Undeclared (13 page)

No one really enjoyed shelving, and I was sent on my way with a grateful glance from the girl working the reference desk.

I stuck my earphones in and maneuvered my cart full of books in and out of the rows of shelves, keeping myself busy until I heard the soft chimes warning that the library was closing shortly.

I’m not sure where Noah had been all day, but he was waiting for me on the porch swing of the Victorian when I got home from the library.

He stood as I walked up.

“Stalking me again?” I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Inwardly I winced.

“No, stalking would’ve been waiting in the library for the past—” he looked at his watch, “—six hours.”

“Why are you here?” I asked, allowing him to lead me over to the swing. He took my messenger bag from my shoulder and placed it on the floor, urging me to sit down.

I sat. He gave the swing a little shove with his feet and we swayed gently.

“I think we just need to get to know each other again.” His voice was steady and clear in the night air. I felt like Jell-O on the inside.

I refrained from pointing out the obvious. You couldn’t read nearly forty letters from someone and not get to know them a little.

I ran my eyes over his face, trying to read some expression, and noticed his lower lip was scabbed. My hand was up and hovering like I could make it better with a touch. “Ouch,” I said.

“Yeah, it only hurts when I smile or laugh.”

“Or kiss,” I added, and then mentally kicked myself.

“The person I want to kiss isn’t really feeling me right now,” he half-joked. His eyes were warm, and I knew I was courting danger here. The old Noah wound healed up over the last year, and now I was threatening to slash it open and pour salt all over it.

I started to draw my hand back, but Noah grabbed it and pressed it against his lips. I could feel the ridge of his scab, a hard contrast to the soft portions of his lips. Against my will, I rubbed my fingers across the uninjured parts. That tiny touch had set up a riot in my stomach like a battalion of butterflies was trying to beat its way out. I didn’t heal him with my touch, but from the softening of his lips I could tell he liked it. I stroked him slowly and his mouth parted. His breath felt hot against my fingers, and I felt something coil inside me in response.

“I’m really glad to see you made it home safe and sound,” I admitted. My words sounded breathless. I had prayed so hard for that outcome. Even when he hadn’t wanted me, I was so happy that he was alive and unharmed.

“I missed you, Grace. More than you will ever know.”

He smelled delicious again. I wanted to press my nose into the well of his throat and breathe deep, imprinting his smell onto my memory banks. It would make my nighttime fantasies slightly more real and vivid. I forced myself to drop my hand.

“I—” I cast around for the right words to say. I wanted to explain myself in a way that still preserved my pride but conveyed I wasn’t a toy to be discarded and then picked up whenever he felt like playing with it again. “If you truly want to be friends, Noah, I can do that. But nothing else.”

His face remained unchanged, which made me falter. Maybe he did just want to be friends, and I had misread the entire situation. I gave him an uncertain smile and said, “I’ll see you around campus then?”

“Don’t friends hang out?”

I nodded my head. Yes, but we weren’t really friends. We were some weird, undefined category where we had some shared intimacy, yet were not in a real relationship.

“How about we study together at the library on Wednesday?” Noah offered.

I shrank back, tears at the back of my throat. I was right to be cautious. He wanted to just be friends, like his kiss-off letter said. He had referred to me as a little sister. I cleared my throat to make sure I sounded as easy going as he did. “Sure. I have Stats & Methodology that day, and I always need to review my notes after that class. Meet you there.”

I stood up then and walked to the door that led up to my third floor apartment. When I looked back to wave, Noah was standing there with one hand on the back of his neck and the other at his hip. He looked frustrated, managed a slight smile, and then nodded in return. I went upstairs, as confused as I had ever been.

***

I had three classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. They started at 8:00 a.m. and ended right after noon. I usually met Lana for lunch at the Quad Commons Café, the one place Amy says we should never eat. Lana rarely got up before eleven and scheduled all of her classes in the afternoon. Lunch was about the only meal we shared together on a regular basis, and it was usually the first of the day for her.

