“Hey, is this seat taken?” His gorgeous American accent made me avoid the obvious, sarcastic response.
“Uh, no, umm, feel free,” was my wonderfully articulate reply. However, Yankee Boy smiled as if I had just said something witty and sat down. Taking a sip of my coffee to give myself something to do other than stare, I shifted to allow him more space on the bench seating.
“I’m Garrett,” Yankee Boy—sorry, Garrett—said, hand extended. I mean, who shakes hands at our age? However, I took his hand and shook it, my brain briefly registering that it felt bigger in mine than Jake’s did.
“Neve.”
“Is that Irish?”
“Yeah, my dad’s family comes from Ireland. You know, all potato farmers and Guinness drinkers. So, Garrett… is that American?” His laugh was like music.
“No. It’s an old English name. It’s been around since the twelfth century,” he added, as though it would impress me.
“Oh. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone called Garrett before. Weird.”
“Weird, why? Weird that you haven’t met anyone with my name, or weird name, period?” The seriousness of his face was belied by the crinkle around his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m only joking. I’ll just have to make sure you don’t forget the first time you met a Garrett, won’t I?” As he pulled an iPad out of his leather messenger bag, I noticed how well-dressed he was, especially in comparison with the proliferation of hoodies which surrounded us. The light-grey sweater, worn over a blindingly white shirt, looked like cashmere and fit his lean body perfectly, as did the dark indigo jeans which embraced his thighs. I looked up to find Garrett smiling as if pleased to see I had been checking him out. Had I? Pretending to swap my pen, I hid my embarrassment in my bag, fumbling around until the chatter turned into a hush, signalling the lecturer’s arrival.
Successfully managing to ignore Garrett for the first few minutes, I got suckered in to the lecture on Victorian poetry and the love story of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Whilst I was thinking that this week’s reading might be quite interesting, even if a little depressing given my current state of mind, I felt Garrett move closer and whisper, so close I could feel his breath.
“Garrett, Barrett, what other arretts are going to make an appearance this afternoon? Will a row of carrots dance across the stage? Will a parrot start following you, repeating your every word?” This was how he was trying to impress me?
“Just how long have you spent working out words that rhyme with your name?” I asked, with enough of a smile to tell him I wasn’t being wholly snarky.
“Long enough to mean I’ll have to borrow your notes as I haven’t got anything down so far,” he admitted. I chuckled and went back to my own note-taking, smiling at the realisation that he hadn’t moved away.
“Do you fancy grabbing a coffee?” Garrett asked as we packed up at the end of the lecture. I was on the verge of refusing when he added, “I could get a copy of your notes, as well.” Never one to stand in the way of another person’s study, or the chance for coffee with a handsome American stranger, I agreed and we walked across the lawned quad to the coffee shop I had sat in with Kema less than twenty-four hours before.
Again I found myself being told to sit, but this time I was at least given a choice of drink. When Garrett returned, my skinny mocha had a heart-shaped sprinkling of cocoa powder on top. A sudden sense of what I was apparently doing worried me. Did he think this was a date?
“I didn’t ask for that, honest!” he said as he drew a chair close to me.
“So, do you want my notes to copy?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation in a neutral direction.
“Sure.” Before he had finished replying, I had my notepad out of my bag and passed over the pages. He opened up his camera app, took a photo of each page and then handed them back. “Thanks.”
“Really? That’s it? You’re just taking a photo of them?”
“I’ll download them into the notes I made later. I’m not one for scribbling out reams of notes I won’t ever read again,” he said, arrogance colouring his tone.
“You could have done that in the lecture! We didn’t need to come here to do that,” I pointed out.
“I know,” he said smoothly, “but then you wouldn’t be sat here with me, would you? I didn’t want to miss out on the chance to get to know you better.” His smile was somewhere on the scale between smarmy and endearing. I wasn’t exactly sure where yet.
“What course are you following?” I was determined to maintain a distant friendliness.
“English and Media Studies.”
“Why here?”
“Why here as in Sussex, or why here as in England?” His tendency to look for double-meanings was in danger of becoming annoying.