Contradictions (Woodfalls Girls 3)

“What’s up, Tressa? You working today?” Ben, one of the other part-timers, asked as I pushed the door open, inhaling deeply. If they could bottle the smell of this place, I’d buy it by the gallon. Working at Javalotta was like coming home to a second family. There was an easy comradeship that stemmed from the owners, Liz and Larry, who ran the coffeehouse like a well-oiled machine. Despite their strictness when it came to the rules, they maintained a lighthearted relationship with their employees.

“No, I have a studying session that requires a double shot,” I answered, moving behind the counter to fix my drink. “Looks pretty dead today,” I observed, adding whipped cream to top off my concoction.

“Yeah, it’s kinda been this way since the accident . . .” His voice trailed off.

His words caused me to nearly drop my coffee. I had momentarily forgotten about David’s death, pushing it to the back of my mind. It was like a game to see how long I could go without thinking about it. Ben had broken the longest stretch yet. I’d almost made it sixteen minutes. Time to start over again.

“Yeah, I guess I hadn’t noticed,” I mumbled, steadying my cup as I stared blankly at the walls. Ben gave me an odd look that I didn’t acknowledge. For the past three days, I’d been fielding similar stares from Cameo and Derek. It was a what alien species took over Tressa’s body kind of look. I hustled around the counter, suddenly anxious to leave.

“Catch you later,” Ben called as I walked out without saying bye.

Climbing into the Jeep, I didn’t know whether I should be pissed or embarrassed that everyone seemed surprised over my reaction to David’s death. Were their perceptions of me really that I was just a party girl with no real feelings? Lost in my thoughts, I made it to Trent’s apartment quicker than I’d anticipated. I sat in the parking lot, stalling for as long as I could before walking to his door. I took a big swig of my coffee before knocking. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. This was just Trent, for crap’s sake. My damn emotions were like a roller coaster lately. Anything I thought I’d felt for him earlier in President Johnson’s office was nothing more than the result of the upheaval I’d been going through the past week.

I raised my hand to knock on the door before I could chicken out.

Trent answered almost immediately, like he had been standing by his door waiting for my knock.

“Tressa?” He greeted me awkwardly, looking surprised when I took a cautious halfstep backward. He pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. I waited for a moment, expecting him to invite me inside, but he stood there like he was waiting for me to say something.

“Tutoring,” I said, holding up my book bag to jog his memory. Sheesh, I thought he was supposed to be supersmart.

“Right. Sorry, I was just finishing up some notes for Professor Nelson.” He held the door open so I could enter his apartment.

“O-kay,” I replied, still not quite believing he’d forgotten I was coming over. What about the text he’d sent me just a few hours ago? Stepping past him, I stood in the middle of his living room, taking in my surroundings. My original assumptions about him were dead-on. I’d stepped into a pimple-faced teenaged comic book lover’s wet dream. Superhero memorabilia littered every available surface in the apartment. The shelves that bracketed a big-screen TV were lined with statues and action figures, much like what my brother was into.

I could tell by the way they were reverently displayed that Trent cared more about his collection than my brother did about his. I moved closer and reached a finger toward a gleaming Superman statue.

“Don’t touch,” Trent said, stepping between me and the shelf.

“Wow, chill, Wonder Boy. I was just going to point out that my brother has that same Superman. I think his is missing an arm, though.” Trent flinched. He was definitely strange.

Backing away from his precious shelf, I took in the rest of the living room. Outside of the superhero universe, the apartment looked pristine. Unlike most apartments around campus I’d been in—including mine, which was made up of nothing but castoffs—Trent’s furniture actually matched. A large leather sofa sat against the wall that shared space with the front door. The matching leather recliner sat near the patio door and was turned to face the television. Matching throw pillows adorned both the sofa and recliner like an interior designer had placed them there. Hell, even the coffee table and end tables matched the elaborate entertainment center.

His apartment looked like an adult had decorated it rather than a bunch of college kids trying to fill a space.

“Do you want to sit down?” He looked uncomfortable with my surveying of his territory, like he’d never had a guest before. I guess my actions could have been construed as intrusive, but he was the one who had invited me.

“Uh, sure.” I walked over to the sofa and sat down next to a stack of papers, which was the only thing out of place in the room.

“Sorry, I was in the middle of entering data,” he said, stacking the papers into a neat pile before placing them on top of a laptop that was sitting on the coffee table.

“That’s okay. It feels normal.”

He raised his eyebrows in response before sitting on the couch cushion he had just cleaned off. “A mess feels normal?”

Without any conscious thought, I shifted over, putting more space between us. If he noticed my movement, he didn’t comment on it.

“I’ve been going over your grades in your classes, and I’ve come to the conclusion that statistics is the class you seem to be struggling with the most.” He shuffled the stack of papers, searching for one in particular.

“You pulled my grades?” My voice sounded shrill to my own ears. Tutoring or not, who the hell did he think he was?

“Huh? Oh, no. Professor Nelson gave them to me this morning,” he answered, looking confused over my tone. My eyes met his for a moment. The difference was glaring. His look was questioning, while I practically had lasers wanting to melt off his face. It took everything inside me not to snatch the papers from his hands. After a second, when the more rational side of my brain took charge, I realized it wasn’t his fault my grades had been handed to him. Clamping my mouth closed, I silently counted to three to calm myself. Most people thought ten was the golden number, but if I forced myself to count to ten, I’d lose my patience all over again.

After I was able to form a sentence without biting off his head, I answered him. “Math has been a pain in my ass for years. I’ll be the only senior in history that won’t be able to graduate because I can’t pass some math class.”

“Not true. Statistically, no pun intended, hundreds of students drop out every year. Most are for economic reasons or a life-altering circumstance, but I’m sure you’re not the only one in history not to graduate because of failure to master a class,” he said in a dry tone.

I stared at him incredulously. Was he fucking with me? The way he sat, waiting for another response from me, I couldn’t tell.