Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
TATUM
Maeve.
Even her name is pretty.
She’s the prettiest girl I think I’ve ever seen.
Her short, black hair barely falls just beneath her ears, almost the same color as her dark eyes.
The same color as my eyes. Her brows are thick, and prominent freckles dot her nose and cheekbones.
Her lips are full, her nose is narrow, and there’s a tiny gap between her two front teeth.
She never noticed me, but I noticed her.
Suddenly, one day four months ago, she started coming to the campus library, sitting in the same seat at the other end of the table from me, and has been almost every day since.
We would sit in the same seats every time, but she never even glanced my way until last night.
Then again, no one ever looked at me. I was the most socially awkward guy in existence, and I had zero experience when it came to women.
I’m not good with them, or anyone, really. It’s not like I can blame them; it’s probably weird that I’m the only twenty-two-year-old male who’s still a virgin.
Women aren’t into quiet guys who know every detail about quantum theory and can solve every math problem off the top of their head in under thirty seconds.
So, yeah, a twenty-two-year-old virgin genius.
I wouldn’t know how to talk to a woman if they had ever shown interest, anyway.
And no one ever had, which was a little embarrassing to admit.
That much was obvious, especially if we based it on my interaction with Maeve last night.
I mean, who offered a complete stranger a ride across the country and dropped the statistics of someone getting murdered in the same conversation? Me, apparently.
I don’t know what came over me, volunteering myself like that, but a small part of me is glad I did.
She had sounded really sad on the phone, but she’d looked that way since the first time I ever laid eyes on her.
She probably really wants to go home. I won’t allow myself to get my hopes up too high, though.
If she hasn’t figured it out already, she’ll undoubtedly change her mind the minute she realizes how awkward I really am.
It’s an insane offer, I know.
But I don’t have anywhere to go for Christmas. I’d planned to stay on campus during break, anyway. The only family member I have is my mom, but I haven’t seen her in a few years because she’s always too high or drunk to know what day it is.
I divert my attention to the time on my phone.
3:30 PM.
Yes, I got to the library half an hour earlier than we were supposed to meet.
I have too many nerves twisting in my stomach to be the nonchalant guy about this.
Instead, my forehead is clammy, my hair clings to the sweat, and my palms are damp, so I keep rubbing them on my jeans as I fidget in the wooden chair.
I don’t know how I manage to keep it together when she finally enters the library; I think I just disassociate until she sits down in the chair in front of me. Otherwise, I may melt into a giant puddle of humiliation on the outdated, burgundy-colored carpet.
Maeve dons a ball cap today, with her hair brushed back behind her ears, and a black, zip-up workout jacket that’s open, revealing her matching sports bra.
I have to clench my jaw to keep it from popping open at the sight of tattoos along her collarbone, disappearing under the jacket, hiding the rest. Holy—
“Tatum,” she greets.
“Hello.”
I watch as she pulls out her textbooks and how her slender fingers move, drawing my attention to her black fingernail polish.
“So, Tate,” my heart jolts at the nickname, “why would you drive a stranger across the country?”
“I…don’t have anything else to do.”
She nods. “It’s a lot of gas. A lot of hotels. There’s a snowstorm coming next week… You’re okay with that?”
I can’t be honest and say that I’d do anything just to have an opportunity to be around her. There’s no way I can admit that. That definitely wouldn’t help my creep factor at the moment. Plus, I’d probably have a stroke if I tried.
“I have snow chains,” I say softly, “on my truck.”
She’s watching me so intently that my cheeks are on fire under her gaze.
Somehow, she’s gotten more intimidating, knowing that she has all of those tattoos, in an attractive way.
I feel wholeheartedly out of my league now, like I shouldn’t even bother her with my presence.
She’s this otherworldly, ethereal human, and I’m…
me. Before I start squirming in my seat, I pull out my own books, pretending to open them to specific pages—even though there’s no point, I have a photographic memory.
They’re all already there in my mind, as clear as day.
“How old are you?” she asks, changing the subject.
“Twenty-two.”
“So, you’re a fourth year?”
I nod.
Her eyes narrow in scrutiny at me before they relax again. “Me too.”
There’s the tiniest of smiles that curve her lips before it disappears. As tiny as it is, she has one of those smiles that changes her whole face. It rounds her cheeks, and her eyes crinkle a little in the corners. It makes her a little less intimidating, which eases my nerves just a little.
