180 Seconds

  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.

  I’ll just ignore him. It’ll be easy. We have nothing in common.

  Yet, I find myself staring at the back of his head for the hour-and-a-half class, and I have to work hard to stay on top of my note taking. Against my will, I’m intrigued when the professor raises the concept of charismatic leadership and then gestures toward Esben, eliciting laughter and applause from the entire room. By the end of the class, my heart is pounding, and I practically leap out of my seat the second the professor finishes assigning our reading. I reach the door in mere seconds, pushing through the flood of exiting students to get outside.

  God, I need air. I need air.

  My pace quickens as I separate myself from the mass of students, and I make it back to my room in record time. I deposit my backpack onto the sofa in the middle room and look in the mirror while I calm down. My bangs are still neat, my long ponytail has held its place, and my mascara has not smeared or left disgusting, goopy clumps in the corners of my eyes. I breathe in and out, in and out, until I begin to feel settled.

  It’s then that I notice a not-insignificant coffee stain on my yellow top.

  Goddamn it.

  I tremble as I rip the shirt over my head and dash to my closet to find a clean one. My emotional reaction to a simple stain is extreme; I know that, but I also know that I have my reasons.

  When I was eleven, I lived with a foster mother who was obsessive about me never getting dirty. A mere smudge on my shoes was catastrophic, so in an effort to avoid dirtying white sneakers, I developed this odd style of walking that looked more like stomping. A visible spot on a shirt was cause for alarm, so I learned to be continuously on the lookout for anything that might strike me off her adopt list. That woman was constantly pointing to minor marks
on my clothing while wincing and gently encouraging me to change outfits. It’s impossible to shake the belief that she returned me to the foster system because of my inability to keep my clothes spotless.

  So I rifle furiously through my closet for the most pristine top I can find. Even though I know why I’m freaking out, it doesn’t help. My crazy reaction is one of a million dysfunctional ones that I have perfected over the years.

  I really am goddamn irreparable.

  I take my coffee-stained shirt into the bathroom down the hall. Holding the stain under the faucet, something dark on the underside of my shirt catches my eye, and I groan. Great, what bizarre stain is this now?

  My fingers glide under the fabric, and I feel something plastic. I am mystified, so I flip over the shirt.

  Stuck to my shirt is a button pinned to the side hem. It’s pale blue with white lettering.

  YOU CAN’T REACH WHAT’S IN FRONT OF YOU UNTIL YOU LET GO OF WHAT’S BEHIND YOU.

  I stare at this in disbelief. Why is there a motivational button stuck to my shirt?

  YOU CAN’T REACH WHAT’S IN FRONT OF YOU UNTIL YOU LET GO OF WHAT’S BEHIND YOU.

  The statement is crap, because some of us will never be able to let go of what chases us.

  YOU CAN’T REACH WHAT’S IN FRONT OF YOU UNTIL YOU LET GO OF WHAT’S BEHIND YOU.

  The words nearly scream at me. Against my will, I smile.

  This is so weird, a button showing up on my shirt. So random. And yet, I admit, sort of wonderful. It’s a nice sentiment, and I should probably take it to heart.

  This button is probably smarter than I am.

  CHAPTER 4

  WHITE NOISE

  I decide to go into full shut-in mode over the weekend, planning to leave my room only to pay for pizza deliveries and to hit the shower. However, it’s nearly impossible to sleep on Friday night, and I’m tortured by the sounds of joyful drunks roaming the halls. As I toss and turn, I make a mental note to either turn into a joyful drunk or invest in some earplugs.

  Earplugs it is.

  There are no knocks on my door, though, so there’s that.

  My sleep is restless and tainted by bad dreams, dreams in which I am driving a car I cannot control; dreams in which I am racing through an airport with no luggage and no ticket, unable to find any departure gates; dreams in which I am faced with an endless series of locked doors for which I have no keys.

  I’m exhausted when I get out of bed at eight on Saturday morning, and there’s no way I can get through the day without coffee, so my hopes for being a shut-in are dashed. The nice thing about waking up early on a weekend is the silence that overtakes the entire campus. Only a handful of people are outside when I make my way to the student union. The air is crisp, the leaves starting to turn, and I welcome the impending arrival of true fall. The Andrews College campus is always attractive, but the light this morning is exceptional, the quiet desertion appreciated, and my fatigue feels less painful.

  But there still must be coffee.

  Given how much I like the quiet, I should probably consider moving by myself to the middle of nowhere when I graduate next year. I could live off of Amazon deliveries and never have to leave the house. It’s a highly appealing idea, but I’ve promised Steffi that I will move out to Los Angeles. That’s always been our plan, but I’m not sure how I’m going to deal with such a heavily populated city. Of course, we’ll be together, and she’ll help me figure things out. Steffi’s my rock, and she will not let me crumble.

  The union is empty, and there’s no wait to place my order with the grouchy student who is working at the café today. He looks pissed and more tired than I am, and he knocks down the brim of his baseball hat before taking my money and slamming buttons on the register. There, I think with satisfaction, this is someone after my own heart. Unlike that Esben. Carefree, happy, people loving, he’s an enigma. I don’t know why I’m thinking about him, anyway. He’s obviously insignificant in my life. I want to fist-bump the sullen café boy for his outward display of crankiness.

