Look Again

“What?”

“Seriously it’s like you don’t even know what self-doubt means.”

I almost laugh, because what I want to say is that, most days, I feel like the east coast expert on self-doubt. I have to work for every particle of confidence. Under the circumstances, that will come across as tragically ironic and overconfident, and I don’t know if Joey Harker can stomach that much satire.

She makes a “gimme” motion, and I hand her my laptop. “It’s kind of in shorthand,” I explain, but she has already scrolled to the top and is reading as she stands there. A few minutes in, and she places the laptop on the table and leans on her elbows, her face close to the screen. Before too much longer, she slides onto the bench beside me.

I am distracted by the feel of her leg beside mine. Not distracted enough to move, of course. And when I think about it, it’s a good distraction. I don’t want to seem too eager, but I am watching her face for every glimmer of emotion that passes across it. Is she amused? Is that what that little quirk of her lips means? Is she annoyed by the fact that she’s looking at a working draft, complete with what are probably incomprehensible notes to myself?

I stretch out my legs under the table. She picks up her feet and tucks them beneath her. Now her knee touches my thigh in a very innocent manner that I cannot stop thinking about. I want to touch her. I want to put my hand right there on her knee. I want to feel her move closer. I want to close my laptop and take her face in my hands and kiss her senseless.

Well. That escalated quickly.

I slide off the bench in the other direction, aware that she is still scrolling through the pages of my partially finished script. I walk in a tiny circle around the picnic table until I arrive behind her. I look over her shoulder.

Without looking up from the screen, she waves me away.

I move a few steps back and pace back and forth, walking a path into the grass but staying far enough away that she won’t think I’m reading over her shoulder. I’m keeping my distance.

“You know what?” she says.

Feedback? I want it. No. I don’t want it. She still has her eyes on the screen.

I manage a small noise of interest. Kind of a hum.

“I need a drink,” she says. “Why don’t you go find me something to drink.” It didn’t sound like a question.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” I ask.

Now she looks up. She doesn’t say anything, just gives a single nod and looks back at the screen.

“Got it. What do you want?”

She puts a finger to the screen as if to mark her place. Dragging her eyes to my face, she says, “Something you have to leave campus for. Something you will have to travel at least,” she glances down and reads something, probably page numbers, “twenty minutes each way to get.” She glances up at me again and points to my computer. “Think your battery will last?”

I nod. “It’s a beast. You don’t really need a drink, do you?”

“No, I definitely do,” she says, waving me away like I’m a fly flitting around her hair. “Bye.”

Her eyes go back to the screen. I want to stay. I want to watch her read my words. She’s interested in what I’ve created. She’s invested, I think.

And she’s asking me to leave.

Maybe she doesn’t mean it.

I sit down beside her, carefully placing my leg just so it touches her knee again. She closes the lid to the laptop and slides it across to me.

“Okay, I’ll go,” I say.

“Are you lying?” That stern look is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Not remotely scary, even though I can tell that’s what she’s going for.

“I’ll go,” I say again, lifting the computer. But I don’t want to go.

Her hand comes down on the lid in a protective, possessive gesture. “Leave this,” she says.

She’s still reading. She still wants to read.

I open the lid and press the fingerprint unlock key.