Chapter 14
Hart’s declaration of potential self-sacrifice in the name of friendship heightened the priority of my learning more about David.
Knowledge of the middle school version of him wouldn’t cut it if we planned on becoming a believable couple.
If a guy he met three years prior could boast about being best friends, I believed David could share decent aspects of his personality.
I made a list of questions for him, ranging from favorite food to opinions on the known universe. After our football stadium agreement, David promised to meet me on-campus Saturday.
David
It’s Saturday, you can’t give me two?
David
I’m leaving at 7
Fine.
I’d do everything I could to squeeze as much as possible out of him in those sixty minutes. On the way to the cafe, I got a text from him saying,
Need to reschedule. Come at 7.
I’m already on the way.
David
so turn around?
I scoffed and continued down my path. I’d ridden the bus for half an hour to get down here. By the time I took it back, I would only have fifteen minutes at my apartment before having to hop back on the bus again. There would be no turning back.
Rivere was an underground cafe right on the edge of campus.
The cobblestone steps led into a stuffy room littered with stained wood tables and Pepsi on tap.
Most of the tables were full, students welcoming the weekend with karaoke and dart boards.
Everyone was in either jeans or sweats. My matching plaid skirt set aged me in a way I wasn’t sure I was ready to address.
My gaze landed on the prick of the hour tucked in a booth on the far end of the cafe.
I poked my tongue against the inside of my cheek, letting out a disbelieving exhale.
David was in his typical attire, a baggy gray sweatshirt and matching bottoms. A bunch of guys who were sipping beer and talking with their hands surrounded him.
Every single one of them had a smile on their face, including Satan himself.
My gaze narrowed when I saw him laugh, an honest-to-God, belly laugh, and I had half a mind to consider the existence of doppelgangers.
I recognized three of the guys at the table.
Hart sat on the end, one foot out of the booth because he was too big to squeeze in completely.
Nathaniel was next to him, chunky reading glasses on top of his head.
Weston Briggs was next to him, a dirty blond quarterback who I’d seen a handful of times on campus.
He was the type of beautiful old Hollywood used to produce in droves.
The other three guys with them look a couple of years older. They were dressed in grey polos and khakis. Despite their varying skin tones, they somehow look like clones of one another, in some kind of time-share company or religious order way.
I grabbed a stool at the bar and asked for a ginger ale before texting David:
You realize you’re not the only one with a schedule, right? Try warning me earlier next time.
When I glanced back over at David, I caught him looking at his phone for a second and typing a quick response before setting it face down on the table.
David
sorry.
It was half-hearted at best. I blew out a breath and tugged my laptop out of my bag.
Fuck him. I wouldn’t waste a walk down here.
I’d finish one of my papers and then come up with a new game plan.
Maybe I could convince Haven to be my plus one.
Our relationship could be realistic considering we’d been roommates forever.
She wouldn’t give me half the headache David would, and she’d actually appreciate the company of my family.
Falling into a work rhythm was easy despite all the surrounding noise.
I’d almost forgotten how much I loved having the buzz of conversation around me while writing.
After two ginger ales, one awkward date refusal with an awkward CS major, and a brief conversation with the bartender about climate change, I’d nearly forgotten all about my David problem.
I had almost let it go until Weston Briggs appeared by my side to remind me.
He’d come to the bar for a refill and did a double-take when he saw me.
“Hi.” His smile was lopsided and cute, front teeth slightly crooked in a way that made no sense, but also made him more approachable.
“Hello.” My voice sounded a little suspect. I glanced over his shoulder at David, considering maybe this was some odd chess move. But David was still too enmeshed in conversation to direct his attention outside his booth.
“I’m Weston.” He offered me his hand. It was large, veiny, and possibly worthy of an art study. “And you’re Yara.”
I accepted the handshake. He didn’t squeeze my fingers to death like some guys did when they were trying to prove a domineering point. He teetered toward the okay side of my first impressions meter.
“David’s mentioned you,” he said.
My brow quirked up. “Really?”
Weston nodded, taking a seat next to me.
When he rested his arm on the bar counter, his sleeve rode up slightly, revealing the last set from the tattoo trio.