We had two choices on campus. The dining hall, which served a variety of cafeteria food, along with a salad and dessert bar, or the Quad Commons Café, where you could get deli sandwiches and light grilled items. Tuesdays, we would meet at the dining hall, because they had Taco Tuesdays, but most days we met and had big prepared salads from the QC Café.

Lana had already purchased everything and was sitting at a table unwrapping her salad.

She was wearing sunglasses, which I tipped down when I arrived at the table. She allowed me to see her swollen eyes before pushing the glasses up and waving me to my seat.

“Peter?” I queried. She mhmm’ed and I waited. She pulled out her phone and showed me a picture of some blonde in front of a mirror, wearing tiny panties and her shirt pushed above her bare breasts. They were rather large and obviously fake. Not Lana.

“You’re getting hit on by a stripper?” I guessed. Lana made a buzzing sound.

“Wrong. Peter forwarded me this charming selfie.”

“Intentionally?” I gasped in horror.

“No, I think he meant to send it to Luke Larson, his frat brother, but the phone auto-filled ‘Lana’ instead,” she explained in a careful monotone, as if any expression of emotion might break a dam she’d built.

“Done in by autocorrect.” I handed her back the phone. I wanted to delete the photo. It wouldn’t do any good for Lana to keep it on her phone. “What did you do?”

“I replied back ‘nice rack.’ He called me immediately asking what I was talking about. He tried to say that it wasn’t anything, just a pledge prank. The lies were so weak that I figured he wanted to get caught, forcing me to be the one to break up with him.”

“Did you?”

“I didn’t give him the satisfaction. He wants to break up to pursue other girls, then he needs to man up and do it. I’m not going to make it easier for him.” Lana picked up her fork and started rearranging spinach leaves. Her disinterest in eating worried me, but it was only one day.

“I’m surprised you shed any tears over him.”

“Oh, closure, you know.” She gave an uncaring wave of her hand, but her actions revealed that she liked him more than she had let on. Sometimes it was hard to know where you stood with Lana. She was too busy protecting herself. If you weren’t persistent, she never let you in. Even I found Lana hard to read, despite living with her since I was twelve. But I knew her tough exterior hid a very big heart. We may be cousins by blood, but we were sisters of the heart.

“We Sullivans are bad at relationships,” I informed her. “You and I need to start following Josh’s playbook.” Josh didn’t date. He hooked up exclusively and currently seemed to be trying to burn his way through the female population up at State.

“Of course we are,” Lana said. “We’re merely exhibiting patterned behavior learned at an impressionable age. We don’t know anyone who has a healthy and loving relationship, so we are unequipped to develop our own.”

“So essentially we are doomed,” I said wryly. Lana’s parents were married, but Uncle Louis was hardly ever home, too busy golfing or out on his boat. I guess I understood because no one liked being around Lana’s mom. She was mean to everyone but hardest on Lana, constantly criticizing everything about her. Lana wasn’t ever thin enough. Her blonde hair had too much brown in it. Her grades weren’t good enough. She didn’t speak well enough. It was amazing that the eating disorder was the only thing Lana developed.

She shrugged and moved a few more pieces of food around her bowl. Not one piece had made it to her mouth yet.

“Do you ever think part of our problem, Lana, is that we spend more time talking about boys than anything else? How is this different than high school?”

“The guys are better looking?” Lana asked, more of a statement than a question. “When we were in high school, you never talked about boys.”

“I didn’t?” I thought back to our many discussions, and they all seemed devoted to who was dating whom. If only we got tested on the social status and habits of our classmates. I’d have aced that test.

“Nope. It was always Noah for you. You weren’t interested in anyone else. It’s no wonder that the real Noah is screwing up your head big time.”

“Do you think I shouldn’t spend time with him?” She hadn’t said a word of warning, and I had been waiting for one or a dozen.

“No, actually I think spending time with him is a good idea. It’s like the pictures you take in rooms with too much light.”

“Overexposure?”

“Right. It will show you how real and flawed he is, and then, when he dicks you over again, you will finally give up on this fantasy and move into the real world.”

“Ouch,” I said. I knew Lana was hurting, but I didn’t need to be a passive punching bag.