“What are you studying?” she continues, highlighting something in her notebook.
As I follow her movements, because it’s much easier to do so when she’s not looking at me, I make a mental list of her textbooks. Campbell Biology, Principles of Biochemistry, and Sociology. I’d be willing to bet she’s taking pre-med courses.
“Biostatistics.”
She raises a brow. “What is that?”
“It’s, uh, the use of m-math and statistical methods for scientific research in health-related fields.”
Maeve blinks. “So you’re smart.”
A breathless laugh practically bursts out of me as I look down at my fingers intertwined in my lap. “I guess so.”
“So was Ed Kemper.”
My head snaps up at her, unsure of what to say because I’m afraid everything that leaves my mouth will only further convince her that I’m plotting her murder. She’s not wrong about Ed Kemper, but being compared to a psycho doesn’t help me feel any less nervous.
“The serial killer?” she continues.
While I obviously know who Ed Kemper is, I don’t want to come out and blatantly say that. God, she probably thinks I’m so weird.
“That was another joke.” She winces half-heartedly. “Not much of a comedy guy, huh?”
“Well, Ed Kemper picked up college girls hitchhiking in Santa Cruz,” I mumble. “Then he b-buried them near mountains, so I think… I think you’re safe with me.”
Why did I just say that?
Maeve lets out a snort as she goes to drink from her coffee. “Okay, well, we’ll work on it.”
Like I said, I’m awful at this. I’m not good at talking, no matter how intelligent I am.
I’m confident when it comes to my education and knowing the most random facts off the top of my head, but everything else…
Not so much. I’m so self-conscious that it’s probably unhealthy.
It’s second-nature for me to constantly question if someone is looking too long at me, too hard, and whether they like what they see.
Does my voice sound weird? Is something in my teeth?
Did they catch the anxiety in my microexpressions?
“What about you?” I manage to get out without stuttering. “What are you, uh, studying?”
Even though I already know the answer, I still ask.
“Biology,” she answers promptly. “Well, technically, I’m taking everything I need for pre-med. I want to get into Obstetrics eventually.”
“Wow.”
“Wow?”
“N-not in a bad way,” I backpedal. “Wow, as i-in cool.”
“Cool,” she repeats, staring down at her notebook as she writes, and thank God she’s not looking at me or else she’d see just how affected I am by her presence.
My cheeks have never felt this warm for this long before. It’s like everything that leaves her lips ignites the blush in my face, I can feel it. The mere thought of resembling a tomato has me wanting to hide underneath this table.
But as we quickly settle into silence, all my worries cease to exist. It’s not the kind of silence that feels so awkward that it’s almost loud; it’s the kind that’s comfortable.
The kind you can sit in without needing to fill the space.
She flips through her books, writing down notes every so often as she does, and I watch her helplessly from across the table.
Helplessly, because I have no choice but to observe her like this: deep in thought, brow wrinkled slightly, lips pursed.
Every movement she makes is effortless. I find myself getting lost in the motion of her fingers, the sound of her pen on paper, and the way ends of her hair jostle gently under the hat as she writes.
“You’re not studying.”
The sound of her voice rips me from my stupor.
“Oh,” I say, “I already know this stuff.”
Did that sound…cocky?
“You already have all of that memorized?” she questions, eyeing my books suspiciously.
“I, uh, well…I have a photographic memory.”
She laughs, a little sarcastically, but it’s a melodious sound that sends goosebumps cascading down every limb. “Of course you do.”
We fall into another bout of silence because I can’t find something to say to that.
I’m overthinking every word that leaves my mouth, the way I sound, the way I look.
My hyperfixation feels doubled when I talk to her because I’m so worried that she’ll think I’m a freak.
Other people do. I’ve noticed the stares and the whispered comments when they think I can’t hear them.
I wonder what they see? A guy who can’t keep eye contact, fidgets with his fingers, and focuses on keeping calm breaths when someone does talk to him.
Maeve’s books slamming shut pull me out of yet another haze, and I look up tentatively as she sighs, standing from her chair.
“You passed. Today,” she says, giving me a pointed look. But I think there’s amusement there, or maybe I’m wrong. “See you tomorrow, Tate.”
“Yeah,” I rasp. “See you.”
My body sags in the chair as I watch her leave the library.