I tried not to stare or ask the question burning on my tongue, because if the gossip mill was even slightly accurate, the reasoning behind those tattoos wasn’t something you brought up casually.
“All terrible things, I’m sure,” I joked, but his silence made me frown and repeat, “All terrible things?”
He chuckled. “Not all.”
“But some, which is more than enough.” It took concentrated effort not scowl. “Care to share? Or are you also in the camp of taking a bullet for him and thus, loyal to a fault?”
“I don’t make my mind up about people based on secondhand accounts,” he said, a gentle assurance that I wasn’t already on his bad side. “No matter how much I trust the… accounter?”
“Accounty?” I tried.
“Accountant?”
We shared a laugh.
“I think you scare him,” Weston said once our laughter faded.
“What?”
“You’re very put-together.” He took in my outfit and leather handbag. “And you answer all his calls. He’s not used to the attention.”
I laughed. “Yeah, okay.”
“Your counter?” Weston rested his chin on his hand, settling in for a long haul.
“He doesn’t get scared.”
“What makes you say that?”
I shrugged. “He’s a bank vault of a human being. Nothing gets in or out.”
“Plenty gets in,” Weston argued. “What do you think the tellers are for?”
“You saying I’m a teller?”
He shook his head. “Oh, far more important. I’m a teller. You’re the bank manager.”
“Doubt David would ever trust me with any kind of lock combo,” I said. “We used to sneak expired eggs and old tuna in each other’s lockers.”
“A budding love language if I’ve ever heard of one.”
I snorted. “David doesn’t believe in love.”
Weston frowned in disbelief. “Did he say that?”
“Every other month,” I promised. “He doesn’t think it’s “practical.””
“Practical.” The word pulled out another laugh from him. “Jesus.”
“Do you?” I asked, curious about the amusement in his eyes and disbelief in his tone.
“Do I?”
“Believe in love?”
He took a moment to think it over, fingers drumming on the counter. “Sometimes, yes. Most of the time, I really want to. With every fiber of my being, I want to.”
There was a thread of sadness in his words that he glossed over with another one of his crooked smiles.
Now, there was a guy under rubble. He was masking in a way that was so professional, I assumed he’d done it his entire life.
I knew that game well. It was how I’d kept my picking a secret from my family.
It was why I ran around campus like a woman on a mission, when inside I was tucked in some corner, wondering if and how I was going to make it out of my darkness alive.
“Why are you friends with him?” I wondered out loud because I couldn’t take it anymore. First Hart and Nathaniel. Now, after talking to Weston, a seemingly well-adjusted (as much as a twenty-something college athlete could be) guy, I couldn't fit David’s puzzle piece with theirs.
“We like each other.” Weston shrugged as if it were that simple.
And then I considered maybe it was. Maybe all this time, David wasn’t some guy who hated every person he’d come across. Maybe it was the opposite.
“Wow,” I whispered to myself.
Weston’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“I think I’m the only person David doesn’t like.” It was a cold, hard realization that coaxed a humorless laugh from me. For years, I’d wholeheartedly believed David was as difficult and callous with everyone he met. My interactions with him were standard, not an exception.
But then there came the kiss… why had he kissed me? Some delayed attempt to connect? Hate manifesting into something physical? I never believed people when they said they could have hate sex, but now, I could see the possibility as clearly as I could see my hand in front of my face.
Weston didn’t refute my claim, but he didn’t look too convinced either. “I wouldn’t say he doesn’t like you.”
“Then what would you say?”
He took a moment. When he couldn’t find an answer, he puffed out his cheeks and blew out a weary breath. “I’d say he needs some time to warm up.”
“Almost a decade of knowing each other should be enough time to warm up,” I said flatly.
Weston tilted his head back and forth, considering. “Sometimes, depending on the circumstances, one might need a bit more time.”
I laughed. I appreciated the attempt to comfort. The lie was structured to mend a fence he had no hand in building or breaking. But it was clear as day that David liked everyone else —and they seemed to return the sentiment without hesitation— but he hated me with consistent dedication.
“This has been enlightening.” I started packing up my bag.
“Sorry… what?” Weston frowned as I stood up. “Are you leaving?”
“I’ve finished all I wanted to.” I nodded. “And I don’t want to stick around and wait for a guy who doesn’t want me around.”