  I take my quadruple cappuccino and check my PO box to find that I have one notification slip.

  Simon has sent me another care package. This is the fifth so far this year. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought, but I don’t know how to respond to his generosity. I collect the box and tuck it under one arm, noticing that I’m oddly comforted by the sight of Simon’s usual white packaging and handwritten address.

  My walk back to the dorm is slightly awkward, and I have to set the box down while I fish out my key to get into the building. While I’m bent down, the heavy metal door flies open and smacks my right shoulder. As I’m pushed off balance to land on concrete, I’m not sure what hurts more: the pain from that or the burning cappuccino as it splatters across my left hand.

  A couple who were holding hands and giggling when they first emerged are now gasping and apologizing profusely. The smell of alcohol and sex is heavy on them, and I move quickly to pick up my box and scramble inside, telling them not to worry.

  I get back to my room and glare at my now-topless and half-empty coffee. I shouldn’t be surprised because at this point I understand that I am not allowed to have caffeine without some kind of major incident. Very carefully, I set down the cup on the small table, treating it like liquid gold.

  “Stay,” I command it.

  I open the door to the second bedroom and set the latest care package on top of the other four boxes from Simon. It’s very wrong of me, I know, but I cannot get myself to open the boxes. Seeing what’s inside them, understanding how much thought he gave into putting these together would make me feel guiltier than not opening them. Something catches my eye, though. The return label is slightly different than usual. I lean down and squint. Instead of the usual peony by his name on the return address label, there is now a leopard seal. He has a messed-up sense of humor, but I like it. Still, I leave the box where it is.

  The door shuts behind me, and I have to laugh: I am rooming with care packages.

  My shoulder is aching pretty good, my hand is stinging, and the cuff of my sleeve is soaked with coffee. I yank my sweatshirt over my head, grumbling over what is becoming an annoying routine, and replace it with a loose-fitting printed top. As I’m washing out the sweatshirt, I can’t help but feel around in the rest of the jersey. Clearly, there is no silly motivational button, but I look anyway. Just in case. I could use one today. The disappointment I feel at not finding one is embarrassing, but I keep grabbing at the fabric just to be sure I didn’t miss one. Why? Because there may be a motivational-button angel watching over me, right?

  No.

  I’m being nuts.

  I finish up with my sweatshirt, then take what’s left of my coffee and sit on my bed. After I text a polite thank-you to Simon, I don’t know what to do with myself. My room is ridiculously clean, as always—overly organized, truth be told. My closet is only half-full and already arranged, with my clothes hanging by color and other items stacked neatly on the high shelf, so there’s no excuse for a Saturday cleaning spree. The supposed common room in this suite is empty, save for the furniture supplied with the room, so there’s nothing to be done in there. I could ice my shoulder, but that’s hardly an activity. Although, given my options, it’s not a bad one, so I pull a cold pack from the minifridge next to my bed and stare at the wall for fifteen minutes until the cold becomes more painful than the injury.

  My clock might as well be shouting at me that it’s early, and I have a full day to get through.

  Well, there’s always studying.

  For hours, I read and reread textbooks and class notes and then jump ahead to next week’s work. Statistics are delightfully dry and unemotional, and I spend extra time drowning in numbers and graphs until my growling stomach makes it impossible to keep my eyes glued to the page. I could call for a delivery, but . . . the walls are closing in on me. It’s unlike me to feel unsettled when alone in my room, but I am. I’m unsettled. And it’s distur
bing.

  The short walk I had this morning was nice enough to make me decide that I could tolerate leaving the dorm again. Something about that air this morning got to me. I can’t stay on campus, though. I’ll walk into downtown Landon, which is not exactly a metropolis, but it’s as much of a city as we’ve got around here.

  A block from school, I pick up a veggie pocket at an organic café and eat as I walk. I’m not exactly sure where I’m going, but I know that I’m at least walking in the direction of downtown. When I’m done eating, I try to video call Steffi, but she doesn’t pick up. Probably still asleep after a late night, if I know her. I guarantee that she was out dancing until three in the morning, surrounded by adoring guys who paid for her drinks all night. There’s a good chance one of them is with her now, and I’ll dig for details later.

  My earbuds are in, and I switch on my usual white-noise app. I let the whirling sound infiltrate my being, and I walk. And I refuse to think. About anything. I’ve felt restless and antsy, unable to fall into my usual routine, since I returned to school, and I’ve about had it. I need to get back to being satisfied by schoolwork and schoolwork alone. School and Steffi, those are my saving forces. Those are what keep me steady.

  After a much longer walk than anticipated, I find myself at the outskirts of Landon, on a wide street lined with small shops, restaurants, and bars. This is an old town, and the sidewalks are cobbled brick, with lampposts evenly spaced down the street and lots of vintage-style signs calling out store names. It’s cute. Yet immediately I wonder what in the world possessed me to come downtown, because I don’t want to shop or sit in a café and converse with the locals. But I’m tired from my hour-plus walk, and my shoes are rubbing against my heels, so I’ve got to rest for a few minutes before I turn around. I think I remember a park at the end of this street, so I keep my head down and dodge pedestrians until I pass all the shops.