9. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Maeve Henderson
My entire walk home feels like an eternity, but I know it's not. I know I practically speed-walked the entire way to avoid lugging these heavy bags for any longer than necessary.
I don't understand how these bags feel heavier than my paper bags. Maybe it's because all of their weight is digging into my shoulders?
It doesn't matter, anyway.
All that matters is that everyone I've passed on my walk has looked at me like a crazy person. Not that I blame them.
I'm sure I look like one of those older people who walk the mall before they're even open. The only part of the ensemble I'm missing is the fluorescent tracksuit and the fanny pack.
The image of me sporting a bright purple tracksuit in goofy shoes with a fanny pack has me giggling most of my way home.
I'd swing my arms, do the dramatic labor breathing with every step, and count my laps around the mall.
Gosh, I'm embarrassing.
Some guy walking his dog even stopped to stare at me as if I'd escaped the psych ward.
No wonder my friends never demand and beg me to go out drinking with them.
Nope, I tell them no, and they just go without me. Well, when they even invite me.
Carlie told them no once, and three girls cried until she changed her mind; they insisted it wouldn't be any fun without her.
It should hurt my feelings that I'm not as much in the group as she is, but it doesn't.
Two years at this school have cemented in my brain that I am only in the group because of Carlie and that none of those girls actually want to be my friend.
When I finally walk through the door to my apartment, I'm covered in a thin layer of sweat, and my skin feels sticky, but the cool AC hits me in the face immediately, and I sigh in relief.
I really do hate the Texas heat.
I lug my bags through the small apartment until I can lift them onto the counter, seeing a small sticky note stuck to an empty beer bottle that reads, “At the bar, meet us if you want.”
No, thank you.
I'm not even old enough to drink anyway, not for a few more months, but Carlie swears she could get me in.
Still, I'd rather not.
I'd rather bask in the silence of our apartment while everyone else parties.
As I unload my limited groceries, it dawns on me that my bags were so heavy because Leon had snuck both gallons of apple cider into them.
I know it's simple and likely didn't put him out, but it's such a sweet gesture. Nobody has ever gone out of their way to make my life better.
I wish I knew more about him so I could find him and properly thank him, but all I know is that he obviously makes more than I ever will and that his name is Leon.
Okay, that's not true. I also know that he's a bit of a clean freak.
His entire cart was filled with bleach, sponges, and rubber gloves.
At least I know his house smells nice.
I also know I've bumped into him near campus twice now, so he must live or work around here.
I'm betting he's a professor, maybe English literature.
Wait, no. I bet he does something really cool, like engineering.
Either way, he looks smart, and he smells wonderful.
Like some kind of spicy cologne, maybe some leather, and an expensive bourbon.
He smells like all man and sin.
I could picture us having deep conversations about conspiracy theories, the universe, or politics in front of a fireplace or at some fancy marble table.
Shoot, why am I thinking like this?
There is no way that Professor Hottie even gave me a second glance.
No, he saw a pathetic and poor college girl about to survive solely on cabbage and potatoes for a week and took pity on her.
He saw me crawling around on the ground like a moron and decided to interfere just as any decent human would do.
I'm just a charity case.
I'm not eye candy for a successful and attractive older man; that's not how my life goes.
I'm not sure how my life will go, but I don't think I'm fortunate enough to be swept off my feet by a wealthy older man.
I need to get that fantasy out of my head before I set myself up for disappointment.