“I’m not trying to be mean here.”

“No?” I loved Lana but she had a little of her mother in her, and sometimes, when she was hurt and angry, it leaked out. I braced myself.

“No. It’s just that…” she paused to look up from her food, “…it’s easier to have a relationship with someone who isn’t there than someone who is.”

“How did this discussion become all about me?”

“Because it’s easier for me to talk about fixing you than fixing myself,” Lana admitted.

“All right. If subjecting myself to your amateur psychoanalysis is going to make you feel better, get it out,” I motioned for to continue. “Just eat a few cucumber slices between criticisms, please.” Lana made a face but took a whole mouthful of food. After she had swallowed, she deliberately wiped her mouth with her napkin before continuing.

“You haven’t picked a major because you’re afraid to commit to anything. You won’t take classes at the FAC because you’re afraid to admit how much you love photography. You won’t date. You’ve only had a few hookups and with guys you don’t even really like. They are safe for you.”

I felt like I was being dissected right there on the QC Café table. I was cut open from throat to stomach, and all my insides were laid bare. I looked around to see who was staring at the trainwreck happening at my table, but the crowd was oblivious to how Lana was wielding her psychological scalpel.

I wanted to place my hand over her mouth and tell her to be quiet.

“I’m the same way,” Lana admitted. “I keep picking guys who are bad bets because they do what I expect them to screw me over. That way, it’s never my fault when the relationship fails.”

“I’m not sure what the practical application of your discoveries is,” I said, hurting for both of us. I wished I could make our lives bright, colorful, and delightful as my tilt shift photographs.

“Well, if I knew that bit of information, I wouldn’t have to go to school for six more years to be a licensed psychologist, would I?” Lana said.

“Thanks for nothing. I’m supposed to meet Noah at the library to study.”

She shrugged. “It’s all part of the desensitization plan. More time spent with the real Noah will inevitably result in disappointment and then cure.”

We spent the rest of the lunch eating in silence. Apparently Lana’s analysis of me made her hungry. I guess I could suffer through some hard truths if it meant Lana would stay healthy.

***

Noah was waiting at the library entrance, his backpack slung over one arm. Cecilia, a tattooed pixie of a girl, was languidly waving people in. I wondered if she lived there, given how often she was in that chair. She definitely exceeded the ten hours of mandatory service.

“Hey, Grace.”

“Noah.” I realized I was more than a little frustrated with him. He was making me confused and off balance with his determined pursuit but talk of friends only.

“How was your Stats &Methodology course this morning?” Noah asked. I was surprised he remembered but then I recalled he knew my entire schedule.

“I didn’t realize that there was so much math involved in psychology,” I told him.

“It is a science course.”

“I know, and apparently there is a lot of statistical analysis of raw data and stuff. I think I need a degree that has no math.”

“English literature,” Noah said.

I grimaced. That sounded almost more painful that math. “Do you have an answer for everything?” I asked. There was no heat in my question, and I knew the response; he held himself with such utter confidence.

“Yes,” he replied, but gave me a wry grin to signal I wasn’t to take the answer seriously.

“Do you have a place here you like to read?” Noah asked me.

I did, but I wasn’t ready to share it with Noah. It was a retreat. “Not really. You?” I asked.

“Definitely.” He took my hand. “Follow me.”

I let Noah lead me through the library. He seemed to know several people, bumping fists, nodding his head, and giving hearty pats on the shoulder to guys that would’ve left a bruise on me. Given that this was Noah’s first year here, the breadth of his acquaintances surprised me, but maybe some of these guys had been to his house or one of his fights.

He led me to a reference section that housed architectural and design books. I rarely came up onto the third floor. It was usually noisy and occupied by students there to socialize rather than study because there was a lounge area with four upholstered chairs and two short sofas arranged into a cozy square. A guy with short reddish-blonde hair, wearing jeans and a white cotton button down, was already sitting there, with a huge stack of books and a contraband cup of coffee. He looked up as we approached.

“What took you so long?” He stood and slapped the back of his hand against the back of Noah’s. “Who’s this?”