We Were Here: A New Adult Romance Prequel to Geoducks Are for Lovers (Modern Love Stories Book 1) (3 page)

I blinked, trying to think of something clever to say about myself. “Well, um, I . . . hmm.”

“Sounds fascinating so far. You want a soda?” He moved toward the little dorm fridge tucked in the corner.

“Sure.”

“Pepsi, Coke, or Blue Soda?”

“What’s blue soda?”

“It’s a soda that’s blue. Flavor is under discussion.” He held up a short glass bottle of bright blue, fizzy liquid.

“I’ll have a Coke. Diet if you have it.”

“Regular okay? Or I can get you a Tab out of the vending machine. Although I’m not sure how long it’s been in there. Probably from the seventies, because who really drinks Tab anymore?”

I took the can from him.

“Let’s get back to the fascinating life of Maggie.” He sat on his bed, tucking a pillow behind himself. “I believe you were about to tell me about your first boyfriend.”

I sputtered and almost spit out my sip of soda. “I was not!”

Shrugging, he grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “I figured you could skip to the good part, but by all means begin at infancy.”

“There’s not much to tell. I grew up in Washington.”

“Child of divorce?”

“No, parents still married.”

“Arrested at thirteen for organizing a shoplifting ring, but had the records sealed by juvie?”

“Never stolen anything.” I sipped my Coke, trying not to laugh at this odd guy and his strange questions.

“You must have done something interesting by now. Otherwise, why would you end up at this weird school? If you were boring, you’d be at Washington State or UW, pledging a sorority and crimping your hair.”

“I wanted something different.”

“Or to be someone different?” His clever eyes studied me.

“Something like that. I want to see the world outside of Washington, go to Paris, eat bread and cheese by the Seine . . .”

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. You’re a romantic. Do these life goals involve a beret wearing, bicycle riding Frenchman?”

My cheeks heated. “In high school I bought a poster of a couple kissing on the street in Paris. It’s an old black and white photograph—the most romantic thing. Like an old movie.”

He picked up a pad of paper from a stack on his desk, then scribbled something with a nub of a pencil while I talked about romance and Paris. “Is this it?”

A loose sketch of the kiss I described filled the page, including the
Hôtel de Ville
in the background.

“How did you know?” I asked, stunned. It was a beautiful drawing, almost prettier than the photograph. “Can I keep it?”

“It’s yours. My friend had the same poster.”

“You’re an artist?”

“I want to be. Most of the stuff I make is garbage.”

I studied the lines of his drawing. “This isn’t garbage.”

“It’s only a copy of someone else’s talent. Unless I want to become a forger or commercial sell-out, I need something original that’s all mine. There’s nothing wrong with an arts and crafts fair landscape painter whose work is destined to hang above plaid couches in suburban tract homes, but it’s not my calling. I need to be original.”

“You seem pretty original to me. I can’t even finger paint.”

“You are still a little caterpillar.”

“I am?”

“You’re not ready to be a butterfly, but someday you will. Now let’s talk about your clothes.”

I screwed up my face in confusion. “My clothes?” This was the weirdest conversation ever.

“What kind of statement are you going for with the flower skirt and baggy sweater? With your long red hair, I’m guessing a slightly more modern Anne of Green Gables.”

I tugged at my favorite oatmeal colored sweater. Small pink roses decorated my black skirt. “Statement?”

“With the black tights, I thought you might’ve been the kind of girl who prays at her door.”

“I had an interview this afternoon.”

“And you wore that?” His face and his voice held nothing but disapproval. “What were you interviewing for? Spinster?”

“A part time job at the library. For the circulation desk.”

“Librarian was my second guess. Well, you should get the job since you dressed the part perfectly.”

“What’s wrong with it?” I smoothed out the full skirt.

“You look like you’re thirty and driving a mini-van with a ‘baby on board’ sign.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re too pretty for such nonsense.”

“You’re very opinionated.” Feeling defensive, I set down the can and stood up. “Thanks for the Coke and your thoughts on my outfit.”

“Don’t go away mad. I’m being mean. I’m not really a mean guy. I apologize. I did say you were pretty.”

Flattered but still confused, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to talk about myself anymore. I couldn’t go back to my room. Sighing, I sat down again.

“What’s your deal, besides art?” I turned the tables on him.

“My dad is a retired Marine. We moved around a lot when I was little before settling in Oceanside, north of San Diego. That’s where I went to high school and discovered I enjoyed rebelling against all things conformity. My dad wasn’t thrilled. Especially when I pierced my ear with a safety pin and an ice cube, then passed out and hit my head. I needed ten stitches.” He lifted his hair, revealing a line near his temple.

“You pierced your own ear? That’s so punk rock.”

He beamed with pride. “That’s exactly what I was going for. Unfortunately, unless I wanted to be on restriction for all of high school, I had to lose the earring.”

“You could get it pierced now. What’s stopping you?”

“I like your thinking, Maggie. Nothing’s stopping me. Or you. Besides dressing as a church lady and shushing people in libraries, what do you like to do?”

Unlike sharing my boring life up to this point, I knew the answer to that question. “I like to dance.”

“Do you go to clubs?”

“I would. My town didn’t really have any underage clubs. Mostly we went to school dances or parties.”

“Can you do the running man?”

I stood up and showed him my best running man moves. “Easy.”

“Moonwalk?” He joined me and slid backward across the floor.

My own version wasn’t as smooth, but I mirrored him.

