Chapter 7 #2
I nod. “I might actually start with my American history stuff first, if that’s okay?”
“Don’t ask me,” he says, looking faintly surprised. “You can do whatever you want.”
And I can feel heat creeping further up my neck and into my cheeks at this, because he’s right. Obviously he’s right. I don’t need to ask permission.
Somehow I find myself asking anyway, all the time, about things I don’t even need permission for.
“I’ll let you know when I get to the study packet?” I say after clearing my throat.
“Sure,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I pull my hair into a quick braid—and by quick I mean messy—to keep it out of my face. Then I pull all my books and paper out of my bag. The silence is strangely comfortable as we work, broken only by distant sounds or the scratching of pencils on paper or the click of computer keys.
My keys click significantly louder than his, because Roxanne the Laptop has been my companion for more years than is recommended.
She works hard, but she’s on her last legs, huffing and puffing and getting much warmer than she should.
I give her encouraging pats and make sure to keep open only the programs I need at any time, but I’m not sure it helps.
When I feel the call of nature not long after we settle, I save everything and close the laptop so I can use the restroom. Just to give Roxanne a bit of a break—she’s earned it.
But when I return, she’s open again, a Word document pulled up. I blink at it, confused, and then sit down, peering closer.
There are only four words typed on that blank page: YOU CAN DO IT!
Judging by Dominic’s subtle smile when I look up at him, it’s his doing. Something warm blossoms in my chest as my lips twitch into their own smile. I shake my head, minimize the document, and then get back to work.
We’ve been sitting in the quiet for maybe fifteen minutes when Dominic’s phone vibrates, a low buzz against the tabletop.
He picks it up, looking tired as he sees the screen, and then answers.
Even though we’re not in the quiet section of the library, there’s little enough noise that he keeps his voice low.
“Hey,” he says.
I can’t hear the answering words coming down the line, and it’s none of my business anyway, but it’s a deep male voice—his dad, maybe.
“Yeah,” Dom says. “I’m at the library.” He glances up and gives me a brief smile, mouthing Sorry.
I wave his apology away and turn my eyes back to the notebook in front of me. Even though I’m no longer looking directly at him, however, I can still see the way he slumps back in his chair, a long sigh issuing from his lips.
“It’s going fine,” he says, and after a quick pause, he goes on, “Yes.” His words are more insistent now. “It really is.”
My hand finds my necklace absently—a delicate feather charm on a chain my dad gave me when I turned sixteen—and my history notes swim blindly before my eyes as I listen to the tired note that rises in Dom’s voice when he speaks again.
“I know. I will,” he says. And then, a second later, “Yeah. Okay. Bye.”
Only when he sets the phone back down on the table do I look back up at him. His eyes shutter closed for the tiniest second, but then he squares his shoulders and sit back up.
“Your dad?” I say.
“Yes,” he says, and although his voice is normal enough, his gaze is dull. “He’s very invested in my schooling.”
I hesitate and then ask the question flitting through my mind. “And your mom passed…four years ago? Five?”
“About four, yeah,” he says with a rough exhale. “She had a stroke, and then a while later she had another.”
I remember. Everyone knew, just like they knew when my dad died—the way everyone knows everything in Autumn Ridge.
But I remember it for a different reason, a memory that washes over me and plays like a movie in my mind.
I was a year or two into high school, and Dominic was about to graduate. That weekend I saw him when I left my dad’s store through the back door, rounding the corner to the alley between our place and Keller’s Bakehouse.
He was crouched in the narrow alleyway next to a bicycle, apparently trying to fix the chain.
His hands were stiff and jerky, movements unlike what I’d seen from him before, and his body looked tired in a way I still can’t describe.
Weak, maybe, like he was having trouble holding himself up.
Like he was about to melt into the pavement under his feet.
I watched as he fumbled with the bike chain for a second and then let it fall, slamming one hand against the wheel of the bike. He swiped angrily at his eyes before his head dropped, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths.
He stayed that way for a minute or two, and even though I knew I shouldn’t be watching him, I didn’t move from where I peeked around the corner.
I didn’t realize until later that I was gripping the brick so hard I scratched myself.
But there was something so devastating, so heartbreaking, about seeing him like that.
He wiped his eyes again a moment later before standing up, his body unfurling, and then he strode away, out of the narrow alley, leaving his bike behind.
It was raw, broken sorrow. The kind that comes when loss is cruel and unexpected.
“I’m sorry,” I say now, pushing the past away so I can focus on the Dominic that’s in front of me in the present. A second later, though, my body sags as I shake my head. “No. That was a stupid thing to say. People have told me sorry a million times, and it’s never once made me feel better.”
He nods. “It hasn’t helped me either,” he says. Then he glances up at me, his eyes hesitant. “But it is nice knowing someone else gets it.”
“I do,” I say, and the words are softer than I intend them to be. More gentle, more intimate.
For a second, our eyes hold, something I can’t name passing between us. Relief, maybe, or the reassurance that none of us are ever really alone, no matter how isolated our experiences make us feel.
And that moment starts out stagnant, simple eye contact, an exchange of understanding. There’s nothing particularly noteworthy about it. I make eye contact with lots of people.
But...this is different. That stretch of silence quickly grows as the room around us seems to fade, blurry at the edges. Something almost tangible stirs until my head is strangely light. His eyes are so green—
His phone buzzes, and I startle; so does he, and I wonder if his pulse is doing weird things like mine is.
Something to do. I need something to do, or something to say.
The hat!
“So.” I clear my throat, trying to sound as normal as possible, like I didn’t just get sucked into soul-deep eye contact. I lean sideways and dig in my backpack, pulling out the blue hat he placed on my head when it started raining yesterday. “Unrelated, but I think I broke your hat.”
Dominic’s head whips up from checking his phone, and if I’m not mistaken, his cheeks are a little pink too. When his gaze drops to the hat I’m now holding out over the table, however, his brows jump in surprise.
I don’t blame him. It’s a sad sight, and my still-flustered heart calms down as we both stare at the hat.
The bill is warped lopsidedly, and one corner is now frayed. The overall shape is wonky, too.
“You think you broke it?” he says, and when I finally work up the nerve to look at him, I’m surprised to see his lips twitching, the clouds vanishing from his eyes. “I think you might be right.”
He reaches out and takes the hat, his gaze full of humor. “What happened?”
I slump lower in my chair and cover my face with my hands as my cheeks burn. “I put it in the washer,” I more or less wail. “I’m so sorry. I like to wash peoples’ clothes before I return them—”
But I break off when I hear laughter—easy, carefree laughter, deep and pleasant and the first of its kind I’ve heard from Dominic.
I peek through my fingers to see a wide smile on his face, his shoulders relaxed, and I’ve never seen him so open before.
Not when I would catch glimpses of him in the high school halls, not when I’ve peeked at him during class, not even when we got caught in the rain.
This must be what he’s like. What he’s really like, when he’s with people he loves and trusts.
And it’s a stupid thought, because he’s my TA. But we’re also becoming friends, aren’t we? Friends spend time together. So when the idea filters through my mind, I don’t push it away.
I wonder if I could make him laugh like that again.
And again.
And again.