunt Soo Yun wouldn't be caught dead in were the cherry on top.
She wasn't my type. She's not my type. And yet, when I saw her again in Entertainment Marketing, I asked for a pen knowing full well I had three in my backpack. She has an accent—French, maybe?—but speaks perfect English. Too perfect, like she learned it at some fancy boarding school abroad.
When she showed up in my Intro to Cinema class, I gave up wondering why we kept running into one another and instead stepped over her to get to my seat when I could have just gone the other way around.
Then at the Gamma Gamma Rho party…
I didn't think she'd be there. She'd been everywhere around campus—class, Leavey Library, the dining hall, McCarthy Quad—but never a party, and I've been to nearly all of them. I had to.
After two years as Henry's slightly younger, much more fun twin, I moved across the country for a fresh start.
Unfortunately, that meant playing catch-up in a social scene that's completely foreign to me.
I walked too fast. I talked too fast. I didn't know any of the slang or the cool places to hang out.
Even my clothes were wrong until I made a trip to Urban Outfitters.
Today, though, I'm stuck in a suit, one I "borrowed" from Henry when I left. I would feel bad about it if there weren't six more just like it hanging in his closet. Mr. Perfect would never stoop to wearing khakis or, God forbid, jeans.
So yeah, I took one of his DKNY suits and a pair of Oxfords, too. They pinch my feet now as I close the distance to Awa.
Awa, like Henry, is more on the formal side.
I've never seen her in anything less than business casual.
Blazers, long skirts, dress pants, and heels.
She's always so buttoned up, literally and figuratively.
Her whole aura screams meeting the parents, marriage, kids, becoming the power couple everyone envies.
Mom and Dad would love her. But not me. I'm content to play the field.
That night at Gamma Gamma Rho, I scanned the crowd looking for my date for the evening, and there she was, leaning against the counter in a skirt that accentuated her curves for a change, and a top that made my mouth dry from across the room.
She was drinking from a red Solo cup, a secret smile curving her lips.
I remember wanting to kiss it off, drifting toward her like a ship to a lighthouse.
I know I should've kept my hands to myself.
I could have. There was more than enough space to walk past without her even noticing me.
But close enough to smell the shea butter and plumeria wafting from her skin, with the lights dim and Pretty Ricky's "Your Body" playing loud enough to rattle my eardrums, I couldn't resist a touch.
A graze, really; light enough to go unnoticed by most people.
But not her. Awa turned those ebony eyes on me, and I short-circuited. I forgot all about Gretchen, or Cara, or whoever it was I was there to meet and just stared at her. I might still be staring if her roommate hadn't broken the spell.
So I'm here now. Forty-five minutes early for an info session when I'm already bogged down with homework and chasing after a girl who's not my type.
"Awa! Wait up!" I yell as she approaches the double doors.
It's admittedly not the best opener, but it gets her attention. She turns to me, her brow knit in confusion, wearing a suit straight out of Condoleeza Rice's closet, complete with pearls. Is she running for office or something?
"Uh, hi Noah. What's up?"
She extends her hand—maybe she is running for office—and I take it, squeezing and then holding it a little longer than necessary before releasing her. Why am I so drawn to this girl?
I shake off the awkwardness and paste on a smile that's been known to break hearts. Unintentionally, of course. I never promise anything I can't give.
"I just thought we could sit together, since I don't know anyone else here."
I can almost see the gears turning in her head. She probably thinks I'll distract her. As if anything short of an earthquake could.
"Yeah, sure," she finally replies.
The next half-hour is a blur.
In the tiny seats, my leg brushes against hers, and I can barely think. My body reacts as expected to being so close to such a voluptuous woman. It doesn't care that we're in public or that we're practically strangers.
We talk about William Morris. We talk about what we want to be when we grow up—she wants to be a lawyer, another sign my parents would love her…
and that I should stay away. We even talk about our families.
Well, I talk about mine before quickly shutting down the conversation.
There's no reason to get into all that yet. Maybe not ever.
But it works. When the session starts, she doesn't shift away. Doesn't hold herself stiff and aloof the way she always does in class. And when I ask for her number, she actually gives it to me.