I scan my surroundings and, as always, admire the beautiful old stone that makes up the original buildings on campus. Andrews College could not look more classically collegiate, and even the newer buildings were designed to fit in with the old. Trees and shrubs, brick pathways, and ornate lampposts all add to the atmosphere. Inspired by this glorious day, I decide that I should spend more time out here before the brutal Maine winter arrives. Holing up in my room so much is probably not smart, and from my spot under this tree, I can at least watch the world go by, even if I don’t participate. I realize that when I pay attention, I actually hear a lot: Frisbee players calling back and forth to each other, the chatter of students traversing the nearby walkway, guitar notes floating my way from a musician under another nearby tree . . . I’m taken aback at how much sound I usually shut out. Great. Another thing that’s probably not indicative of sound mental health.
I watch the guitarist. He’s clean-cut, with short, perfectly trimmed hair, and wearing a plaid button-down shirt tucked into jeans. The guitar rests in his lap as he strums and sings to a girl lying on her side in the grass and gazing up at him. The boy doesn’t strike me as a typical guitar player. He looks like an economics major who picked up the guitar to get girls. But apparently it’s working, because the one he’s playing for appears utterly smitten.
This should be a sweet scene to witness, but instead all I feel is my good mood starting to sag. For a moment, I’m jealous. I can’t imagine that I’ll ever have a boy sing to me, much less look at me the way he’s looking at her. But I shouldn’t be jealous, because odds are this thing between them will end badly. That’s how life works.
They have no idea how naive it is to believe, to trust.
I try not to flinch when he sets aside his guitar and crawls her way, laughing as he rolls her onto her back before lowering his mouth to hers. God, I really am jealous. And sad. I’m sad that I can never have that.
I throw my unread book into my backpack and forcefully zip the bag closed. I pound across toward a trash can to dispose of my iced coffee, which I have now lost the taste for. I toss it toward the bin, but it ricochets off and explodes in a mess of liquid and ice that smatters against the sidewalk.
“Nice shot,” someone says rudely as he passes by.
“Thanks! So much!” I call to his back.
I sigh at the coffee disaster. I can’t just leave ice cubes all over the walkway, so I crouch down and start to collect them, cursing under my breath as more than one slips from my hold.
“Slippery little guys, aren’t they?” A pair of legs appears next to me, and I glance only for a second at ripped jeans and red Converse sneakers.
I don’t say anything as I continue my desperate attempt to clean this mess. Without looking up, I manage to locate a few napkins in my backpack and do what I can to blot up the liquid.
The person bends down next to me, and I watch as he deftly picks up every stupid ice cube that has fallen through my fingers and plunks each one smoothly into the cup in my hand. His forearms are tan, toned, with leather cords and thin rope bracelets around each wrist. Like superhero cuffs or something. He probably thinks he can deflect bullets. My head involuntarily turns a smidge, and I catch sight of a bicep peeking out from the hem of his white T-shirt. Quickly, I look away. I wish this guy hadn’t stopped.
I wish I wasn’t instantaneously having lurid thoughts.
I wish he didn’t smell like cookies and love.
When he gets the last of the ice cubes, I manage to toss the cup successfully into the trash bin without catastrophe. “Thanks for the help. I assume nine million ants will soon be here to celebrate Sugar Fest,” I mumble.
Cookies-and-love boy smoothly begins pouring water from a stainless canister and washes the pavement clear. “Not to worry.”
It becomes obvious that I must acknowledge this person who is being unnecessarily kind. It feels like a burden to do so, for which I’m ashamed, but I put on a smile and face him. Well, actually look up to him, given that he’s got a good half foot on my five-feet, four-inch stature.
This boy looks at me. He really looks at me. I shift a bit to avoid eye contact, and while I would love to turn away completely, his soft, deep-brown hair frames his face in a way that prevents me from doing so. His curls are too long, the shorter ones framing his face, others tumbling recklessly over his ears, almost touching his shoulders. I suspect it’s been a few days since he’s shaved, but the scruff suits him, and it takes all of my will not to get drawn in by his unusual amber eyes that pierce through me. I am entirely discomfited and displaced by this person. And yet . . . I stare. Only for a short spell. For a matter of seconds, I let myself follow the shape of his face, the way his cheeks are full and how they lead into a jaw that makes me want to insist he shave so that I can see it more clearly.
This is bananas. I’m bananas. Some sort of psychotic hormonal surge has temporarily engulfed me, and I will knock this nonsense away now. Like, right now. Really.
Finally, I avert my eyes and throw away a soggy napkin. “Thanks again. Gotta get to class.”
I sense he is about to say something, so I pivot and slip into the flow of students heading toward the other side of campus. As if I’m not already out of sorts, Carmen walks by, heading in the other direction, and waves. I wave back politely and say nothing, yet I’m actually dying to scream about what a hot mess I am after spilling coffee and having some unknown, sexy boy help me.
My Social Psych class is held in one of the biggest lecture halls on campus. Even though the class is huge, there are still plenty of empty seats, and I take what’s become my usual spot at the end of a middle row. Immediately, I flip open my binder and make as if I’m intently studying notes from the last class. Most students take notes on their laptops, but Steffi told me she’d read that writing things down makes you learn them better. I put in earphones and play my white-noise app for added security from interruption while the room slowly fills.
Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I jump. It’s just a girl wanting to get past me to take a seat. I nod and stand, and it’s then that I hear voices that pass the sound in my earbuds and make me glance up. The boy who helped me with the ice cubes is walking into the room. My stomach drops. Poised on the steps that run up alongside the rows, he is surrounded by students, all animated and talking effusively, and—it’s clear—fussing over him.
Without thinking, I mute my app and slowly sit back down.
The boy smiles as someone pats him on the back in greeting, then lifts up his chin to acknowledge the clapping coming from a row of students. Who is this guy?
Students begin chanting, “Esben! Esben! Esben! Hashtag rock yourself! Hashtag rock yourself!”
So, his name is Esben. Ice-cube plucker is named Esben. Huh. Well, whatever.
I frown and shrink lower into my seat. I don’t know what is happening, but it’s making me horribly agitated. This Esben boy laughs and waves away the attention. A girl in the third row calls his name loudly enough to be heard over the ever-growing chanting and beckons him to a free seat next to her. He’s clearly some kind of überpopular campus icon.