“Hold on, we need music for this.” He put a cassette in his boombox.

I laughed at the B-52s song immediately.

He began bouncing around and nodding his head. By the time he acted out the lobster claws, I could hardly breathe.

I jumped on his bed and shimmied to “Rock Lobster.” When the moment came, I jumped down and sang, “Down, down . . .”

We ended up on our backs on the floor, laughing too hard to sing or dance anymore. The song finished and Blondie’s “One Way or Another” started.

I turned my head to see his face. “You’re strange.”

He grinned up at the ceiling. “More weird than you can imagine.”

His reaction surprised me, but I trusted he meant it. “I like weird.”

He stared at me. “Good. ’Cause I like you.”

My eyes widened. We lay on his floor, our arms resting against each other. He’d rescued me from an awkward moment, made me laugh, and drew me an amazing picture. Then again, he’d also insulted me and basically said I was a boring prude. Still, I wondered if he wanted to kiss me.

Our chests lifted and dropped as we tried to catch our breaths from the impromptu dance party. Neither of us moved.

He could have easily made a move.

I waited.

Did I want him to kiss me?

I thought about it while he stared at me. His focus flicked to my lips and then down to my chest. I waited for a crackle or spark of tension between us—the subtle shift in energy right before a guy leaned in for a kiss, but I didn’t feel it.

He did lean closer, focus still zeroed in on mine. “I’m not going to kiss you.”

His words struck me and I shook my head at the sting of rejection.

Wait, I didn’t even know if I wanted him to kiss me.

“I didn’t think you were.” I huffed and sat up.

“It’s not you, it’s me.” Rising, he held out his hand.

“I’ve heard that before.” We’d gone from meeting to breaking up in the span of an hour. This had to be one of the weirdest afternoons of my life.

“You’re not really my type.”

“I get it. Your type isn’t librarian prude.”

“Not at all. In fact, it’s probably the exact opposite of you.” His smile told me he meant it. He practically grinned.

Ouch.

“I like boys, Maggie.”

I sat down on his roommate’s bed with a thump.

“Surprise!” He threw his arms open and spread his fingers wide.

I processed the past hour in a new light. “Now it all makes sense.”

“The bitchy comments about your sweater? The B-52s? The
artistic nature
?”

“Pretty much.” I gave him a small smile. “We can still be friends, though, right? I could use some.”

“Definitely. Every great gay man needs a fabulous woman as his friend. Plus, your roommate might be, how should I say this? Slutty? No offense. In fact, more power to her.”

I laughed. “I have a feeling today isn’t a one off thing. We’ll need a signal.”

“Mi casa es tu casa.”

“What about your roommate?”

“He’s cool. He likes Star Wars, so we should be good.”

No Gils came to mind. “I don’t think I’ve met him yet.”

“You’d probably remember. Tall, dark hair. Totally cute. Why? Are you interested? He’s a little
Revenge of the Nerds
, but it might be the glasses. I’m one-hundred-percent sure he’s hetero.”

Unable to remember seeing a guy fitting his description in the halls, I shook my head. “No idea, except you described most of the guys around campus.”

“Next time you’re stuck outside your room, come over. I’ll introduce you. For now, let’s go grab dinner. If we don’t get there early enough, the only thing left will be the mystery meatloaf. No one should be forced to eat that.”

“I usually have cereal.”

“For dinner?”

I shrugged. “I can be wild and rebellious, too.”

“Wild Child.” He bowed and pointed to the door. “Lead the way to cereal for dinner.”

“Closer to Fine” ~ Indigo Girls

“ROOMMATE KICK YOU
out again?” Quinn joined me on the sofa in the lounge. Turned out, nine o’clock on a Friday night, the lounge emptied out completely, leaving me in peace with Mr. Voltaire and
Candide
.

Quinn snatched my book and dog-eared the corner to mark my place.

“You did not just desecrate my book by folding the page, did you?”

“It’s a used paperback. It’s probably seen a lot worse.” He flipped open to the page and smoothed out the corner. “Remember forty-two.”

I scowled at him.

He stuck out his tongue. “Listen, Caterpillar, no one studies on Friday nights in college.”

“I am. Therefore, someone does.”

“Let me rephrase. No one should ever study on a Friday night. You physically could, but shouldn’t. Like doing heroin.”

“Did you compare studying to shooting up drugs?”

Pushing himself off the couch, he tucked my book under his arm. “I did and I stand by it.”

“Give me back my book.”

“Not until tomorrow morning. We’re going out.”

“Out?”

“Out out. Luckily, you are wearing appropriate clothes tonight.”

I glanced down at my ripped overalls and old thermal shirt. “This is okay for going out? Are we chopping wood?”

“No, it’s an apartment party with lots of cute guys.” He tossed a leather jacket at me. “You can borrow this.”

I stood and slipped on the leather jacket. It hung past my hips, and I had to cuff the sleeves. “Your jacket?”

“No, my roommate’s, but he won’t mind. Let’s go.” Quinn’s own outfit consisted of old Vans, jeans, and a paisley patterned button down over a gray T-shirt.

After leaving my book in my mailbox by the front door, he led me outside. The cold, damp night made me grateful for the borrowed jacket.

“Where is your roommate all the time? I never see him. Does he really exist?”

“He’s trying out for the crew team. Gets up at some unholy hour when it’s dark out. I think he hides in the library and sleeps the rest of the day.”

“Maybe he’s a vampire. I read
Interview with a Vampire
over the summer. Totally made me believe they could really exist.”