Spiked

“Just text him. Don’t even call. Text. Send an emoji, for gods-sake,” Jenna groaned as she and I walked toward the sciences building one day. I’d continued to stay with her the past couple of weeks and it was a relief not to have to deal with my suitemates.

I shook my head. “No, no— I care about him, but it’s pretty obvious we aren’t going to work out.”

“Why do you think that?” Jenna asked, looking astounded.

I shrugged. “He knows where to find me. He could have tried to talk to me if he wanted to.”

“Did you consider the fact that maybe he was trying to respect your break up?” Jenna asked. “You’re the one who dumped him.”

I shrugged. “It wasn’t really that simple. I just wanted him to fight for me, but he wouldn’t even stand up to his parents on my behalf. Now that he’s playing again, now that he’s off the injured list, now that Adams isn’t breathing down his neck…if he wanted to try to prove to me that he still wants to be together, he’d find me. But he hasn’t. So it must not be that important to him.”

Jenna scowled. “Worst. You are the worst. Call him. Tell him that.”

I swallowed and admitted the truth. “If I call him, there’s a pretty big risk he’ll say no. That he’s over it. So…I’ll guard my heart, thanks. It hurt too much the first time, leaving him.”

Jenna nodded and sighed. “Alright. See you tonight for dinner?”

“Yep, see you there,” I said, and made my way into my anthropology class. I took my usual seat, by the front. I loved it, and sorely wished I could double major in the subject. But…that wouldn’t get me out of college in three years, and I had my long term plans to consider.

Plans that, without Jacob in them, seemed a little duller than they once had.

Class began, and I pored myself into the material, listening raptly and taking notes as quickly as possible on my laptop (no way could I manage to follow along writing longhand). The period was nearly over when the door in the back of the class opened. I didn’t pay it any attention, and continued to type until the professor stopped speaking.

“Can we help you, Mr. Everett?” he called out.

I froze, my fingers above the keys, my heart thumping. I turned my head slightly, just enough to look toward the door with my peripheral vision. It was Jacob— of course it was Jacob— standing on the steps, gray t-shirt, basketball shorts, tall and broad and every bit as gorgeous as I remembered him.

“Sorry, Professor— just needed to talk with Ms. Copeland quickly, if you don’t mind,” Jacob said, grinning. His teeth were so stupidly beautifully white and I remembered again how much I missed his smile.

“Of course— if you could step out into the hallway so we can finish,” the professor said to me.

“No— I need to stay for the end of the lecture,” I said quickly, without looking Jacob’s way. I wanted to go with him, badly, but he couldn’t just barge in here like this. He knew how important school was to me, after all. Still, something was twisting in my stomach, and it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant feeling.

“I’ll wait, then,” Jacob said. I finally dared to meet his eyes, still slate blue and stunning. He gave me a sly, pleased look. “I liked it last time I sat in, after all.”

“Of course,” the professor said. Jacob slung himself into the desk beside me, and I couldn’t stop a smile from sneaking to the corners of my mouth. I raced to remember all the reasons I shouldn’t be smiling over him, shouldn’t even be happy to see him, but nothing came immediately to mind. I tried to keep my eyes ahead, to focus on the lecture, but Jacob’s scent was taking over my thoughts. I inhaled sharply when a piece of paper slid across my desk. It sat folded for a moment— a long moment— but finally, I unfolded it. In barely legible handwriting:

9:30 pm

Manhattan Bar

I stared at it for a long moment— the note totally identical to the one he’d given me ages ago. Jacob’s eyes were on me, a gaze that seemed to carry literal weight. It settled over me, and I focused on breathing. I could say yes. He was here, after all. Wasn’t the fact that he still wanted me— or at least, wanted to talk to me— something?

I dared to look at him, and I saw he wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked intense, serious, wanting. After a moment of eye contact, he lifted his eyebrow, asking me to answer the note.

I exhaled. This was ridiculous. He was going to get drafted into the NFL, and I was a college freshman. His parents were the actual worst. And he’d never stood up to them for me—he never would.