She takes a quick look down the hall, making sure no one sees her leaving, and then vanishes down the hall, plaid skirt swishing behind her. I fall back in my chair, heart thrumming, body on edge, one thought flitting through my mind.
Maybe this girl can bruise my ego, after all.
17
Gwendolyn
“Gwen! We brought you something!” Michaela rushes from the car, coffee cup clutched in both hands.
“Careful!” Debbie calls, eyeing Michaela’s trot worriedly. I quickly rescue the drink from my sister’s hands.
“Thank you!” I say to both Michaela and Debbie, the latter obviously having been the one responsible for the coffee. Debbie honks her horn in reply and drives off.
“You look better today,” Micha says, squinting up at me from where he’s kneeled, adjusting one of his pink shoelaces.
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You looked tired on Monday,” Michaela explains. She gives Micha an impatient look, huffing when he finally falls into step with us. “That’s why we brought you the mocha. Sugar and caffeine. It’s your favorite right?”
“It is.” I take a demonstrative sip. It’s delicious, perfect for a cold morning. Thanksgiving is only two weeks away, so the air is growing crisper, and the ancient trees around the campus are dressed up in vivid yellows and deep oranges.
“Good,” she says in relief, smile widening. “Because that’s what I told that boy the other day when he asked.”
I come to a stumbling halt, head whipping toward her. “Wait, what? What boy?”
“The cute one—”
“He’s not cute,” Micha says, giving his sister a wise look, “he’s hot.”
Michaela doesn’t bother disagreeing. She adds, “Anyway, he said he was on the swim team.”
“Hamilton?” I take a panicked glance around the courtyard. “You talked to Hamilton?”
“Yeah.” She grips her backpack straps with both hands and starts to walk toward the building.
“Whoa, whoa!” I grab her by the arm, pulling her back to me. “Michaela, tell me exactly what happened.”
The twins share a confused glance before she explains, “We were waiting in the carpool line after school. He just walked up and asked what your favorite coffee was.”
I rear back in surprise. “Really?”
“Yep.” Michaela nods.
I consider her for a moment, worrying my lip between my teeth. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” She shrugs, and I fight back a wave of frantic frustration. She asks, “Did he bring you some coffee?”
“Actually, he did.” Saturday morning. Before our little meltdown. “Did he say anything else?”
I know Michaela, who is scarily detail-oriented, can do better than this. Where are the specifics? What was he wearing? What was his demeanor? What day was it? Was he already on his way off-campus, suggesting a spontaneous gesture, or was it the day before?
Set the fucking scene, child!
“No, but he was nice. He said he liked my braids.” She grins, reaching up to twirl one around her finger. She breathes a giggle. “His eyes are dreamy.”
Hell yeah, they are.
“Okay, well, if he talks to you again, let me know, okay?”