Mila makes introductions, and pretty soon, I’m acquaintances with Crosby, Leela, Meghan, Cassandra, and about a dozen others who have poured out to see who’s visiting “their Mila.”
Apparently, they’re all very protective of her.
Judging by the looks on their faces, I’m half expecting them to start asking me what my intentions are with her, like in some Victorian novel.
I was right about one thing: Mila doesn’t fit in here. Oh, they love her and care about her, but she’s got a style all her own. Her accent is different, and so is the way she smiles and the way she carries herself. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something oddly distrusting behind her eyes, while everyone else but Crosby is open and lovely and perky and fun-loving— what I would expect to see at a sorority.
Mila stands out for her style and how she surveys everyone. She maintains a sharp look in her eye as if nothing gets by her.
She sees me staring, and her face softens.
“Alright, ladies. That’s enough flirting. Let’s go,” she says with a smirk, jerking her head to suggest we take this inside. I follow as if tethered by a string.
Our arms touch as we pass through the doorway, and my skin heats underneath my flannel. Her soft but firm touch and her cocoa and vanilla scent almost knock me backward with the thrill of it.
We move through a parlor with stately features, decorated with casual, comfortable furniture and bright pillows. We pass by a community kitchen and an enormous dining room. Everything is a mix of old-fashioned charm with cozy, trendy accents. Mila shows me inside into a brightly lit space that’s been painted a rustic red. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and a window at the far end overlooks an inviting patio with a fire pit, barbecue grill, and a sand volleyball court. In the middle is a huge rough-hewn conference table surrounded by modern-looking chairs. I realize why I’m noticing all these details; it reminds me of home. The thought of going home for fall break tugs at my heart.
And then I remember the dread of going home as the only single person, and I know I can’t face that again.
“Hello? Did I lose you, Ozzie?”
“Hi,” I say. “I mean, sorry. I was spacing out.”
Mila chuckles. “You nervous?”
“Around you? No. Flustered, maybe.”
Mila plops a stack of notebooks and books on the table and starts arranging her workspace around a laptop decorated with stickers.
“Flustered and nervous,” she repeats, quirking an eyebrow. “Same thing.”
I laugh as I methodically set out my things. “Not at all.”
“Sure it is,” she says.
I have a choice. I could back off and tell her what she wants to hear, or I could sound like a pedant. My sister Sawyer enjoys ribbing me when I’m picky about word usage.
I forge ahead. “Flustered is how I feel in the moment when you catch me staring at you. It’s a spontaneous feeling. Nervous is more like a state of mind. Like when I’m trying not to make an ass of myself by sounding like a know-it-all around a beautiful woman.”
I say all of this while staring straight at my laptop screen. I’m sitting, but Mila is still standing and hasn’t responded.
Peeking up at her, I see her frozen in place, staring at me. She slowly blinks, then huffs out a laugh. “You’re good, Oswald. Real, real good.” Mila slides into her chair without taking her eyes off me, a smirk pulling at her lips.
I would love nothing more than to come around this table and catch those pouty lips between mine.
“They all seem nice,” I say, jutting my head toward the door, desperate to change the subject.
She lifts an eyebrow. “You need to work on your segues, though.”
This makes me laugh. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re right. My sisters are nice. Extremely nice. Off-puttingly nice. But it’s convenient.” She taps away on her laptop, not looking at me.
I knew Greek life was weird, but that statement seems slightly weirder.
“Off-puttingly nice?”
She nods. “Yeah. I mean, no. They’re great. I…I’ve had a lot of people in my life who are overprotective of me. So, it’s tough to decide who’s authentic and who’s not.”