Chapter 7
SIX YEARS AGO || SEPTEMBER
“Fancy seeing a girl like you in a place like this.”
My long, drawn-out sigh sends a few strands of my dark hair flying as I look up at Dominic.
He’s caught me on the way out of engineering, leaning with one shoulder against the wall, his arms folded, his black backpack on the floor.
There’s no baseball hat, sadly, but he makes a plaid jacket look incredible.
“I didn’t think you were here today,” I say with a nod to the auditorium doors I’ve just exited.
He grabs his bag and swings it carelessly over his shoulder before falling into stride with me. “Sometimes I stick around and do homework outside,” he says. “I don’t have to come every class.”
“Lucky,” I mutter.
He lets out a quiet huff of laughter. “It’s not going so hot, huh?”
I swing my narrowed eyes up to him, but all I’m feeling is sheepishness. “Like you don’t already know.”
His lips twitch, his eyes twinkling as he shrugs. “I’ve heard admitting you have a problem is the first step to improvement. I’m helping you on your journey.”
“My journey toward a good grade?” I say as I try not to laugh.
He nods sagely.
“What’s the second step?”
“Attending the study sessions would be a good start.”
He’s probably right.
We’re only two weeks into the semester, but already a lot of this classwork is over my head. My roommates—social butterflies who want to do ALL the things in ALL the places—have dragged me all over campus and town in the name of “distraction” and “relaxation.”
To be fair, I really do like them. I’ve gotten to know them better over the last couple weeks, and even though they were friends long before they ever met me, they still try to include me whenever they go do something. They’re not bad to live with, either.
I’m trying to do my part and not be a recluse. If they extend a hand of fellowship, I should accept and be grateful. I have thus attended one football game, one afternoon of manicures, and two roommate lunches.
The afternoon of manicures overlapped with one of the optional study sessions put on by the TAs, and I didn’t regret missing it at the time, but I’m regretting it now.
“I have learned my lesson,” I say as we reach the doors; Dominic pushes one open and holds it for me. I pass through, and then he follows.
“Have you?” he says with a look of good-natured skepticism. “Because you’ve missed both of the study meetings.”
I shuffle my feet as we walk, not sure what to say. People don’t usually understand about my mother. They think she’s weird or high-maintenance or dramatic. And she is all of those things.
But she’s also still my mother.
“My mom is getting a divorce,” I finally settle on, and the words sound strange coming out of my mouth.
The woman who gave birth to me is always called Alvina or my mother—I haven’t called her Mom since I was in grade school, even when talking to other people.
“She’s been going through a bit of a rough time, so I’ve been spending a lot of time with her. ”
To be clear: The support Alvina needs and the support she thinks she needs are not the same.
What Alvina needs is a therapist, in my humble opinion.
Instead she’s divorcing from the man she married after my dad died—in my head I’ve been calling him the Post-Dad Husband—and going on a lot of shopping sprees, many of which she requires my presence for.
Alvina likes having someone to make her feel important, and that someone is often me.
Dad anchored her. He gave her someplace to return to any time she wandered off, physically or emotionally. He fell in love with her when they were young, when she was steadier and less volatile. His love remained even as they grew and changed.
Dominic hums in understanding but doesn’t say anything else as we walk. The once-vibrant leaves that crunched on the ground are now dull and slicked to the pavement from this morning’s rain, the scent of which still lingers heavy in the air.
I should have worn a raincoat, not just a sweater. The autumn sky up there looks awfully gloomy.
“Where are you headed?” I say as we meander down the path that cuts across the campus’s main courtyard and leads to the student center.
“Library,” he says, nodding to the large building next to the student center. “You could come, if you wanted.” A smile flickers over his face. “You got the study packet from Sallow, don’t you? I can answer any questions you have about the stuff in there.”
It’s an appealing offer, for multiple reasons, but…
“I have to work,” I say with a sigh.
“Oh,” he says, looking surprised as he glances over at me. “Where do you work?”
“Online. For a company called Final Fiction,” I say. “They primarily do editing, except it’s not just for fiction, and it’s not all editing.”
“So what do you do, then?” he says, and he sounds genuinely curious.
“I do the very thrilling, exciting work of compiling creative briefs for online articles about science and history,” I say.
“Basically I find internal and external links and format headings and stuff. Provide related search terms. I do batches of those, and I have about half of my current batch due end of day.” Then, biting my lip, I add, “If the offer still stands, I could use the help for engineering, though. Do you go to the library every day?”
“Most days, yeah,” he says, grimacing. “And somehow it still doesn’t feel like enough.” Then he sighs, the frown lines easing from his brow. “Want to drop by tomorrow? I study on the third floor, over in the corner with the cubbies.”
Even though I’m struggling in engineering and working on it is frustrating, a few bubbles of excitement rise in my chest at the thought of studying with Dominic.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be there—” But I break off as a few fat droplets of rain plunk down, on my cheek and my nose and then everywhere.
I look around us. The rest of the students on campus seem to have gotten the memo I missed, because they’re pulling up their hoods and digging umbrellas out of their bags.
When I turn back to Dominic, I’m surprised to find him doing the same; he’s unzipping his backpack, and after peering inside he emerges with his blue baseball hat.
Then, without asking, without hesitation, he plops the hat right on my head.
“Here,” he says, even as he’s pulling off his plaid jacket. There’s a hoodie underneath, and he tugs the hood up over his head, holding the jacket toward me. “Stay warm. You need to be healthy to study if you want to get your grades up.”
“I know,” I say with a miserable groan.
He nudges the plaid jacket at me again, looking totally at ease, like he gives people his clothes all the time. I take it grudgingly.
“Do you have anything else for yourself?” I say, but I’m already slipping my arms through the warm sleeves.
“Nah,” he says, and a hint of humor flickers in his eyes. “But you can bring me soup if I get sick.”
“All I can make is chicken salad. I’m a horrible cook.”
“I broke my nose twice in high school. I’m a horrible taster.” He pauses. “But no chicken salad soup, please.”
I stare at him, at the lopsided smile tugging over his lips as he looks at me.
“You’re drowning in that,” he says, his eyes trained on the jacket. “But it will keep you warm.”
He’s right; it’s way too big, which is perfect for me to burrow in and get cozy.
He gestures to the zipper of the jacket as he slings his bag over his shoulder once more. “Zip up,” he says, walking backward now. “I need to get going, but I’ll see you tomorrow at the library?”
All I can do is nod. Words seem to have escaped my grasp.
He nods too. “Don’t skip studying this time, Berkeley.
” Then after a second’s pause, he grins, a rare expression that causes my heart to stutter suspiciously.
“My apologies. Not Berkeley—Reese.” He turns on his heel, waving over his shoulder and striding off toward the library, head down against the rain.
And just like that, my silly high school crush returns.
I find Dominic exactly where he said I would—on the third floor of the library, in the corner lined with cubicles.
He’s not actually in a cubicle, though. He’s seated at a table, and he doesn’t notice me approaching at first, for which I’m grateful.
It gives me time to stare at him like a weirdo.
The hat he so often wears is in my backpack since he let me wear it the other day, but his light brown hair is still a bit messy.
His shoulders are hunched as he looks down at the notebook on the table in front of him, and he absentmindedly taps a pen against his cheek as he focuses.
“Hi,” I say when I’ve reached the table.
He startles, looking up at me, but his attention catches on my shirt, like mine does on his.
They’re the exact same, each a burnt orange color with the slogan from the Autumn Ridge Fall Festival a few years ago: Come for the festival, stay for the people.
I begin to laugh as something warm rises in my chest, a nonsensical feeling that nonetheless continues to grow. “It looks better on you,” I say.
His grin matches mine as his eyes dart over me. “I don’t know about that.”
My smile dies as I blink in surprise, but Dominic doesn’t elaborate. He just ducks his head, runs one hand over his hair, and takes a deep breath. Then, sitting up straighter and adopting a more businesslike air, he asks, “Did you bring your homework?”
I settle myself in the wooden chair across from him, trying to convince my cheeks to stop burning.
Unfortunately, I don’t think it works that way.
“I didn’t only bring homework,” I say. “I brought two textbooks, my laptop, my three-subject notebook, and my file folder.”
“A prepared woman.”
“A desperate woman,” I correct. “Who has a partial scholarship to maintain.”
His smile grows a bit. “Scholarship, huh?”
“Partial scholarship, GPA-dependent.”
“All right, desperate woman,” he says. “Make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to the chair I’m sitting in. “If you can, that is.”
He’s not wrong. I’m half convinced these seats are made to be uncomfortable so that people don’t fall